Lawmen of Rockabye County (Rockabye County Book Two)

by Edson, J. T.

  ‘Unless there were two of them in the heap,’ Cord offered.

  ‘There weren’t,’ Goldstein asserted with confidence. ‘Two of the bullets went clear through the front passenger seat. They couldn’t have missed anybody sitting in it and, should anybody have been, there’d be traces of blood or signs of it being cleaned off and I can’t find any trace of either.’

  ‘Then I’d be willing to bet he was using a Remington XP-100!’ Brad declared.

  ‘Which is a weapon a man with only one hand could use, Mr. Counter?’ Blunkett suggested, glancing pointedly at the artificial appendage attached to his right wrist, but the words were uttered without any discernible animosity.

  ‘It could be fired one-handed, for sure,’ the blond giant admitted. ‘And with accuracy, was it braced in some way. But not reloaded as quickly as the sheriff told me he heard it happening, that would take two.’

  ‘Two?’ the hairless man inquired.

  ‘Two,’ Brad repeated. ‘One to open the bolt and eject the empty case, so the other could feed in another live round.’

  ‘Unless it was held in some sort of clamp, of course,’ Blunkett hinted. ‘And, as something of the sort was recently attached to the driving door of my car, which was taken away and brought back —!’

  ‘It’s you who’s raised the point, mind, sir,’ Cord put in, his manner polite yet giving a warning that a denial of the point at a later date could be rebutted by witnesses. With the precaution taken, he continued, ‘Which being, maybe you’d not mind telling us where you spent last evening?’

  ‘In my room,’ the hairless man obliged without a moment’s hesitation or indication of anything other than a complete willingness to cooperate. ‘But there isn’t any way I can prove it.’

  ‘How come?’ the older deputy prompted.

  ‘I saw nobody after I went there,’ Blunkett explained. ‘I didn’t call room service, or the desk clerk and I didn’t watch television to be able to say what programs were being shown. In fact, I was so tired, I went to bed shortly after eight and didn’t wake up until this morning. What’s more, the way I sleep, Big H could come down near to me and I wouldn’t hear the bang. So, taken all in all, I can’t offer a very good alibi.’

  ‘We tend to get just a lil mite suspicious when somebody does, sir,’ Cord said reassuringly. ‘Only, like I said, seeing’s how you started this, there’s some more routine we have to follow.’

  ‘Routine!’ queried the hairless man, sounding more intrigued and amused than alarmed or annoyed.

  ‘We’ll have to search your room and have you personally checked out,’ the older deputy replied. ‘But you’ve steered us into doing it, mind.’

  ‘I’ve given you a good reason for doing something you’d have done anyway,’ Blunkett corrected cheerfully. ‘And I won’t forget it was me who suggested it. Don’t worry, I’m not some god-damned soft-shell on the lookout for ways to smear the fuzz. In fact, I’m finding this interesting. It will be something to tell the boys at the Rotary Club when I get back home.’

  ‘Hell’s fire, Tom!’ Bendix growled, having returned to his examination of the fingerprints ‘lifted’ from the Mustang while the conversation was taking place. ‘We’ve hit paydirt here!’

  ‘How come?’ Cord asked, turning his attention from the hairless man and surprised by the vehemence of the reaction from the normally unemotional technician.

  ‘I’ve raised a couple of pips from the cartridge case!’ Bendix replied, gesturing with the forceps he had received from Goldstein.

  ‘Whose?’ drawled the older deputy, although he was already hazarding a guess at the answer.

  ‘Crazy Doc Christopher’s is whose!’ the sergeant asserted, as Cord had anticipated. ‘There’s a real clear forefinger and thumb print where he held it when he loaded.’

  ~*~

  ‘Well, gentlemen?’ David Blunkett said, his demeanor still friendly. ‘Are you satisfied with what you’ve found, or rather, haven’t found?’

  ‘Why sure,’ replied Deputy Sheriff Thomas Cord.

  Having heard about the discovery made by Sergeant Orville Bendix, the elderly peace officer had gone into the reception lounge of the hotel accompanied by the hairless man, his young partner and Sergeant Ira Goldstein. As they had entered, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter had excused himself to make a telephone call without mentioning with whom he wished to establish contact. While going to the first floor with the other two men, Cord had satisfied the curiosity expressed by Blunkett with regard to Anthony ‘Crazy Doc’ Christopher. Commenting it was typical of the lousy state of affairs created by ‘liberal bleeding hearts’ that such a dangerous psychopath should have been permitted to escape even once, Blunkett had unlocked the door and showed the peace officers into the accommodation he was renting.

  While Goldstein had set about conducting a very thorough search of the main room and bathroom, Cord had learned more about the hairless man. However, most of the information had been of a negative, or at best unhelpful, nature. Explaining he had recently set up a video tape marketing service based in St. Louis, Missouri, Blunkett had said he was taking a combination vacation and research trip to see what openings might be available in various cities. He had displayed a driver’s license and credit cards, but was carrying no other form of identification. There would, he had warned, be no point in calling either his home or business premises. He was unmarried and lived alone, with a housekeeper who attended to his needs on a daily basis. However, he had given her, and his two assistants, vacations before setting out and all had said they would be going away to unspecified destinations.

  On completing a search he had felt sure would prove fruitless, but nevertheless as a matter of principle, carried out with all the skill he possessed, the technician from the Scientific Investigation Bureau had announced the room was clean. This had provoked the comment from Blunkett, and Cord’s reply.

  Before any more could be said, a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Brad Counter!

  ‘I’ve just got word from the Sheriff,’ announced the blond giant. ‘He says he’d like to see you down to the Office, Mr. Blunkett.’

  ‘Why?’ the man asked, but with more curiosity than concern.

  ‘He wants to apologize for putting those bullets into your car,’ Brad replied. ‘And to thank you personally for being so helpful to us.’

  ‘That’s very kind of him!’ the hairless man declared. ‘And, particularly as I’m at a loose end, I’d be pleased to come along with you.’ Then, glancing at Goldstein, he went on, ‘Or won’t there be enough room for an extra passenger in your car?’

  ‘I reckon we could get three in the back,’ Cord claimed, watching and wondering why his young partner appeared somewhat ill at ease. ‘What do you think, Ira?’

  ‘We should all fit in easy,’ the sergeant replied. ‘None of us are heavyweights.’

  Returning to the parking lot, the peace officers discovered that Sergeant Bendix had finished his work and was waiting for them. Boarding the black and white Oldsmobile car code-named, ‘S.O. Twelve’, the three men were not too crowded on the rear seat. Slipping behind the steering wheel, Cord drove them to the Department of Public Safety Building. During the journey, he kept an overt watch upon his young partner. While still certain something was amiss, Brad made no mention of what it might be and he decided to leave satisfying his curiosity until they could talk in private. On their arrival, leaving the car in the parking lot for official vehicles at the rear of the building, the party went their separate ways. The technicians made for their respective departments, where they would carry out the paperwork necessary for the smooth functioning of any modern law enforcement agency, and the deputies escorted Blunkett by elevator to the third floor upon which the Sheriff’s Office was situated.

  Facing the doors of the elevator, a double flight of stairs gave alternative access to the floors above and below. To the right of them was the Record’s Room of the Sheriff’s Office, then a comfortably furnished room for
visitors awaiting attention or appointments and, lastly, the men’s locker room. Three doors opened from the left side of the stairs. Two bore a printed warning, ‘FIREARMS INVESTIGATION LABORATORY. STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE!’, a superfluous warning as the doors were not only locked and bolted from the inside, but had heavy and well loaded metal storage cabinets in front of them. Nearest to the stairs, the third room bore the F.I.L.’s identification without the prohibitive warning. One could enter, provided one kept to the visitor’s side of the dividing rail and did not waste the time of Lieutenant Jedediah Cornelius and his three-man squad. However, despite having been created tongue in cheek, the implication that the occupants were extremely busy was far from a pose; When not engaged upon some examination involving firearms or ammunition, the four men kept themselves fully occupied by reloading cartridges to be used in the extensive training program organized by the Department of Public Safety.

  Facing the quarters assigned to the F.I.L., were the offices of Sheriff Jack Tragg and the Watch Commander, then—next to the stairs—the Deputies’ Squad Room. On the other side of the elevator bank was an interrogation room specifically designed to protect the users, whether peace officers or suspects, from abuses and false accusations. Next came the Missing Persons’ Bureau and finally a door inscribed, ‘MEN’, female officers having to go up or down a floor when requiring a similar facility.

  ‘How about you logging us back in, Tom?’ Brad suggested. ‘I’ll take Mr. Blunkett to meet the Sheriff.’

  ‘Sure,’ the older deputy assented, after looking for a moment at the exceptionally handsome features of the blond giant.

  Having come to know his young partner very well, Cord was puzzled by the request, in spite of having concurred with it. He knew it had not been made merely for the prestige of delivering a visitor asked for by the Sheriff. There was, he felt sure, a much more serious and praiseworthy reason. Possessing considerable faith in Brad, which circumstances had already proven was justifiable, he was willing to do as was suggested and await developments. Watching the big blond and Blunkett continuing along the passage, he gave a shrug and went through the double doors of the Squad Room.

  ‘Wait here, please, sir,’ Brad requested and, knocking on the door inscribed, “JACK TRAGG, Sheriff, Rockabye County, Texas”, stepped inside. He left the door slightly ajar and, although nothing which was said could be heard outside, this changed when he raised his voice to call, ‘Come in, please, Mr. Blunkett!’

  Pushing open the door, the room into which the hairless man strolled looked nothing like the kind of office that was shown in an action-escapism-adventure Western movie as being occupied by a county sheriff. Rather its furnishings were such as might be supplied to a senior executive in a major corporation. With the exception of Jack Tragg himself, nothing—not even the crossed Stars and Stripes and State Flag of Texas on the wall behind his desk—gave any indication of the status in the community of the occupant.

  As the Sheriff had been intending to visit the Sub-Office in one of the county’s smaller towns, he was wearing his uniform apart from the hat. On Blunkett entering, he started to rise from his chair. At the right side of his mahogany desk, Brad stood in the manner of a soldier who had received the order, ‘At ease.’ Appearing far more relaxed and at home, Cousin Ian sprawled with head resting on stretched out forelegs at the left.

  ‘Good morning, Sheriff Tragg!’ Blunkett greeted, exuding bonhomie, as he started to cross the room with his right hand extended. ‘This is a honor and—!’

  Lifting its head, the big Rhodesian ridgeback looked without any particular interest at the approaching man. Then its nostrils quivered and, letting out a savage snarl, it came up in a swift bound to spring at him with bared fangs.

  Taken by surprise at the behavior of his well-trained dog, Jack could do nothing more positive than send his chair skidding back more swiftly than he had intended.

  A startled exclamation burst from the hairless man as a realization of what was happening struck him!

  The understanding sent a surge of homicidal rage, which he had always succeeded in preventing being detected during psychiatric examinations, through Anthony ‘Crazy Doc’ Christopher!

  After his escape from the penal institution on Rhode Island, Christopher had put his underworld connections to good use. Going to a small and exceptionally well equipped secret specialized medical clinic operated by the Syndicate, xxxiv gaining admission through the authorization of the consigliere of one of the ‘families’ upon whom he could exert influence as a result of information he possessed, he had had all its facilities employed on his behalf. Plastic surgery and skin grafts had given him features and fingerprints which no longer resembled those on ‘mug sheets’ in the files of various law enforcement agencies. Nor had the services ended there. Along with valid credit cards and documents, he had been supplied with other means to ‘prove’ he was ‘David Blunkett’ of St. Louis, Missouri.

  Despite having been provided with all he required to make a fresh start, and having sufficient money in secret bank accounts—accrued from his various criminal activities prior to being arrested—to let him live in comfort, Christopher had refused to forget his obsessive and psychotic hatred of Jack Tragg. However, the psychotic traits which drove him to the acts which had been responsible for his downfall revolted, against leaving people alive who could supply details of his new appearance and identity. Having acquired certain items which he had considered would help him in his quest for vengeance, he had murdered the doctor and three nurses who were the whole of the resident staff and alone were privy to the secrets. Then he had set light a fire which completely destroyed the building and everything which could have established its purpose was illicit.

  Shaving his head and eyebrows, there having been nothing the clinic could do to change the color of his hair permanently, Christopher had travelled to Gusher City to take his revenge. He had suspected that the Sheriff had learned of his criminal activities from Matteo Munez and, while in the State Prison Farm at Jonestown, learned of the obsession with security despite having failed to obtain proof of his suspicions. Going to a bar frequented by the informer, he had put his theory to the test by giving hints that a large shipment of narcotics was to pass through Rockabye County early the next day. Following Munez to the telephone booth, he had used a long range parabolic microphone he had obtained through a criminal contact—the purchase having offered a suggestion of his intentions to the Syndicate and brought the two ‘soldiers’ to Gusher City—to learn all he needed to set a trap for Jack.

  Killing Munez with a sawed off shotgun and taking the property to give the impression that robbery was the motive, Christopher had driven to Beaumont Street and laid the ambush. Unfortunately for him, the only place suitable produced the disadvantages to which Brad had referred. This had caused the attempt to murder the sheriff to fail. Needing the added support, he had placed the Remington XP-100 Long Range Pistol on a clamp attached to the driver’s door of his Ford Mustang. While this held the weapon firmly and steadily, he had learned too late it was too stiff for easy movement and—due to the excellent sight and straight shooting qualities of his chosen instrument—flying as was intended, the bullet had made a very near miss. The almost instantaneous attack by the big ridgeback had prevented him from even completing the reloading, much less trying again.

  Making good his flight from the area, despite the car having been penetrated by the three bullets his intended victim had fired at him with the Smith & Wesson Model 27 .357 Magnum revolver, Christopher had driven unchallenged to the railroad depot. After depositing the microphone, loot from the supposed robbery, two weapons and clamp in a ‘left baggage’ locker, he had returned to the hotel and reached his room without anybody having known he was absent. He had been just as successful when, driven by his psychotic impulses, he had visited the hotel lobby—which was deserted—later and, using his own voice instead of the accent he assumed while speaking to the deputies, made the call to Jack.

 
; Refusing to be deterred by the failure to kill the sheriff, regarding it as no more than a temporary setback and even advantageous as it would cause alarm and, perhaps, fear to his intended victim, Christopher had decided upon his next line of action. Before calling Central Control to report the damage to the Mustang, he had left the spent cartridge case removed from the Remington where it would be found when a search of the vehicle was made. Such had been his complete faith in the changes made to his appearance—cutting a muscle behind his ears had caused them to lie back instead of standing out, the size of the nose being built up, a set of deliberately ‘buck’ false teeth supplied and the prominent dimple created—he had already acquired the means to alert his intended victim that he was alive and seeking vengeance, and to produce a mystery that would confuse the officers investigating a successful killing. One of the items he had taken from the clinic was a box containing thin strips of plastic bearing duplications of his original fingerprints. He had learned of this particular development, an aid to falsifying evidence, from the doctor in charge and had had some made of his own before the skin graft was carried out to remove them. While a detailed scrutiny under a powerful microscope would show the fingerprints were produced artificially, he had been assured by the doctor they would stand up to any examination by the naked eye or a magnifying glass. Confident he would have left Gusher City before such a detailed inspection was carried out, he had applied a covering to his right thumb and forefinger, then placed the identifiable prints on the spent cartridge case.

  As had been the case with Francesco ‘Dirty Frank’ Furillo and Dominic Rossi, Christopher had accepted the image created by Hollywood ‘liberals’—who would have been loudly vociferous against any similar maligning of ‘acceptable’ ethnic minorities—of the stupidity and incompetence of Southron peace officers. Nor had the acceptance of his explanation, apparently at face value, caused him to revise his point of view. Therefore, he had had no hesitation in accepting the invitation to visit the Sheriff. Rather he had taken a perverse pleasure in the thought of being thanked for his ‘assistance’ and receiving an apology from the man he hated so much, but had failed to kill.