Sheriff Hazen watched as the man gingerly picked his way among the dry clods, not wanting to soil his wingtips. He spoke to the captain and then went over to the body. He stared at it for a moment from this angle and that, then knelt and carefully tied plastic bags around the hands and feet of the victim. Then he drew some kind of device out of his black bag—it was called an anal probe, Sheriff Hazen remembered abruptly. And now the M.E. was doing something intimate to the corpse. Measuring its temperature. Jesus. Now there was a job for you.
Sheriff Hazen glanced up into the dark sky, but the turkey vultures were long gone. They, at least, knew when to leave well enough alone.
The M.E. and the paramedics now began packing up the corpse for removal. A Statie was pulling up the arrows with the crows, labeling them, and packing them into refrigerated evidence lockers. And Sheriff Hazen realized he had to take a leak. All that damn coffee. But it wasn’t just that; acid was starting to boil up from his stomach. He hoped to hell his ulcer wasn’t coming back. He sure didn’t want to toss his cookies in front of these characters.
He glanced around, made sure he was not being noticed, and slipped into the dark corn. He walked down a row, inhaling deeply, trying to get far enough away that his own piss wouldn’t be found and marked as evidence. He wouldn’t have to go far; these Staties were not showing much curiosity about anything beyond the immediate crime scene.
He stopped just outside the circle of lights. Here, buried in the sea of corn, the murmur of the voices, the faint hum of the generator, and the bizarre violence of the crime scene seemed far away. A breeze came drifting past, only a slight movement of the muggy air, but it set the corn around him swaying and rustling. Hazen paused a minute, filling his nostrils. Then he unzipped, grunted, and urinated loudly on the dry ground. Finally, with a big noisy shake that set his gun, cuffs, club, and keys rattling, he put everything back in and patted it into place.
As he turned, he saw something in the reflected glow of the lights. He stopped, shining his flashlight across the corn rows. There it was, in the next row over. He looked more closely. A piece of cloth, caught high up on one of the dry husks. It appeared to be the same as the material the victim was wearing. He shone his light up and down the row, but he saw nothing else.
He straightened up. He was doing it again. This wasn’t his case. Maybe he’d mention it; maybe he’d let the Staties find it on their own. If it really meant anything, anyway.
When he pushed his way back into the clearing, the trooper captain came forward at once. “Sheriff Hazen, I was just looking for you,” he said. He was carrying a handheld GPS unit in one hand and a USGS topographical map in the other, and his face was wearing a very different expression than it had just moments before. “Congratulations.”
“What’s that?” asked Hazen.
The captain pointed to the GPS device. “According to this reading, we’re inside the boundary of the township of Medicine Creek. Twelve feet inside the boundary, to be exact. Which means it’s your case, Sheriff. We’re here to help, of course, but it’s your case. So let me be the first to offer my congratulations.”
He beamed and held out his hand.
Sheriff Dent Hazen ignored the hand. Instead he plucked the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, shook one out, pushed it between his lips, and lit it. He inhaled and then spoke, the smoke puffing out with his words. “Twelve feet?” he repeated. “Jesus Christ.”
The captain let his hand fall to his side.
Hazen began to talk. “The victim was murdered somewhere else and carried here. The murderer came through the corn over there, dragged her the last twenty feet or so. If you follow the row backwards from that broken stalk, you’ll come to a piece of caught fabric. The fabric matches that of the victim, but it’s caught too high on the stalk for her to have been walking, so he must’ve been lugging her on his back. You may see my footprints and the place where I took a piss in the adjoining row; don’t bother with that. And for God’s sake, Captain, do we really need all these people? This is a crime scene, not a Wal-Mart parking lot. I want only the M.E., the photographer, and the evidence gatherer on site. Tell the rest to back off.”
“Sheriff, we do have our procedures to follow—”
“My procedures are now your procedures.”
The captain swallowed.
“I want a pair of certified, trained AKC police bloodhounds here ASAP to get on the trail. And I want you to get the forensic evidence team down from Dodge.”
“Right.”
“And one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I want your boys to pull over any arriving press. Especially television trucks. Tie them up while we complete work here.”
“Pull them over for what?”
“Give ’em all speeding tickets. That’s what you boys are good at, right?”
The captain’s tight jaw grew even tighter. “And if they’re not speeding?”
Sheriff Hazen grinned. “Oh, they’ll be speeding, all right. You can bet your ass on it.”
Three
Deputy Sheriff Tad Franklin sat hunched over his desk, filling out reams of unfamiliar paperwork and trying to pretend that the unruly knot of television and newspaper reporters just outside the plate glass window of the Medicine Creek Sheriff’s Department didn’t exist. Tad had always liked the fact that the sheriff’s HQ was located in a former five-and-ten-cent storefront, where he could wave to passersby, chat with friends, keep tabs on who was coming or going. But now the disadvantages of the office had suddenly become obvious.
The fiery light of yet another hot August sunrise had begun spilling down the street, stretching long shadows from the news trucks and gilding the unhappy faces of the reporters. They had been up all night and things were beginning to look ugly. A steady stream came and went from Maisie’s Diner across the street, but the plain food only seemed to make them grumpier.
Tad Franklin tried to concentrate on the paperwork, but he found himself unable to ignore the tapping on the window, the questions, the occasional shouted vulgarity. This was getting intolerable. If they woke Sheriff Hazen, who was grabbing a few winks in the back cell, things might get even uglier. Tad rose, tried to put on as stern a look as possible, and cracked open a window.
“I’ll ask you once again to step back from the glass,” he said.
This was greeted with a muffled chorus of disrespectful comments, shouted questions, a general undercurrent of irritation. Tad knew from the call letters on the vans that the reporters weren’t local; they were from Topeka, Kansas City, Tulsa, Amarillo, and Denver. Well, they could just ride on back home and—
Behind him, Tad heard a door thump, a cough. He turned to see Sheriff Hazen, yawning and rubbing his stubbly chin, the hair on one side of his head sticking out horizontally. The sheriff smoothed it down, then fitted on his hat with both hands.
Tad closed the window. “Sorry, Sheriff, but these people just won’t go away—”
The sheriff yawned, waved his hand casually, turned his back on the crowd. A particularly angry reporter in the rear of the crowd shouted out a stream of invective, in which the words “redneck in miniature” could be heard. Hazen went to the coffee pot, poured a cup. He sipped it, made a face, spat the coffee back into the cup, hawked up a loogie, deposited it in the cup as well, and then poured everything back into the pot.
“Want me to get a fresh pot?” asked Tad.
“No thanks, Tad,” the sheriff replied, giving his deputy’s shoulder a gruff pat. Then he turned back to face the group through the glass once more. “These folks need something for the six o’clock news, don’t you think?” he said. “Time for a press conference.”
“A press conference?” Tad had never attended a press conference in his life, let alone been part of one. “How do you do that?”
Sheriff Hazen barked a laugh, briefly displaying a rack of yellow teeth. “We go outside and answer questions.” He went to the old glass door, unlocked it, and s
tuck his head out.
“How you folks all doing?”
This was greeted by a surge and an incomprehensible welter of shouted questions.
Sheriff Hazen held up an arm, palm toward the crowd. He was still wearing his short-sleeved uniform from the night before, and the gesture exposed a half-moon of sweat that reached halfway to his waist. He was short, but short like a bulldog, and there was something about him that commanded respect. Tad had seen the sheriff loosen the teeth of a suspect almost twice his size.Never get in a fight with anyone under five foot six, he told himself. The crowd fell silent.
The sheriff dropped his arm. “My deputy, Tad Franklin, and myself will give a statement and answer questions. Let’s all behave like civilized people. What say?”
The crowd shuffled in place. Lights went on, mikes were boomed forward; there was the clicking of cassette recorders, the fluttering of camera shutters.
“Tad, let’s give these good folks some fresh coffee.”
Tad looked at Hazen. Hazen winked.
Tad grabbed the pot, peered in, gave it a quick shake. Then he reached for a stack of styrofoam cups, stepped out the door, and began doling out the coffee. There were some sips, a few furtive sniffs.
“Drink up!” Hazen cried good-naturedly. “Never let it be said we’re not hospitable folks here in Medicine Creek!”
There was a general shuffling, more sipping, a few covert glances into the cups. The coffee seemed to have subdued, if not broken, the spirit of the group. Though it was barely dawn, the heat was already oppressive. There was no place to put down the cups, no trash can to drop them in. And a sign outside the door to the sheriff’s office readNO LITTERING: $100 FINE .
Hazen adjusted his hat, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked around, his shoulders squared to the crowd as the cameras rolled. He then addressed the group. He told in dry police language of finding the body; he described the clearing, the body, and the spitted birds. It was pretty vivid stuff, but the sheriff managed to handle it matter-of-factly, throwing in a folksy comment here and there, in a way that neutralized most of the gruesome aspects. It amazed Tad how easygoing, even charming, his boss could be when he wanted to.
In the space of two minutes he was finished. A flurry of shouted questions followed Hazen’s speech.
“One at a time; raise your hands,” the sheriff said. “It’s just like in school. Anyone who shouts goes last. You begin.” And he pointed to a reporter in shirtsleeves who was enormously, spectacularly fat.
“Are there any leads or suspects?”
“We’ve got some very interesting things we’re following up. I can’t say any more than that.”
Tad looked at him with surprise. What things? So far, they had nothing.
“You,” said Hazen, pointing to another.
“Was the murder victim local?”
“No. We’re working on identification, but she wasn’t a local. I know everyone around these parts, I can vouch for that myself.”
“Do you know how the woman was killed?”
“Hopefully, the medical examiner will tell us that. The body was sent up to Garden City. When we get the autopsy results, you’ll be the first to know.”
The early morning Greyhound, northbound from Amarillo, came rumbling up the main street, stopping in front of Maisie’s Diner with a chuff of brakes. Tad was surprised; the bus almost never stopped. Whoever came or went from Medicine Creek, Kansas, anymore? Maybe it was more reporters, too cheap to provide their own transportation.
“The lady, you, there. Your question, ma’am?”
A tough-looking redhead poked a shotgun mike at Hazen. “What law enforcement agencies are involved?”
“The state police have been a big help, but since the body was found in Medicine Creek township, it’s our case.”
“FBI?”
“The FBI doesn’t get involved in local murder cases and we don’t expect them to take an interest in this one. We’ve put some pretty heavy-duty police resources on the case, including the special crime lab and homicide squad up in Dodge City, who spent the whole night at the site. Don’t you all worry that just Tad and me are going to try to solve this on our own. We’re good at hollering, and we’re going to holler loud enough to get what we need to solve this case, and quick, too.” He smiled and winked.
There was a roar as the bus pulled away in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. The sound temporarily drowned out the press conference. As the fumes cleared, they revealed a lone figure standing on the sidewalk, small leather valise sitting on the ground next to him. He was tall and thin, dressed in dead black, and in the early morning light he cast a shadow that stretched halfway across downtown Medicine Creek.
Tad glanced at the sheriff and noticed that he’d seen the man, too.
The man was staring across the street at them.
Hazen roused himself. “Next question,” he said briskly. “Smitty?” He pointed to the well-lined face of Smit Ludwig, the owner-reporter of theCry County Courier, the local paper.
“Any explanation for the, ah, the strange tableau? You got any theory on the arrangement of the body and the various appurtenances?”
“Appurtenances?”
“Yeah. You know, the stuff around it.”
“Not yet.”
“Could this be some kind of satanic cult?”
Tad glanced involuntarily across the street. The black-clad figure had lifted his bag but was still standing there, motionless.
“That’s a possibility we’ll be looking into, for sure,” said Hazen. “We’re obviously dealing with a very sick individual.”
Now Tad noticed the man in black taking a step into the street, strolling nonchalantly toward them. Who could he be? He certainly didn’t look like a reporter, policeman, or traveling salesman. In fact, what he most looked like to Tad Franklin was a murderer. Maybethe murderer.
He noticed that the sheriff was also staring, and even some members of the press had turned around.
Hazen fished a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He resumed talking. “Whether it’s a cult, or a lunatic, or whatever, I just want to emphasize—and Smitty, this will be important for your readers—that we’re dealing with out-of-town, perhaps out-of-state, elements.”
Hazen’s voice faltered as the figure in black stopped at the edge of the crowd. It was already well into the nineties but the man was dressed in black worsted wool, with a starched white shirt and a silk tie knotted tightly at his neck. Yet he looked as cool and crisp as a cucumber. The gaze from his silvery eyes was directed piercingly at Hazen.
A hush fell.
The black-clad figure now spoke. The voice wasn’t loud, but somehow it seemed to dominate the crowd. “An unwarranted assumption,” the figure said.
There was a silence.
Hazen took his time to open the pack, shake out a butt, and slide it into his mouth. He said nothing.
Tad stared at the man. He seemed so thin—his skin almost transparent, his blue-gray eyes so light they looked luminous—that he could have been a reanimated corpse, a vampire fresh from the grave. If he wasn’t the walking dead, he could just as easily have passed for an undertaker; either way, there was definitely the look of death about the man. Tad felt uneasy.
His cigarette lit, Hazen finally spoke. “I don’t recall asking your opinion, mister.”
The man strolled into the crowd, which parted silently, and halted ten feet from the sheriff. The man spoke again, in the mellifluous accent of the deepest South. “The killer works in the blackest night with no moon. He appears and disappears without a trace. Are you really so sure, Sheriff Hazen, that he is not from Medicine Creek?”
Hazen took a long drag, blew a stream of blue smoke in the general direction of the man, and said, “And what makes you such an expert?”
“That is a question best answered in your office, Sheriff.” The man held out his hand, indicating that the sheriff and Tad should precede him into the little headquarters.
&
nbsp; “Who the hell are you, inviting me into my own damn office?” Hazen said, beginning to lose his temper.
The man looked mildly at him and answered in the same low, honeyed voice. “May I suggest, Sheriff Hazen, that that equally excellent question is also best answered in private? I mean, foryour sake.”
Before Sheriff Hazen could respond, the man turned to the reporters. “I regret to inform you this press conference is now over.”
To Tad’s absolute amazement, they turned and began shuffling away.
Four
The sheriff took up position behind his battered Formica desk. Tad sat down in his usual chair with a tingling sense of anticipation. The stranger in black placed his bag by the door and the sheriff offered him the hard wooden visitor’s chair that he claimed would break any suspect in five minutes. The man settled into it with one smooth elegant motion, flung one leg over the other, leaned back, and looked at the sheriff.
“Get our guest a cup of coffee,” said Hazen, with a faint smile.
There was enough left in the pot for half a cup, which was quickly passed.
The man accepted it, glanced at it, set it down on the table, and smiled. “You are most kind, but I am a tea drinker myself. Green tea.”
Tad wondered if the man was weird, or possibly a faggot.
Hazen cleared his throat, frowned, shifted his squat body. “Okay, mister, this better be good.”
Almost languidly, the man removed a leather wallet from his jacket pocket, let it fall open. Hazen leaned forward, scrutinized it, sat back with a sigh.
“FBI. Shit-fire. Might have known.” He glanced over at Tad. “We’re running with the big boys now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tad. Although he’d never actually met an FBI agent before, this guy looked exactly the opposite of what he thought an FBI agent should look like.
“All right, Mr., ah—”
“Special Agent Pendergast.”
Still Life With Crows p-4 Page 2