That Old Scoundrel Death

by Bill Crider

  “We just read the local paper and that other Clearview blog. You know the one?”

  “A Clear View for Clearview,” Rhodes said.

  Roger nodded. “That’s it. We’d start there, and sometimes we’d come up with original stories. Lawrence would go out and talk to people casually and get information. Nobody knew who he was, but they’d talk to him for some reason. That’s the kind of guy he is, like my dad. Never met a stranger. Anyway, we picked up on things that seemed controversial, or Lawrence did, mostly, and we ran with them. I looked at it as sort of a public service. We were gadflies, maybe a little annoying but doing something good by calling attention to things that didn’t get any attention elsewhere.”

  “Calling the mayor a nincompoop is being a gadfly?” Seepy said.

  Roger laughed. “Okay, sometimes we might’ve gone a little too far, but that was just clickbait stuff. We never meant to hurt anybody. At least I didn’t. Lately I haven’t been too sure about Lawrence.”

  Rhodes had wondered if Roger would ever get to the point. Now he seemed to be approaching it.

  “You mean he’s gotten more vitriolic?” Seepy said.

  “Not so much that,” Roger said. “It’s more like he’s obsessed with a certain issue, and won’t let go of it.”

  “What issue is that?” Rhodes asked.

  “The Thurston school. You said you didn’t know Lawrence, but you did meet him, just yesterday. He was going to Thurston to do some looking around, and he had a run-in with some crazy road rager who threatened to kill him. Then you came along.”

  Rhodes felt a chill on the back of his neck. “I just happened to be passing by.”

  “Lucky for Lawrence that you were. He was really embarrassed about having to come home and change clothes before he could go back to Thurston. Lawrence has been talking about that place a lot and not anything else. It’s nearly all he talks about. We haven’t had a really new story in a good while because I’ve been busy with my own writing. I got the feeling that there was more to the school story than Lawrence was telling me. It’s just an old building, after all.”

  “Not to some people,” Rhodes said.

  “Maybe not,” Roger agreed, “but that’s not the real problem I needed to see you about.”

  Rhodes had a sad feeling he knew what the real problem was, but he asked anyway.

  “Lawrence has disappeared,” Roger said. “He was going to Thurston yesterday, he said. You know about that. The thing is, he never came back. That’s why I wanted to see you. I thought maybe you were here to tell me something about Lawrence. I was afraid that redneck he had the confrontation with might have done something to him.”

  Rhodes said, “What kind of car did Lawrence drive?”

  Roger stiffened. “He has a gray Camry. Has he been in an accident?”

  “No,” Rhodes said. “Not an accident. Describe him for me.”

  Roger described someone who looked a lot like Bruce Wayne or Cal Stinson.

  “Did Lawrence ever use aliases?” Rhodes asked.

  “All the time,” Roger said, relaxing with a grin. “It was a joke with him. When he was out talking to people, he didn’t want them to know who he was. He used all kinds of names if anybody asked him for one. He used to laugh about it when he told me about it. He said he used one with you, which I guess is why you didn’t know you’d met him.”

  “He used an alias, all right,” Rhodes said. “I think I can tell you why he hasn’t come back.”

  Roger leaned forward. “You didn’t arrest him and put him in jail for using an alias, did you?”

  “I didn’t check his ID. I should have.”

  “So he’s not in jail?”

  “He’s not in jail. I didn’t arrest him.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “No,” Rhodes said. “He’s not okay.”

  “What’s the matter, then?”

  There was no easy way for Rhodes to put it. There never was, not in this kind of situation. He said, “Lawrence is dead.”

  Chapter 10

  It had been Rhodes’s experience that he could never predict how someone would react to the news of a death, whether of a friend, a family member, or an acquaintance. Some people became emotional and wept, some were too surprised at first to react in any way at all, and some were just numbed. In this case, even Seepy was a little surprised.

  “Dead?” Seepy said. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen the body,” Rhodes said. “There’s been no formal identification, but I’m sure it’s Lawrence.”

  Roger’s voice shook a little. “What happened?”

  Explaining that someone has died in an accident or of natural causes was one thing. Explaining that someone has been murdered is something else. Again, there was no easy way.

  “Someone shot him,” Rhodes said.

  “That redneck?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhodes said. “It’s something I’m investigating.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “I can take you to Ballinger’s,” Rhodes said. “You can make the formal identification if that’s all right with you.”

  He was careful not to say that Roger could see the body.

  “Yes,” Roger said. His voice was steadier now. “I can do that. Just give me a minute.”

  He stood, picked up the tray with its pitcher and glasses, and left the room.

  “That couldn’t have been easy,” Seepy said. “Telling him, I mean.”

  Rhodes nodded but said nothing.

  “This is a lot different thing from just some blog post that insulted the mayor,” Seepy said. “I never thought my first case would involve a murder.”

  “This isn’t your case,” Rhodes said. “It’s not even related to your case.”

  “You never can tell,” Seepy said. “There could be a connection.”

  Rhodes didn’t think so. “What are you going to tell Mayor Clement?”

  Seepy looked thoughtful for a second or two, then said, “Nothing much. I’ll tell him I found the man who’s writing the blog. Or one of the men. That I talked to him and no harm was meant. The mayor might not be satisfied with that, but I’m not going to give him a name or go any further with it. You can tell him the rest if you want him to know.”

  “You go ahead and tell him the whole story,” Rhodes said. “Or as much as you think he needs to know. It might be good for him to hear it from you. Don’t do any speculating about why Lawrence was killed. Just give the mayor the facts and let him make his own decisions about what he’s going to do. If anything.”

  Considering the murder angle, Rhodes thought it would be best if the mayor did nothing at all and said even less. He hoped Clement would see it that way, but he wouldn’t want to hear that from Rhodes. He’d take it better from someone he’d paid to get the information, like his private eye.

  “Are you hinting that you’d like for me to go talk to the mayor now?” Seepy asked.

  “More or less,” Rhodes said. “There’s nothing left for you to do here.”

  “You’re right.” Seepy stood up and put on his fedora. “You can tell our host that I had to leave in a hurry.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Rhodes said.

  * * *

  Roger came back into the living room shortly after Seepy left. He now wore a blue blazer, white shirt, and a tie, although he still had on the jeans and running shoes.

  “I’m ready,” Roger said. He didn’t ask about Seepy. “You don’t have to take me. I can go in my car.”

  “All right,” Rhodes said. “I’ll meet you in front of Ballinger’s.”

  “That’s fine,” Roger said. He led Rhodes to the front door. “I’ll go out the back way. I appreciate your helping me deal with this, Sheriff.”

  “I should tell you that the identification isn’t going to be anything like what you might’ve seen on TV or in the movies,” Rhodes said. “It’s entirely different.”

  “That could be a good thing,” Roger said.

 
“It is,” Rhodes said, and Roger thanked him again for his help.

  Rhodes didn’t think he’d been of any help, but he said he was glad to do what he could. He went out to the Tahoe, and as soon as he’d gotten into the driver’s seat, he turned on the engine and started the air conditioner. Then he got on his cell phone and called Clyde Ballinger, the owner of Ballinger’s and the funeral director, to let him know that he was on the way there with someone to identify the body that had been brought in earlier that day.

  “Has Dr. White performed the autopsy yet?” Rhodes asked.

  “No,” Ballinger said. “He hasn’t been here. He’ll do that this evening. I’ll have things ready when you get here. Just come right to the viewing room.”

  Rhodes thanked him and ended the call.

  * * *

  Ballinger’s Funeral Home was housed in what had once been the finest mansion in Clearview, built during the oil boom years. The family who built and owned it had eventually left town for Houston, where there were more oil millionaires to associate with, and the mansion had sat vacant for a few years until Clyde Ballinger had bought it and converted it to its current use. Rhodes sometimes wondered what the original owners would have thought about that, but he realized it didn’t matter. It was just a building, after all, although it was a particularly fine one, with its white columns two stories high from its front porch, its well-cared-for lawn, still green thanks to an in-ground sprinkler system, its clean-swept walks, its immaculate brick facade. The people who wanted the school preserved in Thurston must have envied Ballinger’s building and its excellent condition.

  Roger’s Cruze was parked in the shade of the elm trees that overhung the street, and Rhodes parked behind him. When Rhodes got out of the Tahoe, Roger stepped out of the Cruze and joined Rhodes on the sidewalk. They walked together up to the wide concrete porch and went through the door into the funeral home. Rhodes led the way to the viewing room where Clyde Ballinger was waiting.

  Outside his professional capacity, Clyde was an outgoing sort, the kind of man that Roger’s father had been. He never met a stranger. He liked a good joke, and he knew a lot of them. He liked to read old paperback books and had collected them for years. He enjoyed telling Rhodes about them when they talked. In his work at the funeral home, however, he was different, quiet, assured, and a complete professional. He stood at the door of the viewing room, dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie, with an expression both solemn and concerned as Rhodes introduced Roger Prentiss.

  “Let’s just step inside here,” Clyde said, his voice low but clear.

  Rhodes and Roger went inside, and Clyde followed. The room held a big glass-topped desk with nothing on its smooth surface other than a clipboard. Two chairs covered in red leather faced the desk. The clipboard held what appeared to be a blank sheet of paper.

  “Have a seat,” Clyde said, and Rhodes and Roger sat in the chairs while Clyde went behind the desk. When they were settled, Clyde said, “Mr. Prentiss, has Sheriff Rhodes told you anything about the identification process?”

  Roger shifted in his chair. “He just said that it wouldn’t be like it is on TV.”

  “It’s not.” Clyde touched the clipboard. “We won’t be leaving this room. The identification is done by way of a photograph.” He pushed the clipboard across the smooth glass top of the desk toward Roger. “The photograph is on the clipboard. It’s facedown. You can take all the time you need to turn it over, and then take as much more time as you need to look at it. The Sheriff and I will be here for you no matter how long that might be.”

  Roger reached out and took the clipboard from the desk. It seemed to Rhodes that he was a bit hesitant about unclipping the photograph and turning it over, but after a few seconds he did it. Rhodes could see the picture from where he sat. It showed only Lawrence’s face with a blue sheet bunched up around it. Roger stared at it in silence for several seconds. Then he said, “That’s Lawrence. Lawrence Gates.” His voice had only the slightest tremor in it.

  “You’re certain?” Rhodes asked.

  “I’m certain. I need to let his family know.”

  “I can do that for you,” Rhodes said.

  “No, I’d rather do it myself. It would be better coming from someone they know, even if they don’t know me very well. I’m sure they’ll want the body sent home for burial.”

  “All they have to do is call me,” Clyde said. “I can make all the arrangements.”

  “They’ll want to know what happened,” Roger said, looking at Rhodes.

  “He was shot by an unknown assailant,” Rhodes said.

  “I don’t understand why anyone would shoot Lawrence.”

  “I’m going to find that out,” Rhodes said.

  “His parents will want to know why,” Roger said.

  “So would I,” Rhodes told him. “You can let them know that I’ll find out who did it and why. It might take a while, but it will get done.”

  Roger didn’t look convinced.

  “You can believe what he’s telling you,” Clyde said. “Sheriff Rhodes always gets the job done.”

  “He does if you can believe A Clear View for Clearview,” Roger said.

  “Things you read there are often exaggerated,” Rhodes said, “a little like Digging that Blacklin County Dirt, but in a different way.”

  “Point taken,” Roger said with a glance at Clyde, who looked a bit puzzled at the byplay. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “You could tell me all about what Lawrence was working on, and you can let us look at his room and his computer.”

  “No problem. Come tomorrow and look at anything you want.” Roger looked at the photograph again. “I can’t quite believe he’s dead.”

  That was a familiar reaction to Rhodes. It sometimes took a while for the reality to sink in.

  Roger clipped the photograph back on the clipboard and put the clipboard on the desk. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

  “Just one thing,” Rhodes said. “I need Lawrence’s cell phone number.”

  “Of course. I tried calling Lawrence several times, but I got no answer.”

  Roger told Rhodes the number, and Rhodes thanked him.

  “Is there anything else?” Roger asked.

  “Not right now,” Rhodes said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Roger stood up. “I’ll be going, then. Thank both of you for making this as easy as possible.”

  Clyde and Rhodes also stood up and Clyde said, “I’ll show you out.”

  Rhodes sat back down and while they were gone, he tried the number Roger had given him. It was out of service, which probably meant that the phone had been destroyed. Rhodes wasn’t surprised.

  Clyde returned to the room, went behind the desk, and sat down. He took the clipboard and put it in the middle desk drawer.

  “Well?” Clyde said when the clipboard was stowed.

  “Well, what?” Rhodes asked.

  “Is he a suspect?” Clyde asked.

  “Everybody’s a suspect,” Rhodes said, “just like in those books you read.”

  “I haven’t read a good one in a while,” Clyde said. “I don’t seem to enjoy them so much now that I can’t find them at garage sales and in thrift stores. Getting them on the internet for an eReader is too easy. I miss the old days.”

  “Don’t we all,” Rhodes said.

  “You ever think about it?” Clyde asked, a professional tone back in his voice.

  “About what?” Rhodes asked.

  Clyde looked around the room. “About how one of these days you might turn out to be one of my clients.”

  “That’s a cheerful thought,” Rhodes said.

  “Just something to think about. Maybe it’s because of my profession, but I think about what’s going to happen to me eventually.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “I’m thinking about taking in a partner. Somebody a lot younger than I am. That way I’ll have somebody to do the job ri
ght.”

  “I don’t think it will matter to you,” Rhodes said.

  “I know it won’t,” Clyde said, “but it matters to me now. I want to think that my end will be handled the way I’d like it to be handled. It would be a comfort to me to know that. But not you?”

  “I don’t think about it a lot,” Rhodes said. “Hardly at all, in fact.”

  “Well, you ought to. I could set you up with a prepaid plan that would guarantee you just what you wanted at a discount price.”

  “You’ve never given me a sales pitch before.”

  “I know,” Clyde said, “but today I got to thinking about it. You don’t have to do anything with me, but you need to let Ivy know what your wishes are. Just in case.”

  Rhodes grinned. “I don’t think I’ll need your services. I think I prefer cremation. Maybe get my ashes scattered somewhere out in the country.”

  “You know the law about that?”

  “I’m the sheriff,” Rhodes said. “I know the law. It says that you can scatter ashes over land that’s not inhabited and over private property with the owner’s permission.”

  “You can even leave the container if it’s biodegradable,” Clyde said.

  “I know that, too,” Rhodes told him, “but it’s not something I’m planning on for a while.”

  “I can’t handle the cremation,” Clyde said, “but I can send you off to the right place for it.”

  “That’s a real comfort.”

  “I knew you’d think so,” Clyde said.

  Chapter 11

  Rhodes had missed lunch, which was not unusual. He thought he might as well stop at the Dairy Queen and get something, maybe just a Heath Bar Blizzard, which might not be healthy but would cheer him up.

  They knew him well in the Dairy Queen, where a Heath Bar Blizzard was known as “the usual” when Rhodes came in. He didn’t even have to ask. A woman named Julia was behind the counter, and when she saw Rhodes come in, she said, “Heath Bar Blizzard, coming right up.”

  Rhodes paid and sat down to wait. When the Blizzard was ready, Julia came out with it, stood by the table, and turned it upside down.