by Ed Gorman
She hurried to the mirror. She took pride in her job. She fixed her hair from the last tumble on the bed, freshened her makeup, daubed on some more perfume.
If only helping Bobby was this easy.
But she had to help him before the lynch mob did.
7:36 P.M.
It made for a lonely portrait, the sight of Gregg the Pinkerton man in his shirtsleeves bent over a table where he'd spread out everything he'd found where the girl had been strangled, a flickering lamp his only companion. He was a city man and this was a nowhere town, and in his occasional sighs you could hear the pain that time had inflicted on him, and that he had sometimes inflicted upon himself.
The wife and two sons who had left him when it became clear that he would never give up this detective business and stay home like a real father. The illegitimate son he'd fathered a few years later, who'd smothered to death in his crib one night. The earnest if desperate attempt to reconcile with his wife—traveling by train mid-winter for six hundred miles—only to see her sitting in a restaurant with the man she intended to marry, the man he suspected she loved more than she'd ever loved him. Self-pity, self-hatred, a lonesomeness that was a physical ache sometimes—these were the detective's lot, redeemed only by his sense of humor about himself. Nobody could make better jokes about him than he could. And—for everybody's sake—he made such jokes often.
Thank God for detective work. It almost made up for the loneliness. It almost made him forget all the terrible mistakes he'd made in his personal life, not least of which was being such a miserable absent father to his boys. He never would've said that out loud, of course, about detective work being his one true love. Might end up in an asylum if you said it loud enough. Hey, ain't that the guy who said he was in love with detective work? And there he'd be in one of those padded rooms where they slid your food in through a little flap in the bottom of the door. Don't want to get too close to the crazy man. Whatever he's got might be catching.
But he lived for the British magazines that detailed all the exciting new work being done in England and France. Fingerprinting was just coming into its own. No court had yet allowed it to be used as evidence, but that was only a matter of time. Phrenology—determining a person's criminal inclinations by the shape of his head—was fading in popularity, and that in itself was exciting. He'd always considered it useless. Scotland Yard was also beginning to create a file on every criminal they arrested.
This might be the most important development of all, and Gregg was pleased to see that Alan Pinkerton—despite the reluctance of city cops to do it—was likewise creating his own files on criminals he apprehended.
The two items that interested him most now were a black button that appeared to have come from a dress jacket and two different boot heel prints. The ground there was clay and showed up prints pretty well. He'd gotten down on his knees and scratched a pencil over a thin piece of white paper. The designs on the boot heels showed clearly. There was one other heel design. A much smaller one. A woman's shoe. The heel had been worn down, but you could still see a faint V on it.
He went back to the button. It was the size of a cuff button on a suit jacket. While black was a reasonably popular color with men—easiest to dust off and clean—there were very few men who wore the color regularly. It was considered too hot for summer, for one thing. And too dour for any kind of festive occasion. He started making a list of men who wore black regularly. Preachers, mortuary men, town officials who had to go to a lot of funerals, and carriage-trade types who might get invited out to a fancy dance every once in a while. He could eliminate the latter as a category around here. There weren't any fancy dances. He could also eliminate town officials. Folks around here understood how hot it was. They didn't expect anybody to dress in black at functions.
But why would a preacher or a mortuary man be out where a young woman was killed?
He opened himself a pint of rye and pondered. Sometimes, pondering was a whole lot of fun.
8:07 P.M.
Nicholas said, "She's cryin' and she won't stop."
"Your sister?" Jean Anne said. And then realized that was one of those stupid little things people said without thinking. Who else would be crying but Ruth? "Where is she?"
"On the swing."
"You finish drying those dishes for Mama. I'll be right back."
"It's her turn to dry."
"Don't sass me now; don't you sass me, you understand?"
Nicholas was old enough, and savvy enough, to understand when his mommy was real serious about her threats. Sometimes she was just sorta half-serious and you could tell by her tone of voice that she didn't really want to do anything to you. But then there were times—as now—when he knew that strap wasn't far away if he didn't do exactly as she told him.
He took the dish towel down and started drying the dishes.
Jean Anne could hear her before she reached her. Crying bitterly into the last cool traces of daylight.
"Quit swinging, honey, I want to talk to you."
"I don't want to talk, Mama." And kept right on swinging, pigtails flying, the hem of her dress fluttering in the slight wind. She spoke through tears.
Jean Anne grabbed the swing. "What's the matter with you? Don't you do what your mama tells you to do?"
She had to grab the swing even harder to bring it to a full stop. A few times Ruth scuffed her shoes in the worn earth of the swing's path, slowing the swing even more.
"Now I want you to tell me why you're crying."
"I just think Gus is sick is all."
Gus was their sad-faced hound. He was older than Ruth. Jean Anne could see her daughter was lying. She said, concerned now because Ruth so rarely lied, "I need to know the truth. I can't be a good mama if I don't know the truth. You don't want the Lord to punish me for bein' a bad mama, do you?"
Ruth didn't say anything for a time, and then she lifted her sweet little face and looked at her mama. "I guess I just get scared sometimes. Like right before a storm."
Ruth was given to odd moods, moods that sometimes worried both her parents deeply. She did indeed get scared before storms; the smell, the suddenly brooding sky, the sharp decline in heat—she frequently hid under the bed. She was so grown-up in many ways—people often mistook her for sixteen or thereabouts—but there were still strong elements of the little girl in her too.
Ruth was silent. Cows, horses, a distant coyote, night-birds; the restive and restful sounds of a farm as night fell.
"Honey, what are you tryin to say?"
But Ruth, fighting back another round of tears, wouldn't listen. She jumped from her swing and took off running toward the pasture.
Leaving Jean Anne to wonder—what in the Lord's name had that been all about?
Nicholas came out the back door. "I'm done with the dishes, Ma. Will you draw pitchers with me later?"
"Yes," Jean Anne said. "Yes, I will."
Nicholas went back inside. He was such a good little boy, uncomplicated.
She wondered what was wrong with Ruth.
8:10 p.m.
He was starting to sweat, Sam was. He'd felt all right entering the house, but once inside, his balls started to shrink and his stomach started to knot and his asshole started to get tight and his breath started to come fast and ragged and the sweat started to pour off him. He felt like some Mex working the fields at high noon. That kind of greasy, filthy sweat.
The downstairs was empty. He'd gone through it room by room. Nothing. Dinner smelled good, though. For a whore, Serena knew how to run a house real good. Trouble was, by the time she was ready to settle down—all rotten-toothed and disease-scabbed like a leper—who the hell would want her? Who would want to stick his dick into a honey pot that had been fouled by so many other dicks? No man with any sense; no man with any pride. No man Sam knew.
He had a piece of peach pie. Sitting right there just like he'd been invited, a nice little vase of flowers on the table and everything. And he was eating.
&n
bsp; Now wasn't that the damndest thing you ever heard of?
This is a man who reads all the dime novels. Who has a very glorified ideal of what a deputy should think, do, and be.
And so what does the sonofabuck do when he sneaks into a house after a cold-blooded mad-dog killer?
He sits his wide ass down on a kitchen chair and helps hisself to a piece of pie. Peach pie. He would've preferred punkin (his word for pumpkin), but this is better' n nothin', that's for sure.
And it doesn't end there.
Because he eats another piece.
Serena's probably gonna wonder what the hell happened to her pie. Her ma is upstairs crippled. She sure as hell didn't come down here and get any. And (if Sam's hunch is right) Bobby Gregg is hiding in the attic, and he sure wouldn't've snuck down here either. For a piece of pussy, yes, maybe so. But not for no piece of pie.
But that's where Sam's wrong.
Because Bobby got to wondering upstairs what ole Sam was doin' downstairs. You sneak into a house, you check it out room by room, how long can it take you? Five-ten minutes at most. And that's if you're checkin' under the bed and in the closets and all that stuff.
And Sam's been in the house here a good twenty minutes. So what the hell's he up to?
No sense in waiting to find out.
No sense waiting up here liked a treed fox just waiting for the inevitable.
He's gonna surprise the sonofabitch.
Has to be very quiet. Can't put the attic ladder down. Too much noise. All he can do is take off his boots and hang from the open hatch, and drop to the floor in his socks and hope to hell Sam doesn't hear him.
But Sam is too busy eating to hear him. You can't shovel that much pie into your mouth without at least a little bit of it gettin' in your ears.
So here sits Sam shovelin' pie into his face.
And here comes Bobby sneakin' up on him in his socks.
And there squats this huge black fly on the last slice of pie left, and Sam reaches out to brush it away when he accidentally hits the slender vase and knocks it over on the table.
Except—
The spilled water in the vase runs backward because the table isn't level—runs right over the edge of the table and right on his crotch, and he's wearing these gray work pants and the soaking water make it looks like he pissed his pants.
And then—
There's this six-shooter pressing against the back of his head—
And Bobby says, "You just put your gun on the table, Sam, so I can see it real plain."
"Look at me, Bobby!" Sam says. "People're gonna say I wet my pants I was so scared of you. You kill me here, that's just what they'll say for sure! Then all the time my kids're growin up, their fuck-face little friends'll say your old man was so scared a Bobby Gregg he pissed his pants!"
"Just calm down!"
"This ain't no way for a man t'die, Bobby!"
"Dammit, Sam, I'm not going to kill you."
"You're not?"
"No, I'm not."
"Well, you killed Suzie Proctor."
"No, I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
"You're the lawman. You tell me."
"You didn't kill her, why you holdin' gun on me?"
"Because I'm gonna escape. Because if I stay here you'll take me in."
"I got to, Bobby. It's my job."
"Well, you'd be takin' in the wrong man."
"Don't tell nobody, all right?"
"Tell 'em what?"
"You know, about me eatin' the pie and all."
Bobby grinned. "Eatin' pie and havin' wet pants. Guess that wouldn't make you look real good, would it?"
"My kids'd get teased somethin' awful."
"I think you're worried a little more about yourself than your kids."
"So what if I am?"
"I'll make you a deal, Sam."
"What kind of deal?"
"You give me a half-hour head start, and I won't tell nobody about the pie."
"Or my pants?"
"Or your pants."
"Nobody?"
"Nobody. Not a single soul."
"I really am jus' thinkin' of my kids, Bobby."
"Guess I'll have to take your word for it, won't I?"
"You really didn't kill her?"
"I really didn't kill her."
Sam looked at the table. "So I sit here half an hour?"
"Yep. You don't holler for help and you don't go into town."
"There's a piece left."
"I see that."
"What if I ate that last piece?"
"I'll tell you what, Sam."
"What?"
"You don't holler and you don't run into town for half an hour, and I'll tell Serena I ate the whole pie myself."
"Ya will?"
"I will."
"The whole thing?"
"The whole thing."
"You think she'll believe ya?"
"Sure she will." Then: "That last piece looks mighty good, doesn't it?"
Sam smiled. "Now that you mention it, it sure does."
8:07 P.M.
Ben Gregg knew it was late to go calling, but he hadn't gotten around to talking to the Turney family. Maybe they could be helpful. Several people had mentioned that Bobby was a good friend of the family.
He passed down the streets of saloons and gambling parlors. There had been a time when such noises had been exciting to him. No arms had seemed warmer than those of a whore; no drink more nourishing than whiskey. But these things and his wanderings as a Pinkerton had cost him the only woman he'd ever loved, and his children. The detective's way of life was legitimate; the other things weren't. And now they offered him only bitter reminders of how foolish and young and empty he'd been.
A faint light pressed at the window next to Turney's front door. Townspeople went to bed later than farmers. Maybe he wouldn't be waking anybody up.
He knocked.
He looked around him at the hills. On the other side of them was the river where the young woman's body had been found. It came down to two things: Bobby needed an alibi, which he apparently didn't have; or Ben, or somebody, had to find the killer fast.
The man in the door had an Eastern quality that gave his grave but handsome face a real dignity. The wide forehead, dark, wary eyes, brooding brow, long nose, and wry mouth bespoke both intelligence and humility, not a combination you saw very often. People with brains flaunted them like young girls with their first bloom of breasts.
"Gosh, I thought I was seeing things," Turney said. "You look like your brother so much."
"Only older. Bobby doesn't have any gray in his hair yet. At least not the last time I saw him."
"Not yet he doesn't."
Ben put his hand out and the men shook.
Turney said, "Why don't you come inside. There's still some of the day's coffee left."
'That sounds good. Thank you."
As soon as he was inside, he saw a very pretty girl of twelve or maybe older staring at him from behind a blue curtain that no doubt hid a bedroom. She looked sadder than anyone her age ever should. He sensed she wanted to say something to him. She opened her mouth a few times tentatively. But no words came out.
The coffee was good. Jean Anne, a very good-looking woman, served it, and then she sat down with the men.
"I just hope Bobby gives himself up before they find him," she said.
'Then you're assuming he killed her?" Ben said. He didn't make it an accusation—as if she was betraying him—he just asked her a question.
"I, well, I—" Despite his gentle tone, his question had clearly rattled her. Then he noticed that her eyes had met those of the girl who was peeking out from behind the curtain. They shared some kind of secret.
"All she's saying, Ben," Turney said, "is that guilty or not, he has to avoid being caught by one of those posses. They'll lynch him for sure."
"Do you think he's guilty?" Ben asked.
&nbs
p; Turney too looked flustered. "This isn't easy for us."
"He's our best friend," Jean Anne said, wiping floury hands on the front of her pinafore.
"He has supper with us two or three or three times a week," Turney said.
"And we sure don't think he did do it," Jean Anne said. "Not deep down anyway. Even despite the way things look."
Ben was troubled by their unease. Why should they be so nervous answering questions as straightforward as his? He wasn't trying to trick them or trap them. He was just trying to find out about his brother. But they were firing glances back and forth and tapping their fingers on the table and constantly shifting in their chairs. Alan Pinkerton drilled into the heads of his operatives certain telltale signs to watch for during interrogations. The Turneys were displaying them all.
"He was here the night of the murder," Jean Anne said.
"Oh? How was he acting?"
They glanced at each other again.
"He was pretty down," Turney said. 'The Porter girl had told him she didn't want to marry him."
"He told you that?"
"Why, yes," Turney said. "I was at the office working on some papers. He'd been here with Jean Anne and told her all about it. Then when I got home, he told me all about it too. He was pretty drunk by then, though."
"He drink a lot?"
"Not much actually. And we don't keep anything on hand here in the way of liquor."
"But he was drinking here?"
Turney said, "He'd brought his own bottle of whiskey."
"Did he make any threatening remarks that night about the Porter girl?"
Another exchange of glances. Jean Anne shook her head. "Not really. I mean, it was obvious how hurt and angry he was. But no threats—or at least I can't remember any." She looked at her husband as she said this.
"I can't remember any threats either," Turney said.
"About what time did he leave?"
"Oh—" She nodded at her husband. "Do you remember?"
"I wasn't paying much attention, I guess."
"Just a guess."
"Maybe ten."
"Ten. And was he still drunk?"
Jean Anne shrugged. "Not as much, I think. I'd given him some coffee."
"Was he still talking about the Proctor girl?"
"Oh, no." Turney smiled for the first time. "By then, we were on the subject of politics."
