Robby the R-Word

by Leif Wright

  Bain motioned for him to continue. Computer nerds always wanted people to ask them to explain stuff. She guessed it made them feel smart. In reality, it was incredibly annoying.

  “Remember that girl who was murdered at the truck stop in 1992?”

  Bain thought for a second. That was more than twenty years ago. Oh, yeah. “I was in sixth grade,” she said. “It gave me nightmares for like two years. Of course I remember it.”

  “I think Robby has tracked down the killer,” he said. “He’s done a shit ton of work on it.”

  Had that case ever been solved? Bain had paid no attention. Like all sixth-grade girls, she had moved on to other things, almost never thinking of the girl who had ended up in pieces at a truck stop on the edge of town—except during the dark nights when the killer seemed to be lurking in every shadow of her bedroom, waiting to kill her too.

  The case had been gruesome, and at first her parents had tried to keep her from watching the news about it, but when the rumors at school had been far more gruesome and wild than the news reports, they had sat her down and explained what had happened: a local girl, probably twenty or so, had fallen on hard times, so she had taken to begging in truck stops for money. Bain had only found out years later that “begging” was a kind way of saying “turning tricks”. One of the truckers had tricked her and killed her, cutting her into pieces, which was why it was good to stay away from the “wrong crowd” and get a good education so it didn’t happen to her.

  “Robby?” she said finally. “He tracked down the guy who killed her? How do you know? Like it could be anybody.”

  “The evidence is compelling,” Moore said. “He really dotted his Is and crossed his Ts. This is amazing stuff.”

  Bain tried to wrap her mind around what had just happened. She had gone from having an excellent suspect in the “beating for hire” scheme to having no suspect but apparently a great suspect in a twenty-year-old murder. She shook her head, as if to clear cobwebs. “How did Robby track the guy down?”

  “All online,” Moore said admiringly. “I mean, digging through his history on this computer is like having a window into how his brain thinks. This guy is really smart. Like a savant. It makes it really sad to think about how long people thought he was retarded.”

  “Yeah,” Bain said. She was more interested in the killer now than Robby, though she would continue to try to find a way that Robby was the beating-for-hire guy. “Tell me more about how he tracked the guy down.”

  “The guy is a trucker. Robby tracked his weigh-in logs and his loyalty card data from truck stops, of all things,” Moore said, smiling. “I didn’t even know they kept those kind of records that long ago. But I haven’t even told you the best part.”

  Bain rolled her eyes. “There’s a best part?”

  “Hell yes,” Moore said. “Using his database, Robby tracked this guy down and tied him to, get this, eleven other killings at truck stops from here to Nevada.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, rushing up to his computer to look at what he was talking about. “Show me.”

  An hour later, they were combing the last bit of Robby’s evidence, entered just a few days ago.

  “See?” Moore said. “There was only one truck matching Rutherford’s truck at the killing in Amarillo. And he was arrested for it, but later had it expunged because the evidence was all circumstantial. But if you combine that with the eleven other killings, his was the only truck that was present at the adjusted times of death of all eleven. That’s a hell of a coincidence, but the next thing Robby was going to be on was that the girl who was killed here had DNA evidence left in her. Jodie Phillips is her name, and according to an old news story, the semen was saved, even though the crime occurred before we had DNA testing. Apparently the detective on the case, who’s dead now, had been studying up on DNA and he knew in a few years, it’d be useable evidence.”

  “But they never had a suspect, so they never got to use it,” Bain said more to herself than Moore. “Jesus, I wonder if it’s still here. Robby could actually have led us to catching a fucking serial killer. Holy shit.”

  She sat back in the chair she had pulled up. She had to go talk to Robby. Why hadn’t he mentioned this? He was handing her a complete case—or very nearly complete—against a serial killer, but hadn’t mentioned it. Why?

  “Can you print this all out, Keith?” Moore beamed as Bain used his first name for the first time he could remember. “Also, let’s put this into something permanent to store it.”

  Moore nodded.

  “Thank you,” she said. “This is huge!” Bain rushed out to her car, texting Russell as she ran: “Going back to Robby’s. Come if you can. It’s big.”

  She pulled out of the parking lot with her tires spinning, so she turned on her cop lights, which were hugging the roof of her windshield.

  That oughta keep rookie cops from fucking with me.

  She wove her way through traffic like the street cop she used to be, deftly dodging drivers who clearly didn’t know what to do with red and blue lights behind them.

  When she arrived at Robby’s house, there was a car in the driveway. The cute caretaker, probably.

  The cute caretaker answered the door, immediately looking apprehensive when she saw Bain.

  “No worries,” Bain said. “I’m here to talk to Robby about something else.”

  Amie showed Bain in, and Robby was in the living room, watching Curious George.

  “Robby, Detective Bain is here,” Amie said.

  Bain watched as words appeared on his iPad, rapidly replaced by new words, until the screen flashed and the computer spoke. “I thought you’d be back,” it said. “Something I can help you with?”

  Bain laughed. She should have known Robby would know the reason for her visit. “I’m here because apparently I’m not the best detective in this room,” she said. “And I want to talk to the guy who is.”

  “Haaaaa,” Robby said as words started appearing on his screen again.

  “I was almost ready to turn that stuff over to you,” his computer said. “I was just going to write an overview to explain it all.”

  “We figured it out,” she said. “I’m going to get a warrant for Mack Rutherford’s DNA, but first, I’m going to check to make sure we still have the DNA from Jodie. How long have you been working on this?”

  “Since they got me a computer,” his computer said. “It’s a lot faster now that I have this eye control.”

  “I need to use your evidence to get the warrant,” she said. “The only way I saw your evidence was from a warrant on another case, so I’d like your permission to use it.”

  “You can use it all,” his computer said. “I just want him caught.”

  “Why are you so focused on this case? I mean, what led you to start digging this deep?”

  “I’d rather not say,” his computer said.

  “Fair,” she said, then, realizing Russell wasn’t there to cringe, she added, “enough.”

  Amie smiled at her. “Would you like something to drink, Detective?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m just very curious about how Robby came to solve a dozen murders.”

  “It was just a matter of spending the time,” his computer said. “Nothing can stay hidden if someone has the time to dig enough.”

  Bain smiled. That was the rub, wasn’t it? Never enough time. Cases tended to go cold quickly, witnesses clammed up out of fear or loyalty, evidence disappeared, memories faded. Yet here was a guy who could barely move a muscle in his body, and he had apparently solved a case that had baffled police departments across several states.

  “Why didn’t you send it to us?”

  “I was going to,” his computer said. “I was waiting to make sure everything was as accurate as possible.”

  “We will nail this guy,” she said. “I have to tell you that this won’t affect your case at all. It sounds rude, but I didn’t want to leave any misconceptions. Is that okay?”

 
“That’s fair,” his computer said, then after a pause, “enough.”

  Bain smiled. This guy was smart—and quick. The idea that he had been trapped inside a functionally useless body for so long was tragic. She was starting to waver on him being in on the beatings. But if not him, who?

  “Thank you, Mr. Turner,” she said, getting up. “And you too, Amie.”

  39

  THE WILLOW TREES MADE SUCH A COMFORTING SOUND AS THE BREEZE whispered through them from the north. On the porch, three different sizes of wind chimes binged and bonged pleasantly. It was a real art picking out chimes that weren’t abrasive and annoying. Stella was good at that kind of thing, finding neutral accouterments to please while blending into the background.

  Stella could have been invisible for all the attention she attracted. She wasn’t pretty, but she also wasn’t ugly. Mack had chosen her for just that attribute—love was bullshit. Anyone who ever married for love had discovered a few years into it that when the romance was gone, all that was left was resentment and contempt. Love was the nectar of the Venus flytrap. It looked wonderful, but in the end, it was doom. No, he had been smarter than that. Stronger than that. He had developed a list of attributes he wanted in a wife and had searched until he found Stella. Plain Stella. Unobtrusive Stella.

  He had chosen his career the same way. Trucking? No, it wasn’t challenging at all, but it left his mind free and it allowed him to travel and be paid for it. Sure, he could have earned more money—a lot more—in another field, but who needed a lot of money? He had his freedom, the wind chimes and the willows in his own personal paradise by the lake. The trailer was all the home he and Stella had ever needed, and theirs was surrounded by a garden.

  The willows swept the grass under the wind’s gentle urging. Just past them, the incoming tide gently lapped against the boat dock Mack had built with his own hands back in the summer of ’92—that horrible summer when Stella just would not let it rest. Mack had undertaken the construction of the dock to stay as far away from her as possible, but there had been consequences: skin cancer on his shoulders from being burnt to a crisp by the blazing Arkansas sun, and a quick trip to the Springdale hospital after a water moccasin had taken umbrage to its home being dug up.

  Mack hummed as he leaned back in his chair, feet on the porch railing, cool glass of Coors—straight up Coors, not that unleaded shit—curled in his left hand, Rusty the red heeler’s head resting under his right. It was the perfect day.

  He watched as a black car pulled in down at the end of the road. It was one of those Dodge dealies with the aggressive forward stance and the loud, proud Hemi engines. He liked those cars, but saw no need to spend money on one. His ’03 Camry was reliable and paid-for. There was an old Ford pickup under the carport if he ever needed to haul anything. It was a gas-guzzling bitch, but it would pull just about anything short of a house.

  The black Dodge crawled up the road, rocks popping under its tires. The occupant clearly was checking addresses. The Dodge had traveled some distance if the dust on it and the bugs splattered on the windshield and grill were any indication. He could hear the engine’s gentle growl as it inched closer. He sipped the Coors—pure heaven in a beverage, if such a thing could exist. There was no tag on the front of the car, also no inspection sticker, so it was probably from Oklahoma.

  As it crawled closer, something inside the tinted interior caught Mack’s attention. Police lights. An Oklahoma police car. What was it doing here in western Arkansas? Vacationing? Visiting relatives? Rusty’s ears perked up and he opened one eye. He was a good dog, but he was old—if he tried to bite someone, he’d just leave gum marks.

  The car pulled to the front of Mack’s yard and slowed to a stop. Rusty opened his other eye, a low rumble of a growl belying the toothless backup behind it. The passenger door opened and a police officer in uniform stepped out. On the other side, a pretty woman in a pants suit stepped out. From the rear passenger seat, a male cop wearing a different-color uniform stepped out. They all stepped over the curb and walked toward Mack. Rusty’s growl turned into a tired bark.

  “Shhhh,” Mack said, patting his head comfortingly. “Good boy.”

  “Mack Rutherford?” the officer from the front seat asked.

  “Yup,” he answered. “Hep ya?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Stan Blankenship of the Springdale police,” he said. “This is Detective Bain and Sergeant Russell of the Cherokee, Oklahoma, police department. We are here to place you under arrest for the murder of Jodie Phillips in 1992.”

  Mack set the beer down and leaned forward, the chair’s legs slamming down on the porch. All three officers reached for their pistols, like some kind of cop chorus line.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Mack said, holding his hands out. “Just standing up. Don’t shoot!”

  The Oklahoma uniform cop climbed the three stairs onto the porch, causing Rusty to bark a few more times.

  “Mr. Rutherford, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”

  “I reckon,” Mack said as Russell cuffed him, then shouted, “Stella, find out where they’re takin’ me and get some bail gathered up!”

  “You’re going to Oklahoma,” Bain said. “And there’s no bail for capital murder.”

  40

  1976

  “WILL SOMEONE SHUT THAT … THAT … RETARD UP?”

  The class tittered with giggles. They were first-graders, and besides Jamie Fargo standing up in the middle of the cafeteria yelling the “HEY YOU GUYS!” theme from The Electric Company, Mrs. Edwards calling someone a “retard” was the greatest thing that had ever happened to them. Jamie had been forced to stay after school for that one and listen to Mr. English tell him how terribly disruptive his outburst had been to school discipline.

  It was a private Methodist school, and Jamie’s parents couldn’t really afford to send him there, but the alternative was worse: allowing him to be bused to public school, where he would have to be around the blacks all the boohooing liberals in the government had decided should be forced to integrate into good, white schools. The choice had been easy for Jamie’s parents—cut corners at home, eat more TV dinners, trade in the Buick for one of those tiny new Japanese cars—so Jamie could go to a school with his own kind, learn good white values, and grow up to be smart, not dragged down by a bunch of afro-wearing jigaboos.

  Jamie had no idea his parents were racists, and he couldn’t have cared less. He hated school, no matter which he went to.

  The decision hadn’t been so simple for Robby’s dad. The public school had thrown up their figurative hands and told Robby’s dad point-blank that he needed to institutionalize the boy, who couldn’t possibly benefit from going to school.

  Yes, Robby’s dad had agreed, it was silly to send him to school, but the state had required it, and if he didn’t send him, he could go to jail. So the public schools had found a private one that would take Robby as long as he didn’t disrupt classes too much, and Robby’s dad had wheeled him in the first day, watching the kids’ eyes widen as they saw the grimace on his face, the strange way his right wrist bent his hand inward toward his forearm, the angle at which his ankles were both askew, the way his head trembled sometimes, the way he drooled.

  The other kids immediately steered clear of the monster kid in the wheelchair. Some had nightmares about that grimace, coming at them out of the dark.

  Robby’s dad had left the school that first day as quickly as he could, hoping no one would remember enough to associate him with the twisted wreck of a person he had wheeled into the school. Truth be known, if the state didn’t check up on the little bastard at random intervals, Richard Turner would have rolled Robby into that school and never come back for him. But he had to, so every day, he showed up, telling Robby what a burden he was and how much he hated him as he roughly
and carelessly threw him into the car and jerked him out of it when they arrived home.

  From the first day of first grade, Mrs. Edwards couldn’t see the point of having a retard in her class. The little vegetable couldn’t learn, and all he seemed to do was drool and make strange noises, distracting the students as she tried to teach them. She hadn’t been the first woman from her family to ever graduate college to end up trying to teach addition and subtraction to a retard. So she largely tried to ignore him, but Robby wasn’t to be ignored.

  The little retard hollered “Haaaa” at the most inopportune times, usually after she had asked a question of the other children. Not only was it out of order, it was distracting, and the students would usually forget what she had asked. A disorderly classroom was akin to anarchy.

  At first when he interrupted her, she offered a terse smile and, after a punitive pause, continued speaking. But as the semester dragged on, Robby’s outbursts would give her a frown, later a grimace, later a harrumph, later still grumbling under her breath, and by the time eastern Oklahoma’s Indian summer started fading into November’s bursts of chilly-for-around-here plains winds, Mrs. Edwards was openly yelling at Robby to “Be quiet.” At least at first. Then she had graduated to “Shut up!”

  That November, her “retard problem” had begun keeping Pearl Edwards up at night as she sat in her lonely bed, surrounded by covers and pillows, wondering what she had done to deserve such an imposition on her teaching career. It was the school’s way of forcing her out, she just knew it. But she was stronger than them, smarter, too. She hadn’t clawed her way up from her poverty-stricken upbringing only to be chased away by a blubbering retard.

  Pearl Edwards was tough. She was determined. The school would have to find some other way to run her off.

  Today, however, as Christmas poked its wind-blown nose around the bicentennial corner, Mrs. Edwards could contain her annoyance no more. The children were barely grasping two plus two, and the curriculum had demanded that they be on two-digit numbers by now. But the retard kept distracting them.