A Disgrace to the Badge

by Ed Gorman

  "Get some sleep."

  "I just can't wait for our time to come, Deputy, you know that? Just me and you. I just can't wait."

  Then he was puking again.

  Corey wondered what the hell he'd had for dinner.

  He did as planned. Went up front, sat the bottle down on his desk as if it were a religious icon and just stared at it for a few exquisite moments. Probably hadn't had whiskey this good but three, four times in his entire life.

  And then it was time.

  Open the bottle.

  Pour about an inch-and-a-half into his glass.

  And then sit back all comfortable in his chair and enjoy some of the finest whiskey the good Lord had ever visited upon mankind.

  Just one drink.

  * * *

  Voices:

  (Male): He's a disgrace to that badge.

  (Female): He killed poor Mike. No doubt about it.

  (Male): And he'll pay for it, Debra. Don't you worry about that.

  (The female began sobbing)

  Corey's way was to open one eye and kind of peer about and see if this was the sort of world he wanted to have anything to do with.

  Usually.

  But not today. Today, he instinctively knew that this was a world he didn't want to have anything to do with. That "disgrace to his badge" remark for one thing. And even worse that "He killed poor Mike" line.

  Mike inevitably being Mike Brady. The prisoner he was guarding—or should have been guarding—all those long and now murky hours before he began to partake not just of one drink but many, many drinks.

  And then that final male comment: "And he'll pay for it, Debra. Don't you worry about that."

  No, sir, he didn't need to open an eye to know that this world was an extremely hostile one.

  But then hands shook him roughly. And when that didn't succeed in getting his eyes open, somebody splashed a pail of icy water across his face.

  "On your feet."

  His eyes were open now. He wished they weren't.

  "On your feet."

  Marshal Beck, tall, wide, white of hair and mustache, imposing in the way an angry minister is imposing, said, "You're under arrest, Corey."

  Corey managed to find his voice.

  "For killing Mike Brady."

  Then he saw the three others: old man Brady, Debra Brady the widow, and Hayden.

  "I didn't kill him."

  "Oh no? Care to go back and have a look at him in the cell?"

  "It'll go easier on you if you just admit it," Brady said. "You got in a fight and hit him a little too hard. He got under your skin was all. Mike—God love him—he got under a lot of people's skin. I think we can see to it that the charges are dropped to second degree. You can be out in eight years. That sure beats a rope."

  At which point, the widow Debra swooned with grief and said in her ice-blonde way, "We were going to start a family next year. He was going to quit drinking and everything."

  Brady took her in his long, strong arms and sheltered her from the world.

  This was some alternate realm he'd awakened to. Last time he'd seen Brady, Brady had a headache and was sick to his stomach was about all. The worst thing Corey had done was come up here and get passing-out drunk. The bottle responsible was still on the desk in front of him. Drained.

  He became aware of his clothes. His head and his shirt were soaked. He said, "Let's go see Mike Brady."

  All this craziness. He didn't know how long he could handle it. Beneath the water, he'd started to sweat and sweat good.

  Mike Brady was sprawled on the cot. He was starting to get stiff now. The large bruise on the left side of his forehead was split down the center, like a fruit that had been halved. Blood had poured from it, streaking most of his face.

  "That's the one that killed him," Hayden said.

  "We'll let Dr. McGivern tell us which one killed him," the marshal said, "tomorrow at the inquest."

  Hayden looked, not without sympathy, at Corey. "Mike was in an evil mood last night. Even by his standards, I mean."

  "That's when he really scared me," Debra said, all finishing-school proper in her blue taffeta dress and jaunty feathered hat. Then: "God, the stench in here. Don't you ever clean this out, Marshal?"

  The lawman frowned. "Do you know how ridiculous that question is?" He had his pride and not even the Bradys could intimidate him out of it. "By now, the Mexican has usually swamped out every cell. But given that your husband decided to stay longer than expected, the Mexican couldn't get in to do his work."

  "She didn't mean anything by that," Brady said gently. "She's just upset."

  The marshal nodded, as if he understood. But his harsh blue gaze said he didn't understand at all.

  * * *

  Around three o'clock that afternoon, Corey was lying in his cell, rolling himself a cigarette, listening to a couple of Negroes in the next cell talk sweetly of old St. Louis and life on the riverboats, when Marshal Beck came in with a stumpy little gal whose fierce little face scared the hell out of Corey. The Angel of Death couldn't be any more frightening.

  "This is Sara Wylie and she's going to be your attorney."

  "A woman?" Corey said.

  "You have something against women?" she barked at him.

  "No, ma'am," Corey said.

  "I've won my last fourteen cases and saved three men from the gallows. I don't need to justify my existence to you, Corey. But I thought I'd tell you that for the record."

  She had to know how her record would affect him. Suddenly the idea of a gal attorney was fine.

  "The inquest starts in fifteen minutes," Marshal Beck said. "I'll let you two have a room in the courthouse for half an hour after it's over."

  * * *

  The inquest was brief and brutal.

  Judge Holstein (what a monicker to get stuck with, imagine all the jokes the poor bastard had had to put up with all his life) laid out the circumstances of Mike Brady's death—between his stomach-churning bouts of hacking up sincerely green phlegm—and then called the doctor to the stand.

  "Could you tell us how Michael James Brady died?"

  "Yes, sir. A blow to the head. The forehead, more specifically."

  Corey couldn't wait to tell his gal attorney that he'd accidentally put a goose egg on the side of Brady's head. But he had nothing to do with the business on Brady's forehead. Of that he was positive.

  "Could Michael James Brady have tripped and inflicted that wound on himself?"

  "Possible. But unlikely. There's a goose egg on the side of his head, too. That makes it look like he'd been in some kind of altercation."

  The judge smiled. "By altercation you mean fight?"

  "Yes, sir, I mean fight."

  The judge looked out at the eager, trial-happy faces of the townsfolk who'd come here. He had to be re-elected soon and he liked to show people he was just folks. "I never use those big words myself. I didn't have the opportunity you had for education, I'm afraid, Doctor. So in my court, please use the language of the common folk."

  "What an asshole," Sara Wylie whispered to Corey. Right then and there he decided he not only trusted her, he liked her, too.

  Twenty minutes later, the inquest was finished when the judge said, "It looks as if we're dealing with a homicide here. I'll leave it up to our good friend the county attorney to proceed with the information we've given him today."

  As the others left the courtroom, Corey sat there and said, "I think I'm in trouble."

  "You sure you didn't kill him?"

  "Yeah. I am."

  "Give me till morning."

  "What happens then?"

  "Well, either my plan works or it doesn't."

  "And what plan would that be?"

  "No sense in getting your hopes up, Mr. Corey. You just go back to your cell now and get some sleep."

  * * *

  Educated people are always advising you to "examine your life." Didn't somebody famous once say, "The unexamined life isn't worth living"? W
ell, that's well and good if you've lived a decent life. But when you've spent your years inside a bottle—model ships aren't the only thing you can slide inside an empty whiskey bottle—you find that examining your life can be a very painful experience.

  All the fights he'd picked; all the whores he'd whored with; all the ways he'd cheated, bullied and lied to the various town councils he'd worked for; all the jobs he'd gotten fired from. And most especially, the fine and lovely woman all his drinking and whoring and cheating and bullying and lying to had driven away.

  That last one always made him feel cold and empty. And tonight in his jail cell, he'd never felt colder or emptier.

  It was funny. About the only thing he hadn't done in his life was what he was now accused of—killing Mike Brady.

  To everything else, he had to plead guilty as charged.

  * * *

  At seven o'clock in the morning, Corey woke up to find the marshal and young Sara Wylie standing in front of his cell door.

  The marshal slid the key in and Sara, obviously happy to be saying it, said, "You're free to go. The doctor decided that Mike Brady's death was an accident after all."

  "But he said there was no way—" Corey started to say.

  "Well, that isn't what he's saying now," the marshal said. "Now do you want out of that cell or not?"

  Corey grabbed his boots. Stomped them on and stood up. The marshal handed Corey his jacket, his gun. And then presented him with some paper money and a ticket.

  "What's this?"

  "Traveling money. And a train ticket. You'll be leaving town at noon. Which isn't very long from now."

  "You're running me out of town?"

  The marshal frowned and looked at Sara Wylie. "Miss Wylie, would you take this ingrate down to the cafe and try to explain to him how lucky he is not to be charged with murder?"

  She led him quickly away, like an angry mother dragging a very, very bad child off for punishment.

  * * *

  "Why'd he change his mind?"

  "He being who exactly?"

  "He being the doctor who said it couldn't have been an accident."

  "Because I talked to Mr. Brady late last night."

  "Brady ain't no doctor."

  "True, but Brady runs this town. And this town includes the doctor."

  The breakfast business was still strong in the smoke-infested cafe. Corey had to keep rolling cigarettes in self-defense. The young lawyer lady looked hog-happy.

  "You mean he told the doctor to change his mind?"

  "That's right."

  "Why'd he do that?"

  "Because I told him if he didn't, I'd drag every man, woman and child that his son had ever abused onto the witness stand and we would destroy the Brady family name forevermore, to quote Mr. Poe's raven."

  "And he went for it?"

  "Of course, he went for it. What choice did he have? He's a businessman. He has to worry about his reputation. You get a couple rape victims up there—one of them I'm told was only fourteen when Mike Brady attacked her—and Brady's got himself some real trouble. So he decided that he'd just have to live with the fact that you killed his son. But he does want you on that train."

  "Wait a minute. I didn't kill his son."

  She made a funny face. "You didn't? Really?"

  "You think I did?"

  "Well, he was locked in his cell and you were the only one with the key—so who else could've killed him?"

  "Anybody who came in there and saw me passed out and decided to settle a score with Brady."

  "Gee, I thought for sure you killed him."

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

  "I wouldn't've held it against you. He deserved to be killed."

  He patted his pockets. "I don't know how I'm gonna pay your bill."

  "It's been taken care of."

  "It has? By who?"

  "By Mr. Brady. He says as long as you're on that noon train and never come back to town, he'll consider it money well spent. He said seeing you would just remind him of his son."

  She stood up. "I've got to go meet a client."

  Corey was still unhappy she'd marked him as the killer.

  "You think he killed somebody, too?"

  She laughed. "No, but I do know for a fact that he burned down two barns and had some kind of carryings-on with one of Mel Fenwick's sheep."

  * * *

  A number of pretty ladies got on the coach in which Corey rode. They also wore summer-weight dresses and picture hats. Most of them carried carpetbags.

  He tried to lose himself in their presence. Usually the sight of a pretty lady took him to a realm of ecstatic fantasies. He wanted romance as much as sex. He wanted that feeling of blind stupid glee he'd felt all those early years with his former wife.

  But all he could concentrate on were the facts that a) Brady had ordered the doctor to change his autopsy report, b) Brady had ordered charges dropped and c) Brady had given him money and a ticket out of town, on the stipulation that he never return again.

  Now that didn't sound right, did it?

  All Corey could think of was what Hayden had told him that time, that Hayden, old man Brady and wife Debra had all turned against Mike. Could no longer tolerate him.

  What if one of them had killed him?

  He could think of no other reason for the charges being dropped and himself being pushed out of town.

  A drunk remembers things sometimes, even after the worst of blackouts. What if Brady was afraid that Corey's memory would come back? What if Hayden had snuck in and killed Mike? Or even the old man? Or even Debra?

  The train pulled out.

  Corey was present in body only.

  His mind was still back in town somewhere.

  * * *

  Four-and-a-half hours later, he left the train and went into the depot there and bought himself a ticket back to town. He had been many things in his life but he'd never been a killer. And by leaving town that was the impression he'd created.

  His first stop was the general store where he bought writing supplies. He sat in the cafe and wrote out his letters. A lot of people stared at him. They assumed, just as that young lawyer had, that he'd killed Mike Brady. By now, the whole town knew that old man Brady had seen to it that Corey wouldn't be charged for it, not if he left town. So what the hell was he doing sitting in the cafe?

  There was an old drunkard who did errands for folks during his few sober hours of the day. Corey gave him a dollar and told him where the letters were to be delivered. Hayden, Debra or old man Brady killed Mike Brady. The letter was designed to force the killer to reveal himself or herself.

  He'd just sent the drunkard on his way when he saw the marshal walking toward him.

  "You musn't recognize a gift from God when He puts one in your hand, Corey. Old man Brady doesn't want you here."

  "I won't be here tomorrow morning. I just want everybody to know I didn't kill Mike Brady."

  The marshal snorted. "You think anybody gives a damn if you did or not? They're just glad somebody did."

  "Yeah but I don't want nobody thinkin' it was me. I don't kill people, Marshal. Never have, never will, not unless it's to save my own life."

  The marshal glanced around the busy street. "You'd better keep out of sight, Corey. Old man Brady sees you, Lord knows what he'll do."

  "Somebody's bound to tell him, anyway. I haven't exactly been hiding since I got back."

  The marshal shook his head. "It's your life, Corey. All I know is I would never have come back here."

  Corey shrugged. "I guess I just ain't as afraid of the Bradys as you folks that've lived around him for a long time."

  "You get on his bad side, Corey," the marshal said, "and you'll be afraid of him soon enough. You mark my words."

  He walked off down the street.

  * * *

  Corey got sick of people staring at him. There wasn't any particular ill-will in their stares, they were just curious about him. But as a drunkard, and a man who'd
done some terrible and foolish things while trapped inside the bottle, he was tired of being a curiosity, of being sniggered at, whispered about, pointed to. A lot of elbows had been nudged into a lot of ribs when Corey walked by.

  The saloon called, of course. Shot her silk skirt to reveal a good three inches of creamy white thigh, with the implied promise of showing even more as soon as he answered her call.

  But he knew better. Knew that this was a lady who, for all her considerable and undeniable charms, had brought him only grief, sorrow and shame. Not her fault, really. His. For being so weak.

  He found a good, lonely, grassy section of riverbank and sat there all afternoon, rolling cigarettes and napping a little and listening to the rush and roar of the downstream dam. He idly played loves me, loves me not with a number of flowers. He lost six times in a row. But on the seventh time he won so he gave up the game. He wasn't even sure who he had in mind, loving me and loving me not, maybe his former wife or maybe some dream girl, but it was fun to play. No matter how old and used-up a man got, loves me, loves me not was always fun to play.

  * * *

  The killer came at eight that night, right up on the ridge that sat above the dam.

  Corey sat on a boulder, waiting to see which of the three he'd sent his letter to would show up.

  I SEEN YOU GO INTO THE MARSHAL'S OFFICE THE OTHER NIGHT AND KILL MIKE BRADY. I WILL TELL THE JUDGE IF YOU DON'T MEET ME AT THE DAM AT EIGHT O'CLOCK TONIGHT.

  The moon was high, the breeze was so sweet-scented with spring it half drove a man crazy, he was so happy with the flowers and the river and the blooming trees and the smell of grass, he just didn't know what to do with himself.

  Hayden saw him and came over.

  "You're not very smart, Corey, you know that?"

  "I guess that's about the only thing nobody's ever accused me of being. Smart."

  "Old man Brady gave you a train ticket and money. You should've kept going."

  "You killed him."