Lawmen of Rockabye County (Rockabye County Book Two)

by Edson, J. T.

  ‘All right, already!’ Rossi said, and his companion nodded a vigorous concurrence as he continued, ‘We’ll be on the flight if we can get seats.’

  ‘You’ll be on the sucker, even if you have to sit on the wings,’ Melnick corrected. ‘And, should we be too busy to see you off, we’ll make sure the Airport Detail of the G.C.P.D. does it for us.’

  ~*~

  ‘God damn the creeps who did it!’ complained the man who had introduced himself as “David Blunkett”, his New England accent and demeanor redolent of exasperation. Then he continued in a more philosophical fashion, ‘But I suppose I’ve only myself to blame. If I’d stayed in a hotel with a parking lot attendant, it couldn’t have happened.’

  Tall, lean, peering indignantly if short-sightedly through steel-rimmed aviator’s glasses, the lenses of which had darkened to almost blackness in the early morning sun, the speaker had a sallow face with a prominent nose, buck teeth and a chin sporting a dimple which might have turned Kirk Douglas green with envy. The features were made to seem even sharper by the way in which his ears were flat against the sides of his head. As he had explained when presenting himself to the peace officers who came in answer to his summons via Central Control, an illness as a child caused a loss of hair which left him completely bald and devoid of eyebrows. His misfortunes medically extended to an artificial replacement of the ‘cosmetic’ variety for his right hand. He was wearing a lightweight gray suit, a white shirt, red, white and green striped tie and brown shoes. The attire was of a quality which suggested he was more wealthy than was implied by his choice of hotels. There was nothing unsavory about the place, but Gusher City could offer several which were more costly and luxurious. However, he had said he booked the room at the recommendation of a friend, as he was paying his first visit to Rockabye County.

  Although Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter and his partner were not assigned to the case, to save disturbing the team who had joined the Sheriff the previous evening and was now off watch, First Deputy Angus ‘Mac’ McCall had asked them to make the preliminary inquiries on being informed there was a complaint that a dark blue Ford Mustang was found by its owner to have bullet holes in it.

  Lacking some six inches of the blond giant’s height, Deputy Sheriff Thomas Cord was stocky and hard fleshed, carrying his fifty-eight years of age well. xxxiii Shoved back on his head, a tan Stetson with a ‘Luskey roll’ crease showed thick auburn hair which was graying at the temples. Although his demeanor was grimly serious at that moment, there were grin quirks at the corners of his eyes and mouth which implied a well-developed sense of humor and there was also something about his tanned features which inspired confidence. His brown two-piece lightweight suit, white shirt with a silver bola tie in the shape of a longhorn steer’s head, and black shoes looked shabby in comparison with the expensive leisure-style clothing of his larger and younger partner. There was a slight and barely discernible bulge under the right side of the jacket, caused by his Smith & Wesson Model 27 .357 Magnum revolver in its Myers Tom Threepersons Style’ holster, to give an indication of his official status.

  Accompanied by two specialists of the Scientific Investigation Bureau in the black and white Sheriff’s Office Oldsmobile car assigned to their team, Brad and Tom had made good time in reaching the address they had been given. On their arrival, after having met and introduced themselves to the owner of the car, the party had gone to the parking lot.

  Leaving the technicians of the Scientific Evidence and Latent Prints Squads to carry out their respective duties, the deputies had started the routine questioning. However, while amiable and not attempting to lay the blame for what had happened upon the inadequacies of the local law enforcement agencies, which both peace officers had encountered from people of much more prepossessing appearance under similar circumstances, the victim was unable to shed any light upon the subject. All he knew was he had taken the ignition and door keys with him when he left the vehicle the previous evening, but found indications of it having been used—even abused, if the bullet holes were any guide—later that night.

  ‘How do you know it was driven away, sir?’ Brad inquired.

  ‘I’ve got this habit of checking the mileage at the end of the day,’ Blunkett replied. ‘When I got in this morning, I noticed it had made a jump. So I got out and went around the back. As soon as I saw those bullet holes, I knew it was time to call in the police. If it hadn’t been for that, as the car was otherwise brought back undamaged, I wouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘We’re right pleased you did call,’ Cord declared, then looked at the man who was approaching. ‘Anything, Ben?’

  ‘There’s some,’ replied Sergeant Orville Bendix, whose specialty was fingerprints. Gesturing with the container like a photographer’s bag he was carrying, he looked at Blunkett and went on, ‘I’ll have to—!’

  ‘Of course, sergeant, I understand,’ the bald man assented, before the question could be completed. Extending his right arm, he continued, ‘I hope you don’t want any fingerprints from this cosmetic hand of mine. Realistic as it looks, it doesn’t have any.’

  ‘Just your rea—left hand,’ Bendix answered, making the amendment hurriedly.

  ‘You could have said, “real hand”,’ Blunkett said amiably. ‘I’ve been without the right for so long I don’t notice it’s missing, although I prefer to wear this one instead of my mechanical hand when I’m going to meet people for the first time as it saves them feeling embarrassed.’

  Opening his case, which was equipped so one side descended to form a flat working surface, Bendix set out his gear and took the left hand of the bald man. After applying ink from the pad to the tips of the fingers and thumb, he deftly placed each in a rolling motion to the appropriate square of a card printed for such a purpose. With this done to his satisfaction, he gave Blunkett a piece of tissue to wipe away the remaining ink. Giving a brief nod to Cord, who stepped forward and engaged the bald man in conversation, he set about the rest of his preliminary work.

  The task upon which the sergeant was engaged ranked as a major factor in investigatory procedure!

  Nor had the publicity given to the subject of fingerprints, even that devoted to how it was possible to avoid leaving any at the scene of a crime, made the study of them any less important!

  Although the greater portion of the human body is covered with hairs, most are very rudimentary and those which are fully developed are found on only a few areas. Some portions of the anatomy, the palm of the hand, the palmar surface of the fingers and the sole of the foot, are completely devoid of hairs. On these parts appear friction ridges which form different patterns. The skin consists of two principal layers, the epidermis and the corium. In the upper sections of the latter are the so-called corium papillae, forming the patterns of the ridges, between which the nerves of sensation terminate in the furrows.

  Examination of a friction ridge through a microscope reveals that on it is a row of pores an equal distance from one another, being the mouths of the sweat glands. One sweat pore with the surrounding part of the ridge is called an ‘island’, the fusion of which forms the raised line. For the point of view of investigation, the friction ridges were divided into three categories: ‘fingerprints’, meaning the patterns on the tips of the fingers; ‘palmar prints’, being the produced by the palm of the hand; and the self-explanatory ‘sole prints’.

  Mathematical calculations in FINGERPRINTS, written by the British forensic scientist, Sir Francis Galton during the latter part of the nineteenth century, claimed it was impossible for there to be identical fingerprints. While this has been disputed, upon the grounds that an insufficient number of specimens have been examined to prove it, no duplication has ever been discovered. Even when two looked exactly alike to the naked eye, or through a magnifying glass, microscopic examination invariably demonstrated this was far from the case. Therefore, experts in the matter of dactyloscopy—the scientific study of fingerprints—and peace officers in general, if not defense att
orneys, were willing to accept there were no two identical fingerprints.

  Taking a great interest in all aspects of his specialization, Bendix was cognizant with the history and controversy of dactyloscopy. Being equally aware of how defense attorneys sought to discredit evidence of experts on behalf of their clients, he was always thorough in his work. He had found, ‘dusted’—using powder appropriate to the surface upon which the discovery was made—and photographed several prints inside and on the vehicle, so wanted to establish which belonged to the owner. This was a matter of great importance, but he had also been seeking something which he considered to be even more vital to the conduct of the investigation.

  The discovery made the previous night by Deputy Sheriffs Ian Grantley and Jacob Melnick had established there could be a connection between the murder of Matteo Munez and the attempt to shoot Sheriff Jack Tragg. Fortunately, due to pressure of other and more pressing work, * the members of the Latent Prints Squad had not found time to remove and destroy the index card bearing the fingerprints of Anthony ‘Crazy Doc’ Christopher, as would normally have happened on receipt of the news of his supposed death. If Bendix could produce a match for those on the card in his box, he would establish that the two criminals from New York had told the truth about the purpose of their visit to Gusher City.

  One glance at the cards informed the sergeant that the prints of Christopher and Blunkett were entirely different. The friction ridges of the former made circular ‘whorls’ like the ripples caused by a whirlpool, and those of the latter rose into an entirely different looking ‘tented’ arch. What was more, the murderer and rapist had regular, almost effeminately handsome features, apart from outstanding ears generally concealed by a full head of trendily long mousey brown hair, with a chin unblemished by a dimple. However, even if they had looked exactly alike otherwise, instead of merely being roughly the same height and build, the differences between the friction lines of the fingerprints would have served to identify them and rule out the possibility of the hairless man being imprisoned in mistake for the escaped criminal.

  ‘What I can’t understand, gentlemen,’ Blunkett was saying to Brad and Cord, as Bendix was completing the comparison and drawing his conclusions, ‘is why whoever did it took the car away, then brought it back here. To the exact place where I’d left it even.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that myself,’ the older deputy admitted.

  ‘And me,’ the blond giant seconded. ‘If it wasn’t for the bullet holes, they could have done it hoping you wouldn’t know it had been taken and fetched back.’

  ‘Sure,’ Cord supported. ‘Only, unless they didn’t know they’d been hit, there wouldn’t be a whole heap of point to doing it, with the bullet holes to show something had happened that shouldn’t.’

  ‘All of which dosen’t show me in any too good a light,’ Blunkett remarked, but in a cheerful and unconcerned manner. ‘So I hope you’ve found somebody else’s fingerprints as well as mine, sergeant.’

  ‘There are some,’ Bendix confirmed. ‘But we won’t know whose they are until we’ve checked them out.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Blunkett,’ said the second technician, walking over with hands behind his back. ‘Have you been eating at a drive-in yesterday?’

  ‘No,’ replied the hairless man. ‘Why?’

  ‘There are marks on the driver’s door like they could have been made when a tray was clipped on,’ Sergeant Ira Goldstein explained, his specialty being to search out physical evidence at the scene of a crime. ‘Only they don’t usually have the holders fit so tightly the paint is scratched.’

  ‘Perhaps whoever took it went to one?’ Blunkett offered, his manner helpful. ‘Could that help you find them, Mr. Cord?’

  ‘Maybe,’ the older deputy said, nodding somberly.

  ‘We’ll pass it on to the team who caught the squeal. It might tie in with what happened to your car and they’ll decide whether to follow it up. Do you have anything for us, Ira?’

  ‘Either the driver was about the same height as Mr. Blunkett, or didn’t bother to change the position of the seat,’ Goldstein supplied, then brought his hands from behind his back. ‘That’s about all of it, except for this I found on the floor by the back seat.’

  ‘Us amateurs pick them up on the end of a pencil, according to the movies and TV cop shows,’ Cord commented, looking at the empty cartridge case gripped in the forceps held by the technician, having noticed on other occasions how he invariably produced his finds in a similarly dramatic fashion.

  ‘That’s what sets the professional apart from the amateurs,’ Goldstein asserted with a grin matching the one on the leathery face of the older deputy. ‘We do things properly.’

  ‘Like making sure not to put our fingerprints all over everything, regardless,’ Bendix added, in support of his fellow technician. ‘Which the gentlemen doing the leg work for us experts ’most always do.’

  ‘What kind of shell is it, Ira?’ Brad put in. ‘Or do we have to wait for one of the experts from F.I.L. to tell us?’

  ‘Well, that would be courtesy from one expert to another,’ Goldstein admitted, enjoying the usual banter which passed between technicians and investigating officers who were also good friends. ‘But, the Firearms Investigation Laboratory experts are always so busy I’ll put my scientific expertise to work and say, at a guess, having read what it says on the base, it’s a Remington “Fire Ball” .221.’

  ‘There’s expert scientific investigation for you,’ Bendix praised.

  ‘The wonders you fellers of S.I.B. pull off all the time amazes me!’ Cord asserted, in well-simulated awe. Then, becoming serious, he went on, ‘Does that mean anything to you, Brad?’

  ‘It might,’ the blond giant admitted.

  Hearing about the marks on the door of the car had started thoughts churning through Brad’s head. A ‘sixteen dollar shooter’ on the exacting qualification course run by the Rockabye County Department of Public Safety, to encourage greater efficiency amongst the law enforcement officers, he took an interest in firearms which went far beyond their use in his chosen line of work. The explanation for the question asked by Goldstein had struck a responsive chord in his memory, but he had not been able to bring whatever it was to completion and had turned his attention to the summations he had drawn the previous evening in the hope that they would produce enlightenment.

  According to the description of the incident he had received from the sheriff, added to the destruction of the bullet by shattering against the wall, Brad had agreed a bolt-action rifle firing a high velocity charge was the type of weapon used. However, some partially remembered fact kept stirring and struggling to come to fruition. Looking at and hearing the identification of the spent case, he had recollected the half-remembered details. Or rather, he realized there was a possibility they had drawn an erroneous conclusion where the weapon was concerned.

  ‘Such as?’ Cord prompted, knowing his young partner was reticent about expressing opinions which might prove invalid in the presence of other and more experienced peace officers.

  ‘Even though it missed,’ the blond giant said pensively, ‘that bullet went by very close to the Sheriff’s head. The areaway was a good seventy-five yards away, which made it a pretty fair shot.’

  ‘Not with a rifle using that kind of shell,’ Bendix pointed out, but in the manner of one expert commenting upon the remark of another.

  ‘If it was a rifle,’ Brad replied.

  ‘The Sheriff heard the bolt operating,’ Goldstein remarked, but could see the other technician was taking the blond giant’s words as anything but an over-imaginative suggestion from Jack Tragg’s “seven day wonder.” He remembered hearing that the young man was proving a competent officer and, being a friend of Cord, he was willing to give the other the benefit of the doubt, so he went on, ‘Which sounds like a rifle to me.’

  ‘Can’t say’s I’ve seen too many handguns with bolt actions, either, Brad,’ Cord confessed, but without derision.r />
  ‘Have you ever seen a Remington XP-100 Long Range Pistol?’ the blond giant inquired.

  ‘Well, no,’ Cord confessed and, after Goldstein had signified a similar lack of knowledge, went on, ‘Which it doesn’t look like the experts from S.I.B. can come out any more truthful than me to say they have.’

  ‘It looks like a cross between a shortened rifle and a lengthened handgun,’ Brad elaborated, before either “expert from S.I.B.” could comment upon the statement, other details having started to flood into his memory now he had made the breakthrough. ‘It weighs three and three-quarter pounds, has a ten and a half inch barrel, fires a fifty grain soft nose bullet with a muzzle velocity of around two thousand, six hundred and fifty feet per second and its mid-range trajectory is less than an inch.’

  ‘Does it, though?’ the older deputy challenged, but in a friendly and admiring fashion. ‘You’re real sure it’s two thousand, six-fifty feet per second, though?’

  ‘Dick Eades, from over to Hurst, told me so himself the last time we went hunting together,’ the blond giant confirmed, referring to a very well known author on firearms and shooting subjects with whom he was on friendly terms. ‘It’s only a single shot, but with a grip like the butt of an automatic pistol—and a bolt action, just like a rifle.’

  ‘And, when it’s fitted with something like a Bushnell Phantom 2.6 power telescopic sight, it’s one hell of a straight shooting gun,’ Bendix supplemented, feeling it incumbent upon himself to uphold the honor of the ‘experts from S.I.B. He too had an enthusiasm which led him to study developments in firearms and was also a ‘sixteen dollar shooter.’ ‘Which being, I’d say Super Heat had him an even narrower escape last night than any of us guessed.’

  ‘That’s for sure!’ Brad seconded. ‘Parked at the angle it must have been to let it split from the areaway so fast, it wouldn’t have been easy for the rifle to be held steadily out of the window.’