by Mark Gimenez
With each passing week, there were fewer mentions of Heidi in the papers. By the tenth week, all samples had been tested; there was no match. The sheriff concluded that an outsider had dumped Heidi in that ditch and left town. He vowed to continue his investigation as long as there was any hope of finding the perpetrator. That was four and a half years ago.
Beck stared again at the image of Heidi Geisel, all-American cheerleader. How did that beautiful girl end up in a ditch?
SEVEN
Beck threw up in the gutter.
It was the tenth day of August, and the dog days of summer had descended on the Hill Country. The temperature sign on the bank building read 97 degrees—at eight in the morning. His feet hurt, his knees ached, and his body was drenched in sweat. He had picked that day to start running again.
He had fixed breakfast for the kids and walked them down to the winery. Then he had run the three miles into town. When he hit Main Street, he had crossed over to the north side and ran east on the sidewalk. The shops didn't open until ten so the sidewalks had been empty except for the customers lined up out the door at Dietz Bakery, waiting for fresh sausage rolls. He ran around them and crossed over to the south side of Main at the light fronting the Nimitz.
He ran west past the Ausländer Biergarten and the vacant Crenwelge Buick & Olds building. It was Friday, but the weekend tourists didn't start arriving until noon; so pickup trucks instead of Lexuses were parked at the curb, and tractors, farm equipment, and eighteen-wheelers rolled down Main Street past the expensive restaurants and fancy boutiques. When Beck hit the Llano Street intersection, he had to stop for a rig pulling a cattle trailer. The breeze brought the smell straight to Beck—and he threw up.
"I think that's illegal. Littering on Main Street."
Beck's hands were on his knees. He looked up to a red Jeep Wrangler 4x4 pulled alongside the curb; it had no doors and a roll bar instead of a top. Jodie Lee was sitting behind the wheel wearing sunglasses and a smile. Her red hair blew in the breeze.
"Careful you don't get run over by a local. They don't brake for joggers."
"Why not?"
"They figure if God wanted folks to run everywhere He wouldn't have invented the pickup truck. You run up here from the ranch?"
He nodded.
"You won't make it back. Climb in."
She was right. He climbed in. Jodie reached back to a cooler behind them and handed a cold bottled water to Beck.
"This hot, you've got to hydrate."
Jodie shifted the Jeep into gear and turned west on Main. Beck drank half the bottle.
"Thanks."
The wind was the only air-conditioning the Jeep offered, but Beck's body soon cooled down.
"I haven't run since Annie … I've got to get back in shape."
"Tough in this heat. Try the Athletic Club, out 290 East across from the Wal-Mart."
Jodie worked the stick shift again, and Beck drank more water.
"Have you decided?" she said.
"On the gym?"
"On running for judge."
"No."
"Beck—people here are afraid."
"Of what? This is Disneyland."
She gestured at the Main Street shops. "This is a façade town, Beck. It's all fake, like a movie set … like Disneyland. That's all show for the tourists. But the people who live here, they're afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"The law. This town is ruled with an iron first, Beck. Old Germans, they're big on law and order, more order than law. You stay in line or leave town … or get shipped off to Huntsville."
"You mean the Latinos?"
"This is Texas, so they take the brunt of it. But it's also Fredericksburg, so anyone who's not from an old-line German family with money from mohair, they get in the way, they get run over. If you're brown or poor, there's no justice in Gillespie County."
They turned south off Main and onto Adams Street. They drove past the Gillespie County Courthouse. Beck looked up to the second floor, where the courtroom was located. And he remembered that day twenty-five years before when he had witnessed justice dispensed by Judge Bruno Stutz.
"A good judge could change that, Beck."
When Adams became Ranch Road 16, Jodie accelerated. The wind noise was too loud to talk, so Beck leaned back and thought. He thought about the law and he thought about justice.
And he thought about Miguel Cervantes.
EIGHT
The spoils of Texas politics have long been divided equally between Republicans and Democrats. The two-party system makes life so much simpler for lobbyists; at all times political they know exactly whom to bribe with campaign contributions, parties, trips, dinners, golf, and girls.
Independent candidates confuse lobbyists—something to be avoided at all costs—so Republicans and Democrats, in a rare showing of bipartisanship, passed election laws making it difficult (if not downright impossible) for an independent candidate to get his or her name on the ballot in Texas. The major obstacle is the petition requirement.
To get his name on the 2006 ballot for governor of Texas, Kinky Friedman had to get signatures of registered voters equal to one percent of the total votes cast in the prior gubernatorial election; in his case, 45,540 signatures. Those voters could not have voted in either the Republican or the Democratic primary that year; and all 45,540 signatures had to be collected in the sixty days following the primary election. He did it.
Of course, Kinky lost.
Under the election code, Beck had needed the "lesser of five hundred or five percent of the total vote received in the district, county, or precinct, as applicable, by all candidates for governor in the most recent gubernatorial election." The votes cast for governor in Gillespie County in the prior election totaled 8,403, so 420 registered voters in the county had to sign his petition.
He hadn't liked his odds.
But if a Jewish country-western singer whose biggest hit was "They Ain't Makin' Jews Like Jesus Anymore" could convince 45,540 Texans to sign his petition, surely a local football legend and honors graduate of Notre Dame Law School could convince 420 voters in Gillespie County to sign his petition. He did it. Or, actually, Jodie and Janelle did it.
Beck Hardin had decided to run for judge.
He had specialized in complex civil litigation at a seven-hundred-lawyer corporate law firm in Cook County, Illinois. But the most complex civil cases in Gillespie County, Texas, were divorces contesting whether husband or wife would get the hunting lease. Which rendered an $800-an-hour trial lawyer about as useful in Fredericksburg as a goat rancher in Chicago. He needed a job, but he wasn't running for a job. He was running because he didn't want his children to be afraid of the law. He was running because no one should be afraid of the law.
He was running because of Miguel Cervantes.
So at 4:45 P.M. on August 15th, Beck was standing at the counter in the district clerk's office in the Gillespie County Courthouse on Main Street and completing the filing form for an independent candidate. The filing deadline was 5:00 P.M.
Beck handed the filing form to the district clerk. Mavis Mooney was pleasant and plump with a beehive hairdo. She reached to her hair and pulled out a pen like a magician pulling a rabbit out of her hat. She glanced around then whispered, "Jodie asked me to sign your petition. I would've, but I'm elected, too." She looked over the form then said, "Please take the oath."
Beck recited from the form: "I, John Beck Hardin, Jr., of Gillespie County, Texas, being a candidate for the office of the 216th District Judge, swear that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States and of the State of Texas. I am a citizen of the United States eligible to hold such office under the Constitution and laws of this state. I have not been finally convicted of a felony for which I have not been pardoned or had my full rights of citizenship restored by other official action, nor have I been declared mentally incompetent as determined by final judgment of a court."
"If you think you can w
in, you're damn sure mentally incompetent."
Beck turned to the voice behind him. The Gillespie County District Attorney was standing there wearing a stylish suit and a smirk. He was younger and shorter than Beck; he looked like a fraternity boy dressed up for a night at the country club.
"It's just the two of us then," the D.A. said.
Beck extended his hand, and they shook. "Beck Hardin."
"Niels Eichman … Junior. So the football legend wants to be the judge?"
"Is that a problem?"
"It'll be a problem for you to get elected." He smiled. "You've been gone twenty-four years, Beck, and this town's changed—but not that much. The names on Main Street might not be German anymore, but the name of every elected official in this county damn sure is, from the mayor to the dogcatcher. Full-blooded Germans, every one of them. And you're not German."
"My mother was."
"You daddy isn't. And public offices here are handed down father to son, not mother to daughter. We don't elect non-Germans and we don't elect women."
"Except Mavis."
"That judgeship was mine from the day I was born."
"Your father was the D.A., not the judge."
"Stutz doesn't have a son."
"So what, he adopted you?"
"You could say that. He's backing me. All the Germans are."
"Yeah, well, the football coach is backing me."
"Him and the town lesbians, there's a winning team."
"Four hundred twenty-two voters signed my petition."
The D.A. snorted. "The Main Street crowd. Democrats spitting in the wind. They never win."
He shook his head.
"Come on, Beck, you grew up here, you know how it is. Germans have controlled this town and everything in it for a hundred sixty years, since the Baron settled this place. Still do. We still say what will be or won't be in this town and out in the county and over at the schools. Sure, you'll get the newcomers' votes, but the Germans will mobilize to defeat you just like they've defeated every other non-German stupid enough to waste good money running for public office here. You may be a legend, Beck, but you'll never be the judge."
Beck turned back to the district clerk.
"We good, Mavis?"
"Yep. Say hi to J.B."
Beck started to walk out, but thought of something. He turned back to the D.A.
"What do you know about Heidi Geisel?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Aubrey and I, we go back to high school."
"And he wants you to find her killer?"
"Something like that."
"Knowing Aubrey, exactly like that. Well, you've got until New Year's Eve to find him and indict him, because when the clock strikes midnight, that guy won't ever turn into an inmate."
"You really think an illegal Mexican killed her?"
The D.A. shrugged. "Who knows? But it makes for a good stump speech. A scared voter votes."
"Playing the race card?"
"It's a winning hand here. Illegal Mexicans, they're a hot-button issue, so I'm pushing that button hard."
"Watch out you don't push it too hard."
"Beck Hardin!"
Beck had just walked out the rear exit of the courthouse when a thick man wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and leaning against a pickup truck called out to him. The man stepped over and stuck a meaty hand out to Beck; they shook. His arm didn't taper down to the wrist; from shoulder to hand, it was one size, like a log. He smelled of goats.
"Stanley Jobst."
"Stanley …"
"Jobst. I married Mary Jo."
"Oh, yeah, Stanley. Good to see you again."
"Saw you going into the courthouse, figured I'd wait for you. Mary Jo said you were back in town."
Beck smiled. "Yeah, I saw her over at the Wal-Mart. I was trying to buy clothes for my kids and—"
Stanley wasn't smiling.
"Look, Beck, here's the deal. I know you and Mary Jo had a thing going back in high school. But I love her and she's happy now and I—"
Beck gave him a timeout signal.
"Whoa, Stanley, hold on. It's not like that anymore."
"It's not?"
"No. I love my wife."
"Thought she died?"
"She did."
"Oh. Well, so I got nothing to worry about?"
"Just getting arrested for wearing that shirt in public."
Beck smiled; Stanley didn't.
"No, Stanley, you've got nothing to worry about from me."
Stanley seemed relieved. "Well, that's good to hear, Beck, 'cause if I ever found out you were screwing Mary Jo again, judge or no judge, I'd kill you and bury you where the best tracking dog in the county couldn't find you."
Beck maintained eye contact with Stanley for a long moment, hoping he'd break into a smile. He finally did, then slapped Beck on the arm so hard that Beck had to regain his footing.
"Hell, Beck, I'm just joshing you. About the killing part, not the screwing part."
"Won't happen, Stanley."
"Well, fine then. That's just fine and dandy. Wanted to clear the air, that's all."
"Consider it cleared."
"All righty then, you have a good day." Stanley Jobst walked back to his truck and said over his shoulder, "Say hidi to J.B."
Beck shook that off and continued across the asphalt parking lot and went inside the Gillespie County Law Enforcement Center, a squat one-story building with a brick façade the color of goat crap. It housed the county jail and the sheriff's office. A young woman sat behind the counter. Her head was down, and she was writing.
"Be with you in a minute," she said with the enthusiasm law enforcement personnel saved for defense lawyers. After a very long minute, she finally looked up.
"I'm Beck Hardin. Is the sheriff available?"
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's after five."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"That's Doreen's way of saying 'come back tomorrow.' But she don't know she might be talking to our next judge."
Standing there was the Gillespie County Sheriff. Grady Guenther had been a deputy sheriff back when Beck was in high school; he would be in his early fifties now. He sported a bratwurst-and-beer physique, and he was chewing on a toothpick and fiddling with a little pocketknife; the legs of his trousers were partially tucked into his tan cowboy boots. In his green-and-tan uniform, he looked every bit like Rod Steiger from In the Heat of the Night. A small-town Texas sheriff, just like his daddy before him; the old man had inspired fear in the kids back when Beck was in high school. Apparently, the sheriff had inherited the job from his father, same as the D.A. They shook hands.
"Grady Guenther."
"Sheriff … Beck Hardin."
"Just Grady. So, you running?"
"Just filed my papers."
"Well, you don't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning, but I'll vote for you anyway."
"Why would you vote for me?"
"Have you met the D.A.?"
"Just now, in the courthouse."
"And?"
"Some ageing will do him good."
"Getting his ass kicked would do him more good." Grady smiled at that. "Junior took over from his daddy. Real ambitious boy, figures on being governor one day. Course, ambition ain't generally a good thing in a D.A. So, what can I do you for?"
"Heidi Geisel."
Grady nodded like he had expected that answer.
"Aubrey want you to solve her case?"
"Something like that."
"Few years back, he tried to get that America's Most Wanted to do a show on her. When I read you were back in town, knew it wouldn't be long before he got you involved. Old debts never go away, do they?" To Doreen, Grady said, "Bring me Heidi's file."
He motioned with the pocketknife for Beck to follow. They walked down a hallway and into the sheriff's office.
"Take a load off."
Beck sat in a visitor's chair. Grady remained standing until Doreen arrive
d with a thick file. He took the file from her and dropped it with a loud thud on the desk in front of Beck. Then he sat behind his desk.
"Did everything we could," Grady said. "Called in DPS to work up the crime scene, handle all forensics—we ain't had but one murder in Gillespie County the last thirty years and that was a mental case, so we use criminologists from the Department of Public Safety. They came up empty. Travis County M.E. did the autopsy, got the DNA, but we got no matches from the FBI database or our local samples."
"Aubrey thinks you're holding back on him, not telling him everything you know."
"He's right."
"Why?"
" 'Cause he don't want to know what I know."
"And what do you know?"
"I know Aubrey."
"Grady, I'm his lawyer."
Grady glanced around at the objects in his office—two stuffed deer heads on the wall, framed hunting photos, and a glass-fronted case holding hunting rifles. He exhaled and looked back at Beck.
"They found two DNA samples on her."
"You mean semen?"
Grady nodded. "From two different men."
"On the same night?"
Another nod. "One sample was from her vaginal cavity, I figure that's our man. The other was from her shirt. Way I figure, she gave oral to the first guy, then the guy that killed her came second … so to speak. She had intercourse with him."
"Why not the other way around?"
"Well, according to the autopsy, she died within fifteen, twenty minutes of inhaling the cocaine. Massive heart failure. Apparently she was taking diet pills, which are stimulants, so the effect of the cocaine was multiplied. Soon as she snorted the stuff, it was like she had slit her wrists and was just waiting to bleed out. Anyway, unless the guy likes to screw dead girls, I figure she was alive when they had intercourse. And the autopsy report said the amount of semen still in her vaginal cavity meant she wasn't upright for any extended period of time following intercourse. Gravity. They call it 'drainage.' Pleasant, huh? Anyway, I figure the second guy gave her the alcohol and cocaine, they had sex, and then she died. Probably her first time. The coke, not the sex."