Absolute rage kac-14

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  "Good. I love a joke. So after you found them, you called the cops."

  "Right. Swett came over with a couple of his guys. They found Dad's wallet was missing. He always carried a bunch of cash on him, so they said that was probably it, a random robbery. They said the killer came on foot."

  "Because…?"

  "Well, that part made sense," Emmett admitted. "After they shot our dog, Dad rigged up one of those sensors like they have in gas stations, across the drive. At night it turned on the floodlights and rang a little bell in the house. They said that would've got him up, and it would have."

  "I see. Did they do any crime-scene work? Take prints, vacuum for fibers, like that?"

  Emmett let out a bitter laugh. "Hell, no! Those jerks don't do any of that stuff. They just about good enough to grab drunks and kids smoking weed in the bushes. The state cops do all that kind of thing."

  "And did they call the state cops?"

  "Yeah, they sent a team of guys out from the barracks in Logan. They took up the carpets and all and sprayed a lot of black powder around. They said they would be back and not to touch anything. I stayed with Kathy that night. Then the next day, Mose Welch came to town to show off his new boots, and they arrested him. It went with what they said about the car. Mose can't drive."

  "I see. How convenient. And then…?"

  "Nothing. I called the sheriff and he said the case is over, you can move back in, so we did. I got some people in to help clean up and fix the back-door locks. I still haven't put the storm door back on. Not that we need it any with this weather. We've been here since."

  Marlene made some notes on her pad. "Tell me, does this Moses Welch have any relatives, a guardian of some kind?"

  "I don't know about a guardian," said Emmett, "but Fairless Holler got a load of Welches. It's their home place."

  "And of these Welches, which do you think would care the most about old Mose?"

  The two Heeneys considered this for a moment. Then Emmett said, "I guess that would be Betty Washburn. She's his sister. He used to live in a busted-up trailer back of their place, and I guess she kept him fed and dressed, more or less."

  "Good, we'll go see Mrs. Washburn," said Marlene briskly. She turned to Dan. "Meanwhile, did you get any paperwork from Poole?"

  "No, sorry. He wouldn't give me any. He said it was none of my concern."

  "Technically, he's right. Well, we'll have to change that. Starting with me. Show me a place I can get cleaned up and changed, will you?"

  Neither of the Heeneys had ever seen Marlene in any apparel but the sort of rags she wore around her farm. She now emerged in a gray Anne Klein silk and linen suit over a pearly, loose-necked blouse, dark nylons, and Blahnik sandals. Her face was made up and her expensive haircut had been arranged the way her hairdresser had intended. A whiff of L'Aire du Temps hit them; their eyes widened; she grinned back at them.

  "What do you think? Good enough for Robbens County?"

  "I guess," said Emmett. "What are you going to do?"

  "A couple of things. One is I have to get up to speed on local criminal statutes and procedure. I don't suppose you have anything around town like a library with a computer connected to the Internet?"

  They both laughed. Dan said, "Uh, I think so. We got electricity and indoor plumbing, too. Follow me, lady."

  He led her to a bedroom, a teenager's den, posters on the wall, dirty clothes strewn about, an unmade bed decorated with books and magazines, and on a table, a squat, black IBM tower, a large monitor, and a DeskJet printer.

  "Oops," she said. "I forgot MIT. Sorry."

  "No problem. What do you want? I got a satellite hookup."

  "Great. Get me the state criminal code and the rules of criminal procedure for a start. While you're doing that, I'll take a ride with Emmett."

  She went to leave and then stopped. "No, wait. Could you bring up a word-processing program?"

  He did. She sat and typed out a short document and printed it. "Emmett! Let's go see Mrs. Washburn."

  They drove back through town, north on 130, and off the blacktop onto a rutted gravel road that wound back and forth across a narrow stream on timber bridges. Through gaps in the trees Marlene could see little groups of structures-small, rickety houses with washing flapping on lines in their yards, some newer mobile homes, and weathered gray sheds falling back into nature. Every dwelling had several elderly vehicles in front, in various stages of demolishment or repair. From time to time a glint of metal indicated a dump in the woods. The GMC jumped and shook; a rooster tail of tan dust rose behind it.

  "This is Belo Knob," Emmett told her. "I mean the mountain we're on. The town's on a flat place where five mountains come together, like in the middle of a flower. Belo's on the north side, say twelve o'clock. Then Hampden's at three, where our place is, Hogue is at six, down south of town, then Filbert Ridge, that's the highest one, at seven through nine o'clock. And then Burnt Peak's up at ten or eleven."

  "And the hollows are on the mountains?"

  "Up in there. The hills are all cut up by streams and those make the hollers. This is Peck Creek we've been going over, and Fairless comes into it, just up here a piece."

  They turned off the gravel onto an oiled dirt road and off that onto a driveway marked by a white-painted truck tire. The Washburn home was a one-story affair with pale green siding and a narrow porch in front, on which stood an ancient round washing machine and a rocking chair. An old-fashioned "streamlined" aluminum house trailer with no wheels squatted on concrete blocks just to the rear of the house. In the front yard were a rust-red, twenty-year-old Ford pickup and an El Camino with the hood gaping. Among these stigmata of rural poverty stood, jarringly, a satellite dish eight feet in diameter, round and white as the moon. When they pulled up, two yellow dogs ran out from beneath the house and ran around their truck, barking and snarling.

  The woman sitting in the rocker yelled at the dogs, to which they responded not at all. She rose heavily, picked up a baseball bat, and started toward the GMC. The dogs retreated. Emmett and Marlene left the car and walked up to the woman. Marlene thought she must have weighed 250 pounds; her upper arms looked the same size as Marlene's thighs. Her hair made a long, dirty-blond braid down her back; her eyes were small, almost colorless, and wary. She wore denim cutoffs and a pink, sleeveless sweatshirt with a picture of Tweety bird on it.

  "How're y'doing, Betty," said Emmett.

  "Fair," said the woman. Marlene noted she continued to grip the ball

  bat. "I'm sorry about your loss, Emmett, but you know my brother didn't have nothin' at all to do with that."

  "I know that. That's why we're here. This here's Marlene Ciampi from New York City. She's a lawyer. She wants to help get Mose out of jail."

  The woman stared at Marlene unbelievingly. "We can't pay nothing."

  "There's no need to pay, Mrs. Washburn," Marlene said. "I'm taking your brother's case pro bono."

  "Who?"

  "It means I'm working for free."

  The woman's eyes narrowed. "Why'd you want to do that?"

  "Because Rose Heeney was a friend of mine. Lizzie played with my kids. I have two boys her age. Someone killed them and I want them to pay for it, and the first thing we need to do to make that happen is getting your brother free of the false charge that he killed them."

  Betty Washburn flicked her eyes rapidly between Marlene and Emmett, and Marlene could see how difficult it was for her to accept anything a stranger said at face value. Finally, her features relaxed a trifle, as did her grip on the ball bat. "Well, you all better come on in, then."

  The house was cooler than the yard, but musty. The ceilings were low and made of pressboard. Everything in the house was old and worn. It was clean, though, the furniture and floors rubbed down past the finish so that their substance was slightly ground away. They sat in the kitchen around a wooden table covered by sticky lace-pattern plastic. Betty Washburn served them thin, oversweet iced tea in jelly glasses. Marlene expla
ined that before she could do anything for Mose, she had to be named formally as his attorney. She asked whether Betty was his official guardian.

  "No'm. He don't need no guardian. Mose, he kept to hisself and never hurt nor bothered no one. He got his playthings and his animals. He's real gentle with my kids. Sometimes he takes him long walks in the woods. Tell you the truth, I'm more scared of what other folks might do to him than what he might do."

  "I understand. Tell me, has Mose ever been examined by a psychologist?"'

  "Yeah, way back, when Maw first noticed he wasn't right. We took him upstate to this school? You know, for slows. They said he wasn't going to ever get much more'n five years old."

  "Do you have any papers relating to that?"

  "There was some in a box. I took it in when Maw passed. I guess they's somewheres around."

  A search was organized, a dusty cardboard box appeared, and after rummaging, Marlene came up with a brown envelope containing a paper with several paragraphs of psychological bureaucratese pertaining to Moses Welch's mental abilities. She stuck it in her bag.

  "Okay, the next thing is, we'll have to go down to the jail and get him to sign a paper. Have you talked with his lawyer at all?"

  Mrs. Washburn sniffed. "Him? Ernie Poole ain't no more use'n tits on a boar hog."

  "So I hear. Maybe I can persuade him to be more useful. Anyway, we need to go see your brother."

  "What, now?"

  "Unless you like having him sit in jail."

  Mrs. Washburn seemed to think about that for a slow minute. Then she said, "Well, let's go do it."

  She rose up, she grabbed a white patent leather handbag, and strode out of the kitchen. They followed her into the house's main room. In it were a sagging couch covered by a tan chenille bedspread, a green La-Z-Boy, a couple of rickety tables, a standard lamp with a paper shade, a wooden chest covered by a plastic doily, and a shining thirty-two-inch color television set. Two little girls were sitting on the couch watching cartoon people fight each other. They were dressed in worn tops and shorts, and each had her blond hair in a bowl cut, which Marlene was sure had been done in the kitchen with an actual bowl. Mrs. Washburn barked, "Girls, get on your shoes. We're goin' to town to see Uncle Mose."

  The elder of the two said, "Do we hafta, Maw?"

  "Don't pert off, child. Do as you're told."

  In short order they had a convoy of two started, Mrs. Washburn following in the red pickup.

  "The Welches are good folks," said Emmett over the roar. "They just have a lot of troubles."

  "Are they very poor?"

  "No, really about average for Robbens County, I guess. Burt-that's the husband-he's got a mechanic's job at the mine. They got a sick kid, and Burt was laid up most of last year."

  "Anyway they've got satellite TV," Marlene observed.

  "Oh, yeah. Folks around here'll live on lard and flour to pay their satellite bills, thems as don't outright pirate the signal. My dad used to say that satellite destroyed the working class worse than the mine owners did. Sports and porno for the boys, soap opera for the ladies, and cartoons for the younguns. There wasn't any TV at all up here, and hardly any radio, before the dishes came in. The hollers had their own way of life. Now they're getting just like everyone else."

  "Is that bad?"

  "It is if they become dogs and don't mind feeding off whatever scraps the big boys toss at them. My dad reminded them of what they used to be, fighting men, union men, and all that. Now… hell, I don't know what's gonna happen to them."

  Marlene did not know either. She was from a union family herself, but had never been particularly interested in working-class politics, beyond the usual guilt at worldly success and a tendency to vote the straight Democratic ticket. Lefty posturing had bored her in college, especially as pitched by the upper-middle-class kids who typically espoused it. A vague social responsibility stirred in her breast; she suppressed it. She said, "Well, let's see what we can do about getting this guy out of the can and the investigation started up again."

  The jail was in the basement of a two-floor, brown-brick structure adjacent to the handsome courthouse. Marlene and Mrs. Washburn went in, while Emmett took the Washburn girls for an ice cream. The deputy in charge was a scrawny man in a tan uniform and clear-framed glasses, with thinning hair combed across his scalp. He was not pleased to be taken away from his television set. He nodded to Mrs. Washburn and stared at Marlene. "Only family allowed to visit," he warned.

  "I am family," said Marlene. "I'm Cousin Marlene. From Ashtabula?" The stare increased, became incredulous; Marlene met it with her own more powerful one. The man grumpily relented and led them down a sewer-smelling iron staircase to the basement.

  The jail had four cells. Moses Welch was in the only occupied one. He was a large man, fleshy like his sister, with the sweet, confused expression of the dim in his pale eyes. His hair was startlingly blond, almost white, and hung lanky over his ears.

  "Hey, Betty," he cried when they appeared. "Hey, Betty, did you bring ice cream?"

  Marlene was surprised and touched by the way brother and sister hugged. Betty sat on the bunk next to him and brushed the hair back from his forehead. "We'll see about ice cream later, honey. I want you to say hello to Marlene here. Marlene says she's gonna get you out of this jail. "

  Marlene said, "Hello, Mose."

  "I saw a mouse, Marlene. It was just there."

  "That's nice," said Marlene. "Mose, tell me: Do you know why you're in here?"

  "Yes'm. On account of I kilt those folks."

  "Yes, but you really didn't kill them, did you?"

  "Sheriff says I did. On account of those boots."

  "Yes, but you didn't really."

  "Those boots is too tight anyways. They was real new so I thought they would fit me. I never had no real new boots."

  "Uh-huh. But you found those boots, right?"

  "Yes'm. 'Neath the green bridge where they's frogs and all."

  Mrs. Washburn said, "He means the bridge on 130 over the Guyandotte. He's always playing down there."

  "Right. You found the boots, but you didn't kill anyone," said Marlene. "That's what you have to say from now on."

  "Will I get in trouble?" the man asked, worry appearing in his mild eyes.

  "No, you won't, because I'm going to be your lawyer now. Do you know what a lawyer is?"

  A confused shake of his head.

  "A lawyer is for when you get in big trouble. She tells the sheriff you didn't really do it. Do you want me to be your lawyer?"

  The man looked at his sister, who nodded. He nodded, too.

  "Okay, great!" Marlene took a paper out of her bag. "Can you write your name?"

  "Yes'm. Betty learned me how."

  "Good. Then I want you to write it on this line here." Marlene gave him a felt-tip and he did so, slowly, his tongue protruding in concentration.

  "Can I have my ice cream now?" he asked brightly.

  Marlene watched Mrs. Washburn drive off with her two chocolatesmeared kids. "Emmett, where's this Poole hang out?"

  He pointed across the square. "That's his office there. Unless he's drinking at the VFW."

  "I might be a while, then."

  "I'll be here. Take your time."

  She took her dog and entered the building, a three-story brick structure with a lunchroom on the ground floor. The directory inside the door displayed the names of the tenants, mainly lawyers and bail bondsmen, court reporters, and a couple of real estate firms. Ernest J. Poole occupied 3-E. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. Nothing. She pounded. Silence. The door was unlocked. Inside she found an anteroom with a secretary's desk and a shrouded typewriter, both covered with dust. A philodendron had died in a pot in the corner. She saw a frosted-glass door with the lawyer's name on it in gold letters, tapped on it, and called out, "Mr. Poole?"

  She heard an indistinct human noise that she accepted as an invitation and entered. The lights were out, the venetian blinds shut.
The smell was of unwashed clothes, sour-mash bourbon, and the underlying ketone stink of a drunk. The drunk was lying sprawled on a brown leather couch, drunk. Marlene nudged him. No response, except a groan and an effort to bury his face in the corner of the couch. She found the light switch, flipped it on, made a tour. The desk, a heavy mahogany structure, was covered with a scant drift of papers and unopened junk mail, a large, butt-choked ashtray, a half-empty fifth of low-end bourbon, crumpled take-out food bags, filthy paper plates and cups. These also stuffed to overflowing the nearby wastebasket. Black flies buzzed heavily through the fetid air. One wall held diplomas (UWV and Vanderbilt law school) and the sort of award plaques small-town lawyers accumulate, together with group photographs of the occupant with local notables. The newest looked about twelve years old. In the photographs, Poole was in his forties sporting a sharp Chamber of Commerce optimistic look. He wore his thick, dark hair fashionably long. A square jaw with a dimple in the chin, a broad forehead, a manly nose, and a wide mouth completed a face that might once not have been out of place on a campaign poster. Marlene yanked up the blinds. A whimper sounded from the couch. She found a coffeemaker, filled the pot with cold water from a cooler, and poured it over Ernest J. Poole's head.

  He sat up, sputtering. The candidate's face, she saw, had been considerably eroded by the bad living, the features softened and gullied, the skin coarsened. The head of hair was, however, still intact, although not as neatly barbered as it had been in the photos.

  "Wha… wha… who… who the hell are you? Goddamnit, I'm all wet."

  "My name is Marlene Ciampi, Mr. Poole. I'm Moses Welch's new lawyer."

  "Whose what?"

  "Moses Welch. He's been indicted for murdering the Heeney family. You're his court-appointed attorney. Now you're my local co-counsel." She held out the paper the defendant had signed for him to read. He glanced at it without interest; all of that was reserved for the bottle on the desk. He rose, wobbled, stepped, reached for it. She was quicker.

  "Give me that! That's mine," he snarled. He made to grab it from her, but was arrested by a noise like a cold engine cranking. Gog bounded between man and mistress and exhibited his famous smile of destruction. Poole shied away and fell back on the couch.