by Chris Offutt
A door banged down the hall and Mick saw his sister escort Tanner’s parents out the back door, their expressions stoic. They leaned against each other like workhorses in harness trying to make it easier for the other. Mick moved to a window and watched Linda hand them over to a city cop. She came back in the house through the front.
“This their place?” he said. “Tanner’s folks?”
“Yeah, they found him. What a mess.”
“Get anything out of them?”
“No,” she said. “Tanner’s been staying here since we released him. They were at the grocery. I don’t think they’re involved in it.”
“I don’t either,” Mick said. “I believe he answered the door and was shot immediately. First one at close range. He back-stepped or started falling. The next two shots were a little bit farther away.”
He pointed to a small hole in the wall, fresh enough that Sheetrock dust lay on the floor below.
“Another shot missed. Dig around in there and you’ll find a bullet.”
“Wouldn’t it go through the wallboard?”
“Maybe, but it’s close to the edge. My guess is it’s lodged in the framing. Small caliber. I haven’t turned him over but all this blood is from exit wounds in his back. The rounds didn’t bounce around inside him. The killer used a gun laying around the house or one he kept in his vehicle.”
“Anything else?” she said.
“Marquis came and left. You’ll know more after he’s finished with the body. Somebody on this street saw the killer’s vehicle.”
“I asked the city cops to go door-to-door.”
“Good.”
“I sent Johnny Boy to search Tanner’s house again.” She looked at the body, a forlorn expression on her face. “If I kept him locked up, he’d still be alive.”
“He shouldn’t have been arrested in the first place. That’s on the FBI, not you.”
Two young EMTs entered with a collapsible stretcher on wheels, and bent to their grisly task. Mick and Linda went outside. The sudden sunshine illuminating the pretty street seemed unjust, an affront to the circumstances. Another log truck leaking twigs and bark rolled by. It slowed for the cluster of police cars, veering onto a neighbor’s yard.
“They logging back up in there?” Mick said.
“Yeah. Whole damn street’s mad about it. Flash floods. A dog killed. Property damage. Two kids almost run over. The mayor says the logging’s legal. He can’t stop people from harvesting on their own land.”
“They clear-cut these hillsides and call it harvesting?”
“Lumber trees are a crop,” she said. She gestured to the grease on his clothes. “How’d you get so dirty?”
“I was hugging an old engine block.”
Linda’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She answered and listened for less than a minute.
“Bring him in,” she said. “I’ll meet you there in ten.”
She ended the call and cussed while rolling her shoulders to ease tension that had no desire to leave.
“Somebody just confessed to killing Tanner,” she said. “Johnny Boy’s taking him to the office.”
“Not the jail?”
“No, I need to hear the story first. I don’t want to lock the wrong guy up again.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“Yeah, but no more secret conversations.”
He nodded, watching a pair of starlings swirl around a chimney across the street. The house had a low decorative fence and he wondered how many people had tripped over it at night.
“I talked to Peggy,” he said.
“About time.”
“Do you know her full situation?”
She shook her head.
“It’s pretty tricky,” he said.
“Way the two of you been acting, I figured that.”
“It’s …”
He faltered, reluctant to say the words aloud. He didn’t know why. It made no sense.
“It’s not my kid,” he said.
“I was afraid of that,” she said. “What the hell’s wrong with her?”
“She’s in bad shape over it.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t like it much.”
She looked at him with an expression of sympathy, one he couldn’t recall seeing her give him as an adult.
“I’m sorry, Mick.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go see who Johnny Boy’s got.”
He walked to his truck and drove as slowly as possible, forcing himself to admire the hills, the flowers in the yards, the ornamental trees planted near the houses. One had a trellis covered with morning glory vine. It was a pretty street. Eventually it would get over the murder but not the clear-cutting on the hillsides.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Johnny Boy was unsure of procedure, in particular the decision to handcuff the suspect. He had known Bobby and his brother Billy all his life. They lived across the creek from him. Ten months separated the two brothers and they were always together. People called them “Bobby and Billy,” even when referring to just one boy.
Johnny Boy didn’t cuff him but sat across the room and studied Bobby who was slumped in a chair and crying. He was the same height and build as Johnny Boy and dressed the same except for the shirt. Even their hair was the same color and length. Johnny Boy had a strange sensation that with a few significant shifts, Bobby could be the cop holding him in custody.
Johnny Boy gave him a bottle of Dr Pepper, the last one in the tiny refrigerator, and hoped Bobby appreciated the generosity. It sat on the table beside a roll of toilet paper, which Bobby used to blow his nose and occasionally wipe his face. Johnny Boy made a mental note to request a supply of tissue be kept on hand in the future. Like many men of the hills he had a handkerchief in his pants pocket, a red cotton one that came in a three-pack at the drugstore. It was stiff with his own sweat and he didn’t feel right giving it to another man.
“Do you want me to call anyone?” Johnny Boy said. “Your brother?”
Bobby shook his head.
“You sure about what you told me?”
Bobby nodded.
“When the sheriff gets here you’ll have to tell her, too.”
That knowledge released a fresh stream of tears that ran down Bobby’s face as if a gasket had cracked in his head. Johnny Boy looked away. He’d seen men cry twice and hadn’t liked it because it made him want to cry, too. Tears had the same effect on him as yawning. To distract himself, he began going over the potential paperwork in his mind—name, address, social security number, occupation. What was Bobby’s job these days?
“Hey, Bobby,” he said. “You still at Henry’s Garage?”
Bobby lifted his head, revealing damp cheeks with a rivulet preparing to either drip from his face or travel backward beneath his chin. Johnny Boy wondered how tears could defy gravity. Maybe it was the salt.
“You got a brake problem?” Bobby said. “I still do a little at the house. You can bring it around.”
“You’re the best brake man in the county.”
“Henry didn’t think so.”
“He fire you?”
“Naw,” Bobby said. “I asked for a raise. Thirty cents an hour was all the more I wanted. He cut my hours and I quit. Can’t work for a man like that.”
“I don’t reckon.”
The front door opened and Johnny Boy stood quickly. Linda and her brother entered. She glanced at Bobby’s tearstained, swollen face, and glared at her deputy.
“You hit him?” she said.
“I did not harm the prisoner.”
“Let’s you and me talk private a minute.”
Johnny Boy followed her into her office, leaving Mick with the prisoner or suspect or whatever he was. The crier. The brake man killer. Linda shut her door and spoke quietly.
“Which one is he?” she said.
“Bobby.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, Billy’s the big one.”
“Rig
ht,” she said, nodding. “Tell me what happened.”
“I proceeded to Tanner’s house like you ordered. The door was unlocked. I entered the domicile and encountered an intruder.”
“Just talk normal.”
With a beleaguered sigh, Johnny Boy continued.
“I found Bobby going through stuff. I asked what he was doing. He told me he killed Tanner. Then he started in crying and ain’t stopped. I called you and brought him in.”
“He say anything?”
“He offered to fix my brakes.”
They returned to the outer office, where Mick was leading Bobby to the men’s room, telling him to wash his face. When the narrow door shut, Mick stood close enough to hear the water spraying from the faucet.
“What do you got?” he said to his sister.
“Bobby Renfro,” Linda said. “He confessed.”
“Want me to talk with him?”
“He’s all yours.”
A couple of minutes passed and Bobby emerged. They settled in the office, Mick near Bobby with no furniture between them. Linda and Johnny Boy sat against the wall with an audio recording device.
“You hungry?” Mick said.
“No,” Bobby said. “Are you?”
“Not right now, thanks. You know why you’re here?”
“I killed Tanner.”
“Okay. Let’s go back a little bit. Did you know him?”
“I knew who he was. Everybody does. I worked on his dad’s car.”
“You get in an argument with him? Something like that?”
“No. I heard he was staying with his folks. Then I seen them at the IGA by themselves and knew he was alone.”
“Then what?” Mick said.
“I went to their house.”
“Did you take a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind?”
“A little Colt twenty-two. Not good for much.”
Mick let those words float in the air like a leaf drifting to the earth.
“So you went to his folks’ house,” Mick said. “Anybody go with you?”
“No, just me.”
“Anybody know you was going?”
“No. I went straight there from the grocery. He answered the door and I shot him four times, then took off.”
“Where’d you go next?”
“To his house.”
“How come?”
Bobby closed his eyes, the slight effort of his eyelids releasing tears.
“Take a deep breath,” Mick said. “I know you’re upset. But the sooner we get done talking, the sooner you can go back to crying. Okay, Bobby? Will you try?”
Bobby nodded and filled his lungs with a dramatic inhale. He lifted his eyebrows to Mick as if seeking confirmation for a job well done.
“Good,” Mick said. “Let it out slow, then do it twice more.”
Bobby obeyed and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“You went to Tanner’s place,” Mick said. “Was there a reason?”
“Yeah. I was hunting pictures of him and Nonnie.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was gonna tear them up.”
“Did you know Nonnie?”
Bobby nodded, his lip quavering. Mick leaned closer to him and softened his voice.
“Tell me how you knew her.”
“High school,” Bobby said. “She was nice to me. We, you know, went up in the woods one day. And, you know … We did it.”
“You see her again after that?”
“Yes, twice more.”
“Three times total?” Mick said.
“Yeah, I thought it meant something. It did to me. Then she got married to that Johnson boy who played guitar and drove a Trans-Am.”
“I guess things between you and her were done.”
“Yeah, for good. My brother tried to fix me up with a McGee girl. There was a bunch of them, all of them nice, but I never done it. I couldn’t be with nobody else. Just Nonnie.”
“You cared about her.”
“I loved her, man. I loved her. And the Dopted Boy killed her. So I killed him back. I’d do it again. I’d kill him a hundred times.”
“All right, Bobby. I understand. You’re doing good. One more thing, where’s the gun you shot him with?”
“In my car.”
Mick glanced at his sister who elbowed Johnny Boy and gave him a dirty look. He left the room with an expression of chagrin.
“Bobby,” Mick said. “The sheriff is going to take you to jail now. She has to.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“All right. If you want to cry some more, go ahead. It won’t do you no good in the pokey.”
“Naw,” Bobby said. “Reckon I’m done.”
“Come on, now. You got to go over there.”
Mick helped him to his feet and Linda guided him out the front door. Mick decided to wait for Johnny Boy. The gun would corroborate the confession and if Johnny Boy couldn’t find it, Mick knew he’d have to. He looked around the room, thinking that his sister spent most of her time in here. The room lacked anything personal, nothing but a desk and chair, filing cabinets, and a photo of the governor printed on canvas with a pebbly texture. In a corner the state flag hung from an oak pole. The flag depicted two men shaking hands, one in a dark suit, representing the state capital. The other figure was dressed in the fringed buckskins of a frontiersman. Kentucky’s official motto surrounded the men: “United We Stand, Divided We Fall.” Mick had always considered the image absurd. No politican ever shook hands with an Appalachian except to consummate the theft of land and mineral rights.
Johnny Boy plodded into the room carrying a small revolver in a plastic evidence bag.
“Laying on the seat,” he said.
“Get that boy’s hands and clothes tested for residue,” Mick said. “Then dig a bullet out of the door frame at his folks’ house. See if it matches to the gun.”
“You’re not my boss.”
“I can ask Linda to tell you to do it. But if you get started on it now, she’ll be impressed by your initiative.”
“I ain’t trying to impress her.”
“Not searching for the gun gives an impression. A bad one. I’m trying to help. If you don’t want it, no skin off my ass.”
Mick headed for the door.
“Want me to tell her where you’re going?” Johnny Boy said.
“Out to the old Caudill homeplace.”
“They’s gobs of Caudills. Town, ridge, and holler.”
“Way east. I ain’t for sure where it’s at. The deed is registered under Augustus. He died and his wife inherited the property. Three kids, Boyd, Virgil, and Sara.”
“Boyd Caudill,” Johnny Boy said, frowning. “Hang on a minute.”
Johnny Boy set the evidence bag on Linda’s desk and went to one of the filing cabinets. He removed a tattered manila folder, the cardboard swollen from years of humidity.
“Yep,” he said. “Here we go. Caudill, Boyd. Found dead twenty-six years ago, never solved.”
He passed the folder to Mick who thumbed through the typed pages. Initial crime report. Interviews. Follow-ups. Boyd had a record—two misdemeanor alcohol charges. The medical examiner’s document concluded death by gunshot. It was signed by Marquis Sledge Jr., the current ME’s father.
“Not much here,” Mick said.
“It’s what’s not there that matters.”
Johnny Boy pulled another file and offered it. It was sparse but similar—Rodale, William. No prior arrests. An unsolved murder by gun eight months after the Caudill death.
“You think the same guy killed them both?” Mick said.
“I was a kid when it happened. But no, I don’t think it was the same killer. Word was, Rodale killed Boyd Caudill. Then Boyd’s little brother Virgil killed Rodale.”
“Any evidence?”
“Nope. Just a lot of talk. But right after Rodale’s murder, Virgil disappeared. Nobody ever saw him again.”
“Somebo
dy kill him, too?”
“The body never turned up. Troy Johnson was the sheriff then. No direct relation to Nonnie. His notes are in there. Virgil’s vehicle was gone. Two days before, he withdrew a bunch of money at the bank. Troy thought Virgil planned it all out. Killed Rodale and left the county.”
“He never came back?”
“When his mother died, Troy waited at the funeral to lock Virgil up but he didn’t show.”
“The sister live there now?”
“Naw, after her mom died, she moved to Ohio. Her husband got a mill job up there.”
“So nobody’s living out at their old place.”
“Not for twenty-some years. Good house and a pretty place up on a ridge. Still yet standing. I can tell you how to find it. In high school it’s where we went to drink beer.”
Mick listened to Johnny Boy’s directions, committing them to memory, surprised at the specificity. Mick thanked him and turned away, stopping at the door.
“Hey, Johnny Boy,” he said. “How’d you know about all this?”
“Some days they ain’t a lot to do. I read all the old files.”
“And remember them?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would.” Mick nodded. “Good work.”
Mick left and Johnny Boy listened to the old truck engine roar to life from Mick pumping the accelerator to squirt fuel to the engine. New cars didn’t require it. Like everything about Mick, it was old-fashioned. Johnny Boy wondered what happened when an old-fashioned man aged. Would time ever catch up with him?
Johnny Boy read the files again. He was kin to the Rodales, a fact he’d deliberately kept to himself. If Virgil Caudill ever returned to Eldridge County, it’d be on Johnny Boy to set things square.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mick was turning onto the street from the parking lot when he saw his sister’s vehicle coming the opposite way. He pulled a full U-turn, parked beside her, and got out.
“Johnny Boy found the gun,” he said. “What do you do for forensics?”
“State Police. But they’re backed up for weeks. You believe Bobby?”
“There might be more to it, but he’s not lying.”
“Thirty years,” she said. “That’s a long time to pine for somebody enough to kill for.”
“About the same time it takes for a tree to grow and get cut down.”