The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head

by Sam Lee Jackson

  I had left the radio on and an NPR announcer was reading the latest news. She was talking about another senseless act of evil a half world away. Another aid worker in Syria had been beheaded by some radical asswipe. Considering the circumstances, I reached to turn it off.

  “Leave it on,” Eddie said.

  The woman’s voice described what was becoming a common occurrence. Aid workers trying to ease the suffering of refugees, refugees mostly made up of women and children, being kidnapped by radical sub-humans and held captive. Then the male aid workers were either sold for ransom or executed. The murders were usually on camera. Usually with a beheading. These monsters loved the shock value, knowing that the world media just couldn’t resist. If there is a hell, there’s a special room for these animals.

  The announcer went on to talk about a suicide bombing in Australia, and Eddie reached over and turned it off. We rode in silence for a while.

  “If they didn’t publicize this stuff, there would be less of it,” Eddie finally said. “Two tours in Vietnam and thirty years on the force, you’d think I saw everything. I never saw evil like this. Not a group like this. I always believed that evil was individualistic. Never saw a group of murderers like this.”

  I didn’t have an answer for that. He watched the traffic heading the other way.

  He turned slightly to look at me.

  “Saw a lot of bad things in Nam, but I don’t know, it seemed different.”

  “War is hell,” I said.

  “Yeah, it is,” he said. “But that was war. The kind we’re used to. One country fighting another country. This stuff here, I just don’t get. I don’t see what these guys get for doing such bad things. Were you ever over there? In the Middle East?”

  I drove a while before I answered. I could feel him watching me. Finally, I nodded.

  “See combat?”

  I nodded again.

  “Kill anybody over there?”

  I kept driving. Never met a soldier yet that had been in the ugly part of the business that wanted to talk about it. Usually the ones drinking beer and holding forth in the bar were the ones that did the typing, or strung the telephone wire. Maybe worked in the car pool.

  I wasn’t even technically a soldier. When I lost the foot, no one filed a report.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly, “None of my business. Got any idea why those assholes are doing that to people?”

  “Not a clue,” I said.

  “Me neither.”

  We rode in silence for a while. The speed limit in Arizona is 75 miles per hour. You had to pay attention. Especially on the upgrades. That’s when one trucker felt he had to go a mile an hour faster than the trucker in front of him. Just as you came zooming up on him, traveling forty miles an hour faster, out he’d come, into the passing lane. You jam the brakes, then wait the hour it seemed to take for the truck to pass and get back into the slow lane.

  Eddie said, “The world is becoming such a dangerous place, a guy is lucky to get out alive.” I turned my head to look at him.

  “W. C. Fields,” he said.

  I smiled and drove on.

  After a while Eddie was watching the stream of lights heading the other way. He said, “Look at all them lemmings heading down the hill. Live up here, work in the city.”

  I glanced at him. The lights of the passing cars flashed across his face and I could see what he had looked like fifty years ago. “Down the hill?”

  “Local term. If you are heading south from up north you are going down the hill.”

  “Going north toward Flagstaff is heading up the hill?”

  “You got it.”

  “Big hill,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  We rode in silence for a while. Every once in a while I could feel him glancing at me.

  Finally he said, “I appreciate you doing this.”

  “I’ll help any way I can, but there is no guarantee.”

  “Ain’t never no guarantee,” he said. “Appreciate it just the same.”

  I think that was the most conversation I’d ever got out of him. We passed through the developer-created town of Anthem. North of it was New River and then Black Canyon City. Twenty years ago these had been havens for the proud misfits and oddballs who couldn’t stand the big city. Back then I might have been one of them. Today the mega sprawl of the growing city was already enveloping New River and knocking on Black Canyon City’s door.

  Despite the sprawl, every time I took an Arizona highway I always marveled at how much of Arizona is wide-open land. After Black Canyon City we climbed a twisting and winding road, dodging RV campers and more semi-truck trailers. We had moved past most of the commuters. Now most of the traffic was commercial. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten when we broke over the top of a wide and spacious mesa. In the new light you could see for miles across golden empty plains and rugged purple mountains. Only the light glinting off of distant power lines showed any sign of civilization.

  The drive to Cottonwood takes about an hour and a half from Phoenix, and just as suddenly as we climbed to the top of the world, we dropped straight down into the Verde Valley. At the bottom, we took the Cottonwood exit and pulled into town twenty minutes later. It had barely had time to get to full light.

  Eddie was familiar with the town, and gave me directions. We drove to the police station. I don’t know what I expected but this wasn’t it. It was large and new and had an even newer emergency call center right behind it. It was across the street from a civic center that advertised indoor pools, tennis courts and game rooms. Next door was a modern library. All worthy of a bigger city. So much for me believing this was a backwater burg.

  6

  It was early, and the parking lot was mostly empty. So was the foyer. There was a policewoman at the far end behind a counter. She was tapping away at a computer. We waited politely. Finally, she finished and looked up.

  “Help you?”

  “I’m Billy Bragg’s uncle,” Eddie said. “He called me, said he was in trouble.”

  She looked at us with new interest.

  “Yeah, you could say that.” She studied him some more. “I can see the resemblance,” she said. She looked at me. “You family too?”

  “Family friend,” I said.

  She looked back at her computer and hit a few keys. Then hit some more. She looked up.

  “He’s scheduled to enter a plea this morning at eight. Room B12. Second floor. Chief’s not in yet. He comes in, I’ll tell him you are here. He’ll probably want to talk to you.”

  “What happened?” Eddie asked.

  “Sir, I don’t know all of it. You will have to talk to Chief Berry.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s early. You have time to get some coffee.”

  We thanked her and left. Eddie knew of an early morning restaurant on Main Street. It was a mom and pop place, and the parking lot was full, which is always a good sign in a small town. I had some scrambled eggs and toast and Eddie drank black coffee. We were back at the station by 7:45. We found room B12 as she had described.

  We were among the first ones there, but the room began to slowly fill. It was two-thirds full when the judge finally came in, and we all stood. The bailiff began calling names, and one by one, men came forward and stood in front of him, took the oath, then stood in front of the judge. I heard the same thing over and over. It wasn’t my car. It belonged to a friend. How would I know it wasn’t registered or insured?

  About ten minutes into the session, the back doors opened and two women came in. They looked enough alike to be sisters. One was shorter, and the slightest bit heavier. The other was younger, and was very pretty. She had raven hair down her back. They were dressed similarly. The older one had a tight, white short-sleeved blouse with a high collar. The younger, taller one had a white long-sleeved blouse with a high collar. They both had tight blue jeans with sequins on the pockets, and cowboy boots. Yee haw! They sat in the back row.

  We were seated forward and across the
room. The next time I glanced back, the older of the two was studying Eddie. She caught me looking. She averted her eyes, and didn’t look at us again.

  At 8:35, by the clock on the wall, they brought Billy in. The atmosphere in the court changed. This was a little more serious. A man in a suit and tie, whom I took to be the prosecutor, came to one of the tables in front. I’d never seen Billy, but there was a family resemblance. He was shackled, hands and feet. They had him in the standard prisoner’s orange jumpsuit. He shuffled into the room and the bailiff sat him at the defendants’ table. A large, balding man, in a wrinkled suit, had been sitting against the side wall. He stood now and joined Billy at the table. He was sweating, even though the temperature in the room was mild. He mopped his face and head with a handkerchief he carried in his hand. The man leaned to Billy and whispered to him at length. I glanced back at the two women in the back and they both were leaning forward, their eyes on Billy.

  The judge finally nodded to the bailiff and the bailiff ordered Billy and his attorney to stand. As they did, the prosecutor began reading the charges. First degree murder. Less than a minute later Billy’s attorney entered his not-guilty plea, and the judge denied bail, and set a court date that was over a month away. The attorney and a policeman led Billy away. The two women stood and left. Eddie sat for a short moment, then stood and I followed him out of the room. Once Billy had come in, the whole thing didn’t take a couple of minutes.

  The policewoman, from earlier, hailed us on our way out to tell us the chief wished to speak with us. She said she would escort us to his office. We followed her onto the elevator and rode to the second floor. As we stepped off there were chairs lining the hallway. She asked us to wait there. We sat. She disappeared into a closed door at the end of the hallway. A moment later she stepped out and beckoned to us. I followed Eddie.

  The chief was taller than me. He had at least twenty years and twenty pounds on me. He carried a little paunch, but still looked fit and strong. His uniform was crisp, and creased in the right places. His light blond hair was cropped close, like a military cut. It was tinged with gray, his scalp gleaming through. His smile was easy, but his eyes were cop’s eyes. Aware and watchful. They took us both in with a glance, and I could feel the processing. He was standing behind his desk. On the wall behind him was a large map of the city.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” he said, waving a hand at two chairs that faced his desk. He didn’t offer a hand. We sat down.

  He settled behind his massive desk.

  “I’m told you are related to Patrolman Bragg?”

  “I’m his uncle,” Eddie said. “My sister’s boy. My name’s Eddie.”

  “Last name?”

  “Bragg.”

  “Bragg? Bill is your sister’s boy?”

  “Emily changed their names back to the family name when she finally divorced the son of a bitch she had been married to.”

  The chief leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Bill has said he has an uncle that once was on the Chicago police force?”

  “That would be me,” Eddie said.

  The chief smiled. “And you, sir?” he said, looking at me.

  “My name is Jackson. I’m a friend. Just giving Eddie a ride up from Phoenix.”

  “First name?”

  “Just Jackson.”

  He studied me with a smile. His eyes weren’t smiling.

  “Like you and Cher and Prince and Madonna?”

  “Something like that.”

  He was looking at me with a friendly look, but I wasn’t fooled. His eyes were the eyes of a man that didn’t suffer fools. He didn’t like me not giving a first name, but he let it ride. I guess I could have made one up, but the Colonel didn’t give us first names. His eyes lingered on me, then he looked back to Eddie.

  “So Mr. Bragg, I want you to know that I hold Bill in high regard. I’m doing what I can for him, but until we can get this thing figured out, I have to do what I have to do.”

  “Can you tell me what is going on? You can start with telling me why the boy is locked up.”

  “You were in the courtroom.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said. “First degree, but I don’t know the circumstances. I don’t know a damn thing. He called me and said he was in trouble. He didn’t want to call his mom. They made him hang up before he could tell me much of anything.”

  The chief looked sympathetic. He had a folder on his desk. He picked it up and ran his thumb across the top, but he didn’t open it.

  He shifted in his chair. “Four days ago, one of our citizens was walking his dog, and the dog happened to be a beagle. If you don’t know, beagles have very sensitive noses. Many are used for hunting and tracking. This one caught wind of something inside an old, abandoned city well site. The citizen let the dog off the leash and the dog went through a crack in the gate. The dog acted strangely enough to cause our citizen to move the chained gate enough to get in. In the tall weeds he found the decapitated body of a man. It was two days before State Homicide identified him. His name was Richard Mooney. He was well known around town. It’s not a large town. People called him Dick and he lived up to the name. We had him down here more than once for assault drunk and disorderly.”

  “Who was the citizen?”

  “Tom Waring. Retired city worker. Used to work for Parks and Streets.”

  “Why do you think it was Billy that did it?” I asked.

  He had been talking mostly to Eddie, but now turned his eyes to me.

  “I can’t discuss all the elements of the case, but we had sufficient cause.”

  He looked at Eddie. “You being a retired policeman will understand that I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.”

  “You can’t tell us anything?” Eddie asked.

  The chief leaned back into his chair. “I can tell you what is commonly known. Two main things. One is that the last time Mr. Mooney was seen alive, he was fighting with Bill, and there are witnesses that heard Bill threaten to kill Mr. Mooney. There is some physical evidence, and the other thing is, according to some, Bill was involved with Mr. Mooney’s wife. The Mooneys were separated, but legally still married.”

  “According to who?”

  “Enough credible people to make it a concern.”

  “That’s not against the law.”

  “No it’s not, but it could be motive.”

  “What physical evidence?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Mrs. Mooney, does she have a sister?” I asked.

  Now his eyes lost any pretense of friendly. “I understood that you were new here. How would you know that?”

  I shrugged. “Saw two women that looked alike, about Billy’s age, in the courtroom a little bit ago. They left as soon as he put in his plea.”

  He studied me some more.

  “The Martin girls. The oldest, Lucy, married Dick Mooney. The other girl, Dahlia, is single, and works at the library. Not twins but close in age.”

  “Not doing Billy any favors showing up in court like that,” Eddie said.

  I looked at him.

  “Just fuels the gossip flame,” he said.

  “How long had the Mooneys been married?”

  “Both were married before. Don’t quite know how long it would be. Maybe ten years, probably less.” He stopped to think. “I’ve been here eight, and they were married when I got here.”

  “You know everyone in town?” I asked.

  “Like I said, it’s a small town. Mooney liked to brawl. I met him early on.” He looked at Eddie. “Despite you having been a cop, you need to know I have a very competent department. We will appreciate your concerns about Bill, but we won’t appreciate meddling.”

  “Not here to meddle.”

  “Mind if we take a look at where the body was found?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “That sounds like meddling. But it is in the paper, so it doesn’t matter if I tell you.”

  He swiveled in his chair. Pointed to a spot on th
e map. “South end of town, off of Twelfth Street and Inca. Looks like a vacant lot with a fence around it. Has No Trespassing signs posted.” He looked back at us. “It is a crime scene, don’t doing anything foolish.”

  “What else can you tell us about Mooney?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like where he worked. You said he had been arrested before. Was there anything more than fighting? Did he do drugs? Things like that.”

  “I thought I made myself clear about meddling.”

  I leaned forward, “Chief Berry, you know Billy has a court appointed attorney. We don’t know if the guy is even competent. If we can add anything to Billy’s defense, we are going to do it.”

  He studied me for a long moment. He nodded, “Yeah, they assigned him Mr. Taggart. Billy’s going to need all the help he can get.” He pointed a finger at me. “Just don’t do anything to piss me off.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Anything you can tell us?” Eddie said.

  The chief nodded. “Dick Mooney had a small landscaping business. Had a small crew of Mexicans. Had the reputation for starting a job, then leaving his guys to finish. Spent a lot of time in the taverns. His guys were pretty good guys, so they carried him. Not much other work for them in this town. He drank too much, and when he was drunk he wanted to fight. Didn’t matter who or why.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I heard he did a lot of hunting, deer, elk and the like. He belonged to a so-called militia.”

  “Militia?”

  He smiled, “Group of dipshits that never grew up. Put on their camos, and go out into the desert and shoot up a bunch of cactus, and play army. Getting ready for the Armageddon. Harmless bunch of nitwits.”

  “This militia have a name?”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard of. We don’t have to pay much attention to them. They usually take their silliness out of the city limits. Only trouble we’ve had recently was when a biker group came into town, and had some words with them at the Sunset Corral. Got into a brawl.”