by Leif Wright
“All I’m saying is you two need a man in the middle. No muss, no fuss,” he said. “Well, maybe a little muss. But no fuss.”
“Gross,” she said. “Boys get all sticky.”
“Shut up,” he said. “Girls get sticky, too, at least in my experience.”
“Mine, too,” she said with a wry smile. “If I had a threesome with you, we’d never be able to work together again. Men always end up wanting to possess me.”
“You fart too much for that,” he said. Both laughed. “I think you’re just afraid you’d like it too much and you’d give up girls.”
“No chance of that,” she said. “I like girls too much. But sometimes I like boys too. Be a good boy and maybe I’ll get drunk one day.”
“Goddamn, you know how to string a guy along. So what next in the case? We have to tie Pearl Edwards to Robby somehow if we can ever hope for a warrant. What’s our next step, O hot detective?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, man in uniform,” she said. “I dunno. I think I’m going to go digging through everything we have so far.”
“I’ll try digging on Robby,” he said. “But my guess is I won’t find much.”
34
JESUS HUBERT CHRIST ON A JEHOVAH’S WITNESS-CORRECT SPIKE. SHERIFF John Humphrey needed a dead child-masturbating Catholic bishop in the most secure area of his jail like he needed a big, veiny cock growing out of his ear.
He sat, head in hands, at his desk as his chief jailer stood on the other side of the desk, thinking about places to send resumés.
“Why do you want me to lose this election, Devin?” Humphrey said without looking up. “How in the fuck did someone disable the cameras, fucking waltz into our top security cell, and beat someone to death before any of you incompetent shit-for-brains ass cunts fucking realized you even had a problem?”
“Sir, I—”
“Shut the fuck up, Devin,” Humphrey said quietly. “I want to fire you, arrest you for aiding and abetting, then sneak into your fucking cell and beat you to death. Do you understand that?”
Devin nodded. Humphrey didn’t see.
“Why in the hell should you still be running a jail after something this stupid happened?”
Devin didn’t answer. Truth be told, he was in shock. Humphrey had never been anything but absolutely pleasant. He had told dozens of people that he was the perfect boss. He understood exactly why Humphrey had turned surly, but it was still a shock to the system to see such a complete personality turnaround.
“Fuck you,” Humphrey said quietly. “Fucking fuck you, you fucking fuck!”
He slammed his fist down onto the desk, immediately regretting it, as pain shot up his arm. He looked up, locking Devin into his most malicious stare.
“I don’t want to see your fucking stupid face or even hear your stupid fucking name until you have a list of people who, in this or some alternate fucking universe, had access to both shut off a camera and unlock a top-security cell. That better be a very fucking short list of people, or I really will arrest your incompetent ass. I want that list in my hand before today is over. In fact, I’m kind of pissed you’re still standing here and not getting that information for me.”
He stared at Devin blankly. The silence was oppressive.
Devin blinked. “Holy shit,” he said, then abruptly spun around and walked out.
“Jesus Christ,” he heard Humphrey mutter from behind him.
Devin Stacy had never screwed up this bad, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. His boss had said he wanted to fire, arrest, then kill him. Devin knew he was being dramatic, but just the mention of firing was enough to send chills through his entire body. Worse, he was at a complete loss as to how such a horrific breach could have happened.
“Lockdown,” he shouted as he passed through the access-control door between the sheriff’s office and the jail. “I swear to God, if an inmate so much as sticks his hand too far through the bars, a jailer needs to fucking break it off. Mason! Standifer! Williams! My office NOW! Bring the computer guy, too. Get on it! Get on it! Let’s move!”
Huge electronic locks closed and jailers scrambled to obey the orders. Everyone knew about the bishop’s death, and they were waiting for the shit to roll downhill.
Mason poked his head into Matthews’ office.
“Shit’s hitting the fan,” he said. “Stacy wants to see us all. You should have something for him for sure.”
“On it,” Matthews said, gathering a stack of printouts. “Knew this was coming.”
As the five men crowded into Devin’s office, no one looked happy.
“Gentlemen, we have a major fuckup here, and heads are gonna roll if we don’t give the sheriff some answers,” he said. “Like ten minutes ago. We need to know who did this and how. And we need to already know it. I have never seen him pissed like this.”
“I can tell you who turned off the camera,” Matthews said. “But that’s all I got.”
“Are you kidding? That’s incredible! Who?”
“Franks,” he said, watching as their jaws all dropped simultaneously. “He shut the camera off using his ID card, then seven minutes later, he turned it back on.”
“Franks?” Devin said, sounding mystified. “Undersheriff Franks?”
“Yup.”
“How’d he even have access to turn the camera off? I’m the chief jailer, and I don’t even know how to do that!”
“The sheriff, undersheriff, you, and I are the only ones with full access to all systems,” Matthews said. “If you had attended the surveillance orientation, you would know how to shut them off. Franks attended. And he swiped into the jail ten minutes before the camera went down. And out seventeen minutes after that.”
“No one could have stolen his card?” Devin knew the answer, but had to ask anyway.
“Not unless they also knew his access codes,” Matthews said. “Plus, I have him on video entering and leaving the jail.”
Devin leaned back in his chair, his hand over his eyes. “I need those videos right now,” he said, leaning back up.
“I thought you might,” Matthews said, setting a USB stick on the desk. “And the log showing that he shut down the camera is right here.” He handed the papers to Devin. “It’s highlighted in orange.”
“Not a word of this to anyone,” he said, looking at them all. “NO ONE. At least not until I’ve given this to the sheriff. If I hear that anyone has said anything, this will be your last day on this side of the bars. Are we clear?”
Everyone nodded.
“Matthews, you’re coming with me. Humphrey might have questions I can’t answer. Everyone else, let’s start tightening up the ship. Inspect every cell from bottom to top for anything out of order. I’m talking even cigarettes. Sanction anyone with anything. No tolerance.”
“Yes, sir,” they answered.
Devin felt a wave of release wash over him as he and Matthews power-walked to Humphrey’s office. Someone else was on the hook for this. He stormed into Humphrey’s office, papers and USB stick in hand, Matthews in his wake.
“Franks,” he said before the surprised-looking Humphrey could utter a sound. “Franks did it.”
“Bullshit,” Humphrey said, then scratched his head. “Show me.”
Matthews stepped forward, pointing to the orange marks on the system log. “That’s where he enters the jail. Double-zero-two is the undersheriff’s code,” he said, pointing to another highlight. “And there is when he left. You, him, me, and Stacy are the only ones with access to turn off cameras, and the cameras were turned off using his access card. Undersheriff Franks is your guy.”
Humphrey looked at both men. Then, abruptly, he popped up from his seat and brushed the men aside as he crossed the hall to Franks’ office. Franks looked unsurprised to see him.
“Jerry, I’m arresting you for capital murder,” Humphrey said emotionlessly. “And probably a shitload more. Put your gun on your desk. Move slowly.”
“That fucker deserved wha
t he got,” Franks said as he un-holstered his weapon and put it on his desk. “Sorry to do this to you in an election year, John.”
“Why, Jerry?” Humphrey asked as he cuffed his undersheriff. “He was going to plead guilty and accept prison. Why the fuck would you risk everything to kill him?”
“I need to talk to a lawyer,” Franks said. “Sorry, John.”
Humphrey shook his head. “Take him to Clark County,” he instructed the deputy he handed Franks off to. “Tell them we need him housed under our cooperative agreement. He has to be in isolation. If they can’t or won’t do that, call me before you make any decisions. Got it?”
The deputy nodded and began walking his former boss to the van.
“Call a press conference,” Humphrey said to his secretary as he walked slowly back into his office. “This afternoon. Tell them we have arrested a law enforcement officer in the death of the bishop. Look up his name. Don’t just call him ‘the bishop’.”
Devin stood in Humphrey’s office with Matthews, both wondering what to do now that the sheriff was tearing around the station talking about a press conference. Could they get back to their jobs? Or should they wait for him to return?
Devin sat down. Matthews followed suit. And they waited.
For an hour.
“Fuck this,” Devin said, abruptly getting up and walking out the door.
“Yeah,” Matthews said and did the same.
35
BAIN’S HAIR STOOD OUT IN TESTAMENT TO A NIGHT OF PULLING IT ON both sides to hold her head up as she pored over notes and evidence from the case. If Robby was involved, there had to be some trace other than the fact that he knew one of the people in the pictures that were shown to the victims.
Robby’s father had been shown a picture of a boy in a wheelchair, obviously a reference to Robby. The bishop had been shown a picture of a Mexican boy he had molested with Robby in the room. The old woman, Pearl Edwards, had been shown a picture of some random boy, which helped not at all. There had to be something Bain was missing. Her new coffee maker had come in handy, but now there were lots of plastic cups scattered everywhere.
“Hey, Decaf, you seen the TV yet?” Russell had poked his head into her office. “Jesus, it stinks in here! I think I’m going to throw up!”
Bain smiled. It felt good to smile after a long night. “Sorry,” she said, smiling bigger. “Mexican food. Suck it up, you big baby.”
“Just a sec,” he said, popping back out of her office. Thirty seconds later, he returned with a spray can.
“Febreze?” Bain laughed. “You really are a woman.”
Russell’s cheeks were puffed out as he walked around the office spraying liberally from the blue can. After he had covered everything, he let his breath out.
“You keep that next to your tampons in your desk?” she laughed. “I think my period is syncing up with yours.”
“Whatever,” he said. “My period only syncs with women. No woman I ever met laid down that kind of funk.”
She laughed. “What were you saying about TV?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “The bishop was killed in his cell. Get this: it was the undersheriff who did it!”
“What?” The words didn’t seem to make sense together. “What?”
“Franks shut down the security system, walked into the bishop’s cell, and beat him to death with his expandable baton,” Russell said, absently gathering the plastic coffee cups and throwing them away. “He won’t say anything but that he got what he deserved. Franks is already in jail. They won’t say where.”
“Wow,” she said. “I never would have thought he’d do something like that!”
“You know him well?”
“Not well,” she said. “But I thought I knew him better than that.”
“Why the hell does your hair look like that?” he asked, just noticing. “Been here all night,” she said. “And I can fix this hair. You can’t do anything about that face.”
He laughed.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what we’re missing,” she said. “There’s something, some tiny piece, missing. I have to find it. It has to be in the pictures.”
“Well,” he said, “the bishop got the Santa photo, the dad got the regular boy, and the old lady got the wheelchair. Maybe somebody—”
“No,” she said. “The dad got the wheelchair and the old lady got the regular boy. Right?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I remember thinking it was strange that the dad didn’t get the wheelchair, since his son’s in a wheelchair.”
Bain hit her right hand on her forehead. “That’s it,” she yelled. “I could kiss you!”
“Feel free,” he said, puckering. “I deserve it.”
“Shut up, fag,” she said, punching him in the arm. “If the old lady had the wheelchair picture, I’d bet my ass that’s her connection to Robby. It has to be!”
“I’m way behind,” he said. “I thought we always knew that. We need to work on our communication.”
“I’m seriously going to kick you in the ovaries,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Do you even hear the shit you say?”
He threw a plastic coffee maker cup at her, which she dodged without even thinking.
“We need to do some serious digging on the old lady,” she said. “Let’s run her through NCIC and let’s call the state bureau of investigation and fast track a background check on her. I want to know what she had for lunch eight years ago, and I want to know it last Tuesday. We need to get going on this five minutes ago!”
“You need a nap, hairball,” he said. “And a cork for that fart factory of an ass. You sleep for a few hours and I’ll get started on the stuff with the OSBI and NCIC and any other initials I can think up.”
“I could use a few minutes,” she said. “Will you wake me up if you find something?”
“By phone, maybe,” he said. “I have a weak stomach. No more fart clouds for me.”
Bain laughed. “I’ll keep my phone next to me,” she said, knocking stacks of paper from her couch, balling up a jacket as a pillow. “Thank you, homo.”
“Takes one to know one,” he said and closed the door.
Russell rushed to his desk, the only completely uncluttered one in the cubicle farm. He logged in on his computer and started digging on Pearl Edwards, an apparently friendless old bat.
She had been a work-from-home book editor for the last few years before she had finally retired six years ago. Before that, she had been an elementary teacher at a private Methodist school. After a little brain math, Russell decided she was teaching while Robby would have been the right age to be a student, but his family was too poor to afford private school. Still, it was worth looking into, so he wrote a note to check Robby’s school records. It was a long shot, though.
She had been a true loner, he discovered. No friends to speak of, no memberships in civic organizations. No traffic violations, no criminal record, no legal ugliness of any kind. One daughter, but the two had been estranged for decades. Pearl Edwards had never even met her grandchildren. Her house had been paid off for seven years. Her car had been paid off for ten. Her electric bill averaged $126 per month. Her landline bill was $12 every month. She had no cellphone.
Russell was a bit jealous. Talk about living cheap, he thought.
The only thing she seemed truly passionate about was her lawn, with fertilizer, seeds, weed killer, bug killer, implements, and sprinklers popping up with regularity on her debit card.
Russell sighed. No wonder Bain had been pulling her hair out. This made boring seem like a platitude.
He decided to change gears and dig into Robby’s school records. He had graduated from Central High School in 1987, with straight As. Of course, no one knew back then that Robby understood what was going on around him, so every teacher gave him an A.
He had attended Susan B. Anthony Junior High, and before that, Thomas Jefferson Elementary.
Except for one semester his first-grade year, wh
en mandatory busing had led his father to apply for a hardship tuition exemption to Saint John’s Methodist Elementary School, where Pearl Edwards was teaching first grade at the time.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, simultaneously grabbing a phonebook. “Holy shit.”
After he found the number, he frantically dialed the phone, looking at the clock on the wall to make sure school was in session.
“Saint John’s,” a tired-sounding woman answered. “Where your mustard seeds are our flock.”
“Hi,” Russell said. “My name is Sergeant Russell, and I’m calling from the police department. Does your school keep records from the 1970s?”
The woman sighed. “We keep records from the Jurassic,” she said. “But you’ll have to come in person. We’re short-staffed.” She coughed to emphasize.
“Okay,” he said. “I can be there in …” he looked at the non-existent watch on his wrist. “Ten minutes. Will someone be available to show me what is where?”
“Sure,” she said dully. “Why not.”
Russell hung up the phone and ran to the car. Ten minutes later, he was pulling up to the school, which was built onto the side of an ornate church that Russell was positive he would have mistaken for Catholic if he didn’t already know it was Methodist.
He shook his head. Money and religion seemed to go hand-in-hand. He had never understood how the people running such institutions—who ostensibly were fluent in the Bible, which encouraged those with money and possessions to share them with those who, by some circumstance, didn’t—could justify such extravagance to build and maintain something that was only used once or twice a week.
He put on his game face and prepared to be cop-like.
He pushed his way through the double doors at the front, and immediately the smell of elementary school overwhelmed him. He hadn’t realized that elementary schools had a smell until just that moment. It was the scent of tiny little sneakers, lunch boxes, scraped knees, frustrated teachers, and the musk of aging textbooks and mimeographs. Did they still use those? Certainly not, right?