A Disgrace to the Badge

by Ed Gorman

"What makes you say that?"

  "I sent you the letter. You showed up, didn't you?"

  Behind him, another voice said, "I showed up, too, Corey. Does that mean I killed him?"

  A new scent, a lovely, elegant and somehow elegiac scent, was on the breeze now. A rich woman's perfume. Debra Brady came from the shadows into the moonlight.

  "What're you doing here?" Corey said.

  "Hayden's right," she said. She wore a white blouse and vest and black riding pants. Knee-length riding boots lent her a rich-girl air. Poor girls couldn't afford boots like that. But her voice, her manner was gentler than he remembered it. "I wish you would've just kept on going."

  They stood together now. He wondered what he'd wondered when he'd talked to Hayden the other day. Wondered if there was some romantic connection between Hayden and Debra.

  "Did you kill him?" Corey asked.

  "What's so important about knowing?" Hayden said. "Hell, man, just walk away from it."

  "I don't want people to think I'm a killer."

  Hayden smirked. "They think you're everything else."

  "Maybe so. But not a killer."

  "Oh, what the hell," said a third voice. "We may as well tell him. There isn't a damned thing he can do about it, anyway."

  And from the same shadows where Debra had stepped, now stepped old man Brady.

  "What're you doing here?" Corey said.

  "Your letter. Now why the hell'd you go and write that stupid damned letter?"

  "Because I want to know."

  Old man Brady, who was built like a New York professional wrestler, low to the ground, wagon-wide, and possessed of a face that could intimidate Satan, came closer to Corey and said, "You already know all you need to know. He's dead and you didn't kill him."

  "People don't believe that."

  "People here. But you don't live here, Mr. Corey. Or you won't soon as you get on that train and stay on it. California's nice."

  "I was actually thinking some about California."

  "Good. Think a lot more about it. There's a train leaving here in an hour. There's still time to get yourself a ticket."

  "Did you kill him, Mr. Brady?"

  Brady sighed, pawed at the front of his business suit. He didn't look comfortable in a suit. Too confining in both the physical and spiritual sense.

  Brady looked at Debra and Hayden. Then back at Corey.

  "He raped a girl."

  "I know about that," Corey said.

  "This one you don't. He raped my niece's daughter. Thirteen years old. She's pregnant. My own son did that."

  "He doesn't need to know all this, Mr. Brady," Hayden said.

  "Hayden couldn't deal with it," Brady went on. "And neither could Debra. And neither could I. I don't know what was wrong with him. Some folks said I spoiled him and I guess I have to admit I did. But that don't mean spoiled kids go out and do the things he did. There was somethin' else wrong with him. That's why I had to have Hayden with him all the time. With my niece's daughter—"

  "He knocked me out," Hayden said, "and then went into their house. She was in there alone, sleeping."

  "You want to know how he died, Corey?" Brady said. "We had a meeting—Debra, Hayden and myself—and we drew straws. The one with the longest straw killed him. It didn't happen right away. We had to wait until the right time. We didn't mean to get you involved. We figured on hitting him when he was in his cell. Figured it'd look just like an accident. But then the doctor and the marshal got all hot and bothered and blamed you for it. I'm sorry it happened to you, Corey. I really am. But that's why I made the doctor change his mind and call it an accident."

  Corey said, "So which of you killed him? Who drew the longest straw?"

  Three passive faces stared at him. And then every one of them smiled.

  Brady said, "You ever tell anybody about our little talk, Corey, and we'll just deny it."

  "You ain't gonna tell me which one of you killed him?"

  "No," Brady said, "we sure ain't."

  All the way to California, Corey kept changing his mind. One minute he'd think it had to be Hayden. Then he'd think that it had to be old man Brady. And then he'd wonder—could a woman have done it? Why not? A ball bat or a small length of iron. Either one could do the job. Just lay it swift and hard up against a man's forehead and—

  But then he'd get tired of his guessing game for a while and he'd roll himself a smoke and look out the window at the rivers and mountains and endless plains of the frontier.

  California would mean a new start for him and he wasn't going to mess it up, the way he'd messed up so many other new starts. He was sure of it.

  Killer in the Dark

  Tuesday 4:03 p.m.

  The tall man in the dark city-cut suit says nothing. He is not unfriendly.

  That is to say, he smiles when the others smile; he gives approving nods when the others do likewise. He picks up one of the ladies' magazines when it is jostled to the floor of the stagecoach. He even offers a stick match to one of the men who wants to light his cigar. But he does not join in any of the conversations. He seems distracted. He stares out the window. Every time one of the passengers mentions Tombstone, which lies just ahead, his dark eyes flicker.

  4:09 P.M.

  "I don't want to piss you off, Virgil."

  "Well, it sure as hell isn't going to do me any good if you lie to me, Sam. So tell me, what did the council say?"

  "It wasn't the whole council."

  "No?"

  "It was just three out of four."

  "That's a pretty good number."

  "It don't matter what they said, Virgil. I shouldn't ought've brought it up in the first place."

  When you were city marshal of a town as wild and dangerous as Tombstone, you needed loyalty from your deputies. The trouble with Sam Purcell was he took loyalty too far. From time to time he'd hear things that Virgil ought to know. But he wouldn't share them because he was afraid he'd hurt Virgil's feelings.

  But he'd made a mistake.

  He'd started telling Mal Bottoms, one of the other deputies, what he'd overheard at the town council meeting this afternoon. And Virgil had happened to be within ear distance.

  So now Virg and Sam stood in the empty outer office with all the wanted posters and the smell of burnt coffee and Virg's Scottish pipe tobacco, and Virg said, 'Tell me, Sam. And tell me right now."

  Sam sighed. Sam was a champion sigher. In fact, Sam was far more articulate with his shoulders than he'd ever been with his tongue.

  "Well, in a nutshell what they said was, and you know I sure as hell don't agree with it, was that maybe you were the right kind of town marshal for when a bunch of cowhands want to come in town and raise hell, but maybe you're not the right kind of town marshal for a manhunt."

  "Meaning Bobby Gregg."

  "Meaning Bobby Gregg. They said he's probably in Mexico by now."

  "Not unless he has wings. Suzie Proctor was murdered less than thirty-six hours ago."

  "Like I said, Virgil, it ain't me sayin this, it's the council."

  "Three out of four."

  "What the hell do they know anyway?"

  "That ll they said?"

  "Pretty much."

  Virg smiled. "Meaning there's somethin you left out."

  "Well."

  Now it was Virg's turn to sigh. He wasn't as good at it as Sam, but he gave it a good try. "I'm supposed to be lookin for a killer, Sam. I believe—-despite what the town council says—that he's hiding right here in Tombstone. Now I need you to tell me what else the council said and then I need to get back to work."

  Sam made a face. "They said if Bobby Gregg gets away—Suzie bein' so popular and all—that they'll take your badge away whether Wyatt Earp's your brother or not."

  "They said that did they?"

  "I didn't want to tell you, Virgil. But you made me."

  "It's all right, Sam."

  "You pissed off?"

  "Not at you."

  "Fm sorry, Vir
gil,"

  "I know you are, Sam, Now let's get back to work."

  A few minutes later, strapping on his Colt and grabbing a Winchester, Virg Earp left the town marshal's office. He had three different posses looking for Bobby in the areas surrounding Tombstone. He kept on working the town itself. A lot of people smirked when he passed by. A few even made jokes about him. Mostly that he was too lazy to go out into the blistering desert sun and look for Bobby.

  Nobody but Virg seemed to believe that Bobby was hiding somewhere in town here.

  5:01 P.M.

  He was an unlikely killer, Richard Turney. He ran one of Tombstone's three newspapers. He'd been educated in the east at Rutgers, and had seriously considered attending Harvard Divinity School afterward. He would have made a fine parson. But he decided he could be more effective as a journalist. He worked for a time for the New York Daily and the Chicago Gazette. He was the champion of the miners and their families and a favorite of the area's ministers, priests, and one rabbi. Too many newspaper editors were in the pockets of the rich and powerful. Not Turney. His office had been raided, trashed, burned. He had been followed, threatened, shot. His wife Jean Anne had been assaulted and very nearly raped. And yet he kept on being the spokesman for the poor, the weak, the sick, the mentally troubled, the Irish, Jews, colored, Chinese—and for decent working conditions in the mines, where men died every single day of the week and usually unnecessarily.

  He hadn't wanted his affair with Suzie Proctor to become any more than friendship. And yet—taking on a life of its own—it had. He had a lovely wife and two lovely children. And most of all, he had his reputation for rectitude. Let other Tombstonians carry on as if they lived in a whorehouse . . . but not Richard Turney.

  But what use was a fallen sinner to his community . . . or to himself? He'd tried to convince her to quit her job as his assistant, and quit sneaking off with him in the evenings. She was officially engaged to Bobby Gregg, who was a fine young man. Did she want to destroy her future with him? But she was adamant. She loved Richard. There was nobody else for her. Bobby was a child. Richard was a grown and wonderful man. A wonderful man who'd strangled her.

  He'd crept home late, from dragging the body to the river. Jean Anne had been awake when he came in. Demanded to know what had happened. Listened in shock and terror as he'd told her all of it. A parson's daughter whose good looks—it was said—were utterly wasted on so religious a woman, she'd told Richard he must not confess. Because if he did, who would defend the poor and powerless of this area?

  He got up several times during the night. Couldn't sleep. Wanted to go to the town marshal's office and confess. She awoke each time with him. Wouldn't let him go. Walking the streets now was difficult for him. He wanted the forgiveness of every citizen, for he felt that his behavior—first his adultery, then the killing—surely required their understanding.

  How could he live with this, even though suspicion had naturally fallen on Bobby Gregg, who had been seen arguing violently with Suzie three hours before the murder?

  5:07 P.M.

  The stranger was the last person off the stage. He stood in the dusty twilight looking around the legendary town with icy interest.

  Boomtowns usually deserved their reputations. But men like the Earps—hired guns who wore badges—took care to see that such towns were safe for those who had to live there. You could whore it up and drink it up and gamble it up if you stayed in the places that the Earps owned. But anywhere else, they'd run you in fast. And your fine would help swell the town treasury, to which they were entitled to a goodly share.

  He began to walk, a cheroot stuck in one corner of his mouth. With his dark suit, dark flat-brimmed hat, and dark-handled .44 riding in a dark leather holster, the stranger brought a funereal aspect to a part of town where most folks were dressed for partying. His younger brother had walked these same streets for the past few years after settling in here as a miner. The kid had kind of drifted around before. The stranger had been so happy to hear he'd taken a regular job, he'd bought the kid a whole bunch of new duds including boots, and put twenty-five Yankee dollars in an envelope too. He'd sent them to the kid for his twenty-first birthday.

  He continued to walk, to watch. He did not walk unnoticed.

  * * *

  Sam, the deputy, took note of him when he walked down Main Street and stopped in at the telegraph office; Mal, the other daytime deputy, took note of him when he left and walked over to the Bountiful Hotel.

  Sam went over to the telegraph operator and asked to see what message the stranger had sent.

  Burt Knowles, the telegrapher, laughed. "He was foxin' ya, Sam. He wanted to see if anybody was followin' him. He just come in here and stood over in the corner smokin' that cheroot, and then he left. Then he got down to that corner where Mal picked him up, and he stood there and watched you come in here."

  This was greatly amusing to Burt. Much less so Sam.

  * * *

  The stranger registered at the hotel and went directly to his room. He slid off his clothes except for his underwear, and then climbed into bed and started reading a book by Sir Walter Scott.

  He decided he'd get a little reading done before the local law came to call.

  The knock came thirty-five minutes later. The stranger recognized the man in the door immediately. Virgil Earp.

  "I come in?" Virgil said.

  "I wouldn't be foolish enough to stop you."

  Virgil nodded and entered. "Just doing my job, mister. My responsibility to know who's in town and what their business is."

  "Yes, I've always heard that Tombstone only lets the elite stay within its city limits."

  Earp gave him a sharp look. "Nobody's claimin' we're angels here. But there's different kinds of bad men. Bad and real bad. The real bad ones we don't let in. Now, I'd like to see some identification if you don't mind."

  The stranger, who was wearing his suit again, slipped a hand inside his suit jacket and pulled out a wallet. He handed it to Earp.

  Earp looked through it and whistled. "You're a Pinkerton?"

  'That's right."

  "And your name is Ben Gregg?"

  "Right again."

  "You any relation to Bobby?"

  "I'm his older brother."

  "You know he's wanted for murder?"

  "He didn't do it."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know Bobby. He's emotional, but he's not a killer."

  Earp handed the wallet back. "I don't suppose you might be a wee bit prejudiced."

  "He's my brother. I spent twelve years with him on an Ohio farm. I know how he reacts to things. He told me all about Suzie. How she'd agreed to marry him, and then backed out all of a sudden. And how he was going crazy."

  "You saw him?"

  "He wrote me."

  "He must be quite the writer."

  "He finished the tenth grade. He's a smart kid."

  "He's also a killer, Mr. Gregg. I don't take any pleasure saying that to you. I really don't. I have brothers too, and I know what this must be like for you. The best thing you can do is help us find him. And then have him give himself up before somebody decides to play hero and shoots him—or a bunch of drunks get together and try to lynch him."

  "He didn't kill her."

  Earp walked back to the door. "I wish you'd help us, Mr. Gregg. You might save his life."

  "Save his life until the territory can hang him, you mean."

  "I don't make the laws. I just enforce them."

  "Noble sentiment."

  Earp opened the door, lingered. "You seem like a smart man, Mr. Gregg. It's hard to be objective in a situation like this. He's your own flesh and blood. You might think you're helping him—but maybe you're really hurting him. And yourself in the process. There are laws against aiding and abetting a fleeing felon, Mr. Gregg." He paused. "Even when the felon happens to be your brother."

  Then he was gone.

  6:03 P.M.

  "How come Daddy is in bed
?" twelve-year-old Ruth asked Jean Anne Turney. She seemed older than her calendar age, having the poise and elegance of her mother.

  "He's not feeling well, honey."

  "How come he doesn't feel well?" Nicholas Turney said. He was eight.

  "He just has a little touch of something is all, sweetheart." She was a lovely, elegant woman—even in a much-washed and much-patched cotton pinafore she was elegant—with the features of classical statuary and eyes that sparkled with life. Until you studied them anyway. Some folks claimed to see a hint of madness there—all that religion she so deeply believed and espoused. Most pioneer stock had brought their religion with them. But they weren't about to let themselves become fanatics about it. Leave that to the Mormons.

  "What's a 'touch' mean?" Nicholas wanted to know.

  Jean Anne smiled at him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we sit down here to have supper?"

  He giggled. He loved it when Mommy played schoolteacher. It was fun. "We sat down to eat. E-A-T."

  "Correct," Jean Anne said. "Now, can you tell me why we're not eating?"

  He giggled again. "Because we're gabbin'. G-A-B-B-I-N."

  "That's right. Gabbing. You can't put food in your mouth while you're yapping." Jean Anne smiled. "I thought we were going to quit gabbing—and yapping— and eat our dinner."

  Corn on the cob; potatoes; green beans. All from the garden Jean Anne tended to so devoutly.

  "But first, let's say grace."

  Jean Anne usually concentrated on each and every word of every prayer she said. Sometimes people just rushed through prayers, mumbling the words and letting their minds stray to other matters. What was the point of praying then? God wanted total attention. God wanted utter and uncorrupted devotion.

  But tonight, as the children raggedly prayed their way through grace—she loved the sound of their small earnest voices; and surely God too must be pleased when He heard such pure and innocent voices—tonight she was no better than the mumblers she castigated.

  She couldn't think of anybody but Richard; of anything but Suzie Proctor's death.

  Forgive me O Lord, she thought. But I can't have this scourge brought down upon my children. If people know that their father killed her—accidentally or not—then they'll be marked for the rest of their lives, like a version of Cain's mark.