by Rod Reynolds
Chapter Ten
The idea came to me late so I had to race out of the diner, startling a waitress in the process. I made it outside in time to see Dinsmore pass by the Recorder offices and disappear around the corner of the next block. When he was out of sight, I went in the main entrance of the newspaper and hurried over to the girl at the front desk. ‘Miss, Clyde Dinsmore said I could trouble you for directions to your archives. Could you help me out?’
She nodded and sent me to a large file room in the basement. My luck held; when I got there, I had the place to myself. I found a table in a corner and started pulling issues of the Recorder until I found what I was looking for. The June 20th edition: one column on Jeannie Runnels’ murder. The story got short-shrift, almost no detail provided beyond the fact that her body was discovered in her bedroom after a neighbour called the police. It made no mention of how she was killed – the details presumably too indecent to print – stating only that authorities had confirmed foul play was involved, but had no suspects at time of going to press. There was no mention of her line of work, but the lack of column inches told its own story about how interested the paper was in Miss Runnels’ fate. I flicked through the next week’s worth of issues, but found no follow-up on the story.
Dinsmore said Bess Prescott’s murder was around six weeks after Runnels’, so I jumped forward to the start of August and started looking through the papers from then. I found it in the copy from August 11th. She was referred to by her full Christian name, Elizabeth, and I belatedly made the connection to the other set of initials I’d cribbed from Robinson’s notes – E.P.
Just as with Runnels, they short-changed her – this time a half a column in the gutter of page eleven. The report noted that she had been found on the floor of her bedroom, and that a friend had raised the alarm when she hadn’t heard from her for several days. The friend wasn’t named. The story ended abruptly by saying police were investigating.
I raced through the remaining issues from August, looking for coverage of Barrett’s shootout with Walter Glover. It wasn’t hard to find – the story made the front page, sharing top billing with a claim by US intelligence officers that a million former German soldiers were now Commies. I read through the Recorder’s account and it came across pretty close to how Dinsmore told it – Barrett had tracked Glover to a remote cabin in Garland County and managed to wrangle a confession from him, but Glover had drawn a firearm when Barrett moved to take him in. Runnels and Prescott were named as Glover’s victims, but beyond their names, ages and places of birth, nothing more was said about them. It felt like another indignity for the dead women – Barrett gets lauded for killing their murderer, but the victims themselves barely warrant a mention.
Dinsmore’s name wasn’t on the piece – a Clifton Elliot got the byline – and I noticed he’d been off on one of the details: this version stated that Barrett had fired twice at Glover, striking him once in the chest. The other bullet wasn’t mentioned again, and I figured Barrett must have missed, but that detail didn’t fit the heroic picture Elliot was trying for, so it got ignored. The article continued on page two, recounting Barrett’s ‘years of distinguished service’, and Mayor Coughlin weighed in with a quote praising his dedication to justice. There was a photograph accompanying the piece that showed a grandee pumping Barrett’s hand, a crowd looking on, smiles all around. It was no surprise when I saw the caption identified the other man as Coughlin.
It was all real tidy in the way everything was presented to show Barrett as snow-white as possible. Even Dinsmore’s talk about two bullets in the heart felt like him getting carried away glorifying the sheriff.
I skimmed the report a second time, more interested now in what didn’t make the page than what did. I looked at the following day’s paper as well, but there was nothing new, just retread. I jotted notes as I went, putting myself in Robinson’s shoes, searching for insight into his thinking.
Glover was written off as an ex-con with a troubling criminal history, but there was no mention of what had led Barrett to suspect him. Dinsmore had said it was a tip-off, but that nugget wasn’t reported here. I wondered if it was another product of Dinsmore’s creative licence and, if not, if the tipster was ever identified; I scribbled down to ask him.
Also: was there any evidence against Glover, aside from the confession? Men confessed to crimes they hadn’t committed all the time. Surely Barrett would have looked for some confirmation of Glover’s guilt in the wake of the shooting – if nothing else, to be sure he had the right man?
And then the big question: did Glover kill a third woman? There was no hint of it in the stories I’d read, but it could have come out later – or maybe not at all. Maybe Robinson got wind of it in the course of his own enquiries. But if Glover had only killed twice, who the hell was the woman in the photograph?
I went back upstairs to the front desk and asked the girl if she could find out an address and telephone number for me. She looked put out at this latest request, but called the operator anyway, gave the name I’d written down for her, and scribbled the information I needed on the same piece of paper. When she finished writing, I motioned for her to pass the receiver over, and asked the voice on the other end to connect me to the number she’d given.
It rang a moment, and then a man with a raspy voice answered. ‘Cole Barrett.’
Now I knew he was home, I hung up without saying a word.
*
Barrett lived ten miles outside of town, close to Lake Catherine state park. It was mid-afternoon by the time I set out, the sun high in the clear sky as I drove south-east out of Hot Springs. The Ouachita River circled around the town from west to east and I crossed it near Carpenter Dam. From the road I caught a glimpse of the white-water torrents thundering through the concrete barrier downriver.
Past the bridge, I was plunged into the backwoods. The highway was lined with a dense mix of pines, sycamores and elms, punctuated by the occasional farmhouse or creek. As I drove, I mulled over everything Dinsmore had told me, and wondered again if Robinson had confronted Barrett. It was easy to imagine him careening down this same road, fuelled by bonded liquor and righteous anger, determined to get the truth about the murders from him. Seemed the simplest way to connect all the dots.
But as the idea swam in my head, I realised there was another connection: the mayor, Teddy Coughlin. Dinsmore had said it was Coughlin who brokered the deal to save Barrett from the grand jury investigation, and he’d also speculated that the mayor’s office could have coerced the fire department to change the report into Robinson’s death. I wondered if Robinson had spooked Barrett somehow, enough to give him a motive to start the fire at Duke’s – knowing that the mayor had protected him once already, so why not a second time?
I told myself to pull back, aware that I was getting way ahead of the facts. I knew why I was doing it, too: time. My forty-eight hours were almost up, and it felt like I was still fumbling in the dark for Robinson’s trail. I was forcing the little I knew to fit a theory held together by conjecture and rumours, a desperate attempt to bring some kind of closure to matters. It was amateurish, and I knew as much. When I thought about it in that light, the whole notion of doorstepping Barrett seemed rash – but it was too late to turn back now.
*
After twenty-five minutes, I drew up to a cabin on a low rise overlooking a muddy pond. The land around the house was studded with trees and shrubs, their leaves sprinkled with reds and browns, fall and its colours taking hold. There was a grey pre-war LaSalle parked out front, and my pulse quickened some when I saw it, at the thought of what was to come. I carried on past the house and parked a little way down, on the far side of the track. I stepped out onto a patchwork mulch of grass and fallen leaves.
The cabin was in two sections, the main building two storeys tall, built on a fieldstone base, and with windows in the shingled roof. A smaller, single-storey structure had been tacked on to one end, and that was where the front door was. Off to one si
de, a little way from the main structure, stood a tumbledown woodshed, its door hanging from its hinges.
I walked up to the house and rapped with the knocker. A dog started barking somewhere round back.
I heard a voice and then footsteps from inside. The door opened and a fiftyish man with sandy hair stood across the threshold from me. ‘What?’
I took my hat off. ‘Sheriff Barrett?’
He looked at me in a manner that said if I had to ask, I wasn’t worth answering. From the way Dinsmore had called him a hoss, I’d expected an imposing figure, but Barrett was rake-thin and no taller than five-eight. He wore tan trousers held up by a narrow belt, cinched tight, and a white short-sleeved shirt, his skinny arms accentuated by the starched armholes. I decided an appeal to his ego was my best play.
‘My name’s Charlie Yates, I’m a reporter and I was hoping—’
‘I got no call to speak to reporters. Be on your way.’
I held up my pen, signalling him to wait. ‘I’m writing a story about the women Walter Glover killed. I’d sure appreciate a few minutes of your time.’
‘You hear me, son? I told you—’
‘Please, Sheriff.’ I slapped a big smile on my face, played the star-struck newsman. ‘You’re the hero of the story, doesn’t make for much of a piece without you. Maybe just a quote or two?’
He went to shut the door on me. I shot my arm out without thinking, bracing it open.
‘Take your hand away.’
I kept up the breathless enthusiasm – anything to get him talking. ‘I’ve been doing my research and I just had a few questions. Can you tell me how you tracked Glover to that cabin?’
A woman appeared in the hallway behind him, looking anxious. ‘Cole?’
He spoke to her over his shoulder, eyes still on me. ‘It’s fine, go see to the dog.’
She glanced at me, her face drawn, and then disappeared from view again.
I persisted. ‘Is it true you put two bullets in Glover’s heart, Sheriff?’
He gave a small shake of his head and fixed me with a stare. ‘You don’t know the first goddamn thing about it. Get the hell off my property.’
He pushed my hand away and tried to close the door again. I jammed it with my foot and met his stare, decided to give up on the act. ‘Try this, then: why did you retire? Is it true you did a deal to avoid a grand jury investigation?’
That froze him on the spot. He stopped struggling and opened the door a fraction wider. ‘Who are you? Who sent you?’
‘I’m just an interested party. Now how about you speak to me and tell me your side, so I don’t have to write it the way it looks right now.’
‘And just how is that exactly?’
I straightened my shirtfront. ‘Like you’ve got a whole hell of a lot to hide.’
He looked at me like I’d kicked his mother. The dog out back was barking double-time now, the sound echoing around the trees. He yelled at it to shut up.
Before he could speak again, I asked the question I’d come for. ‘Did a man called Robinson try to speak to you, Sheriff? Maybe something similar to what just happened here?’
He flung the door open soon as he heard the name. He planted his hand on my chest and shoved me backwards, his other hand still gripping the frame. ‘I ain’t a hero and I ain’t a sheriff any more. Get gone. You come around here again and I’ll loose the dog on you.’ He turned and slammed the door shut before I could say anything more.
I stood there a moment, my pulse running so strong that I could feel it in my arms and in my neck. I knocked on the door and called out, but was met only with the sound of the dog barking. After a minute more, I went back to the car and climbed in.
I drove a little further along the track, keeping the house just in sight, then cut the engine. There were no other cars on the road, but I was far enough away to not be too conspicuous. I waited, watching the house and the grey LaSalle through the back window, wondering if Barrett would reappear. My questions had spooked him, and I thought he might panic and make a run to go see someone to unload his troubles.
I let ten minutes go by, my pulse slowing back to normal, but nothing moved. I took one last glance at the cabin, then started back to town.
The way he’d blown up when I dropped Jimmy’s name told me what I needed to know. He might as well have come right out and admitted he knew exactly who I was talking about. But it wasn’t just the way he reacted that stoked my fears – it was the fact that he reacted to Robinson’s real name.
Chapter Eleven
I drove back to town trying to make the parts fit together. If Walter Glover had really killed those women, I couldn’t see how Robinson had a story to chase. It was all done and dusted before he took that room at Duke’s. Everything about the encounter with Barrett made me think he was dirty somehow, and that was what had drawn Robinson here; maybe, in his mind, a way to make good for Texarkana. Or was that just how I wanted the world to be?
I developed a working theory: Barrett went out to Glover’s intending to kill him all along, but sometime after he shot him, got wind that Glover wasn’t the killer and had to hush it up. That would explain why the prosecuting attorney was threatening a grand jury. It would explain why Robinson was still investigating, and what would have brought him into contact with Barrett. Maybe he was trying to expose him. Hell, for all I knew, Robinson could’ve been trying to blackmail him. Either explanation would leave Barrett with a motive for wanting Robinson out of the picture. And either meant whoever killed Jeannie Runnels and Bess Prescott was still on the loose.
I hit Central Avenue and traffic slowed to a crawl. People on the sidewalk were staring and pointing at something two cars ahead of me, smiles and applause rippling along the street as the commotion passed them.
The two cars in front of me turned off at the next intersection, and I saw the cause of the blockage: a man riding a horse-drawn sulky buggy. He waved at the bystanders, soaking up the attention. I trailed behind him at five miles per hour, waiting for a chance to pass, but he slowed to a stop outside the Arlington. As I went by, I recognised the man and pulled over, wanting a better look.
The man in the buggy handed his riding crop and the reins to a black man who was waiting on the kerb. The attendant took pains not to make eye contact. The rider climbed out and straightened his straw fedora. He was wearing a white suit with a red carnation in the lapel, a getup that made him easily recognisable from the photograph of him I’d seen in the newspaper, pumping Cole Barrett’s hand after the Glover shooting: Teddy Coughlin. He ascended the Arlington steps, stopping to glad-hand a passer-by as he went. The black man saw me staring and looked away.
I called out to him. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘No occasion, sir. The mayor has a mind to parade his horses every evening. This here Scotch and Soda.’ He stroked each horse on the nose in turn.
‘That a fact.’ I glanced at Coughlin one more time as he entered the hotel, then nodded to the attendant and drove on.
It was a slick routine, the public face of a political animal. Wasn’t hard to imagine a workaday lawman like Barrett being caught in Coughlin’s thrall.
*
I rose early the next day.
My forty-eight hours were up, but there was no way I could walk away now. The call to Lizzie would be rough, but I hoped I could make her understand. Then it was a matter of twisting Acheson’s arm to get him to finance my endeavour.
I walked down to the Recorder offices, wanting to know if a third victim was ever attributed to Walter Glover. On the way I passed the giant building at the bottom of Bathhouse Row and saw it was a veterans’ hospital. Outside it, a man with a medal pinned to his gown was sitting in a wheelchair in a spot that caught the first rays of sunshine. He had no arms, and a nurse was standing over him, feeding him drags from a cigarette.
*
The front desk at the Recorder wasn’t manned so early on a Monday morning, and I passed right into the newsroom. There was no sign o
f Dinsmore, but the man who sat at the next desk was pecking at his typewriter. I introduced myself and explained that Dinsmore had been helping me out with the Glover case.
‘Thought I knew your face from somewhere. Something I can do for you?’
‘I hope so. You familiar with the story?’
He nodded. ‘Sure. Son of a bitch got what was coming to him.’
‘D’you happen to remember how many women he killed?’
‘Two, as I recall. Don’t ask me to tell you their names.’
Dead whores – not worth remembering. I understood his implication and my hand twitched. ‘Were there ever any others attributed to him? After the fact, I mean.’
He flattened his hair across his scalp, thinking. ‘Not so as I’m aware. I don’t work crime, that’s Clyde’s game, but unless I’m forgetting something . . .’
I thought about the Recorder articles I’d read, Clifton Elliot on the byline; I asked where I could find him, thinking he’d have a deeper knowledge of the case.
‘Clifton? He quit. Got himself a plum job up in Little Rock. Couldn’t get out of here soon enough after that.’
Another break in the chain. I thanked the man for his time and hit the street again.
I started to walk towards the Arlington, feeling adrift and angry that no one seemed to give a damn about any of the dead women. I had time to kill until I could call Lizzie. A police car cruised by and it brought Detective Layfield to mind. He’d seemed eager enough to help, so I figured maybe he’d field my questions. There was still risk attached to going to him, but I was running out of blind alleys to run down.
*
I caught a break when the desk sergeant said Layfield was in the squad room, and he’d go fetch him. Layfield appeared almost immediately, his clothes creased and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot. He looked as though he was at the end of a long shift.