Gee, I wonder why the sheriff’s department suspected him. Especially combined with his finding the body.
“Where’s the wrench now, Hiram?” I asked.
“On the front seat of my truck, unless one of them deputies stole it.”
Toss up of whether the detail of the wrench’s location added credence to his story, resulted from happenstance that he had a wrench on the seat of his truck when he was first asked why he’d been at the grazing association, or offered evidence of premeditation by a mind that thought retrieving a favorite wrench sounded like a good alibi.
After a short silence, Tom said quietly, “Clyde said he expected you were out there on his behalf. Something about a favor.”
Hiram half huffed, half clicked his tongue. “Well, if he told you that, why’d you ask me all these darned-fool questions?”
Tom didn’t point out he hadn’t asked the other questions, I had. I didn’t either, even to say I hadn’t been privy to Clyde’s comment about a favor.
Tom’s reason might have been gallantry. Mine was recognition of James’ heightened interest, which told me we’d ventured away from Hiram’s script.
“What was the favor?” the lawyer asked. I appreciated his alchemy that turned a possibility into a fact. Good questioning technique.
Hiram’s eyes slued sideways, apparently looking at the blank wall. “Told him I’d help him. Taken some losses lately, he has.” He cagily avoided the R-word. “Told him not to do anything just yet. I’d have a word with York. Never got the chance, considerin’ he was dead.”
My opinion of Clyde’s common sense nosedived. Nose dove? What is the past tense of nosedive? Let’s say plummeted.
This might explain how York and the Bernie Madoff of the West had so nearly taken him.
“And he listened to you?” James asked.
“Course he did. Why wouldn’t he?” Hiram demanded.
No one replied.
He clearly misinterpreted the silence, saying with satisfaction, “Even you types know I got my ways.”
We did. That’s why we were speechless.
“And I do him a favor, he does me a favor.”
I recovered enough to ask, “What favor did you want him to do for you?”
“Somethin’ as none of your business.”
I glanced at Tom and James to see if they saw what I saw — Hiram Poppinger blushing.
A phrase from Penny teased at my memory. If he thinks he can come in here singing Love Me Tender.
Could she have meant Hiram? But how would Clyde figure in?
Besides… Hiram—?
Absurd.
“His favor to you—?” James started.
Hiram lurched up, his blush turned purple. “Done here. Done. And don’t you go reporting this—”
“Reporting what?”
“—or jabbering about it. I got things to do. Go. Go away.”
It was almost funny, him shooing us out of the interview room, like he owned the place.
Except the interview ending wasn’t funny.
He pounded on the door, quickly opened by Lloyd. Very quickly.
I studied Lloyd. His face had no words streaming across it proclaiming, I listened in on your conversation.
He closed the door as soon as Hiram cleared it, leaving Tom, James, and me to look at each other.
“No clue what set him off.” The lawyer expressed the sentiment in the small room with no indication he’d intended an investigatory pun. “But you sure got him to say more than he had to this point.”
Chapter Thirty-One
We spent a futile stretch in the break room, while Shelton tried to get us to share everything and I tried to get him to share everything.
“Lloyd, see these people out,” he finally snapped.
Interesting.
Shelton mostly had Richard Alvaro deal with us if he did any delegating, because Lloyd was more porous than Richard.
I gave Lloyd a smile as I stood and slid my hand inside his arm, like he’d offered to escort me at a cotillion. He blinked in surprise, then the tops of his ears pinkened.
“That’s so kind of you, Deputy Sampson.” I dropped my voice low — too low for Shelton to hear — and tipped my head toward Lloyd’s as we walked down the hall with Tom and James behind. “I’m nearly exhausted with Hiram talking our ear off. You know how he can be.”
Lloyd mirrored my actions, dropping his voice and leaning his head closer. “Sure can. That’s why it was weird him refusing to talk before. Wouldn’t say a word once we got him to the office. Seems to have loosened up some.”
I remembered that gleam in Shelton’s eye at Lukasik Ranch. Had he agreed to let Tom and me see Hiram in hopes we’d act as lubricant to get him to talk.
“He has. He surely has.” I patted the deputy’s arm as we parted at that door.
“What was that about?” James asked once we were all outside.
I looked back at the door. “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.”
“And if she thinks you should know,” Tom said.
“If it concerns my client—”
“Tom’s pulling your leg, James, in hopes of making me trip. It’s nothing directly concerning your client’s legal position. I promise.”
He had to be satisfied with that.
Tom made a major detour from the sheriff’s department to my house by going the opposite direction and arriving at the Sherman Supermarket.
“Want to come in or stay in the truck? I’ll be a minute.”
“I’ll stay.”
I thought I’d have more time to run back what Hiram said, but, true to his word, Tom came out almost immediately.
A stock boy carried a six pack in one hand and a grocery bag in another, putting them in the back seat of the pickup. Tom put the two covered trays he carried on the back seat, preventing them from sliding forward by wedging a tool I didn’t recognize from floor to ceiling in front of them.
He returned to behind the wheel.
“So this is your version of rustling up the food for tonight, Burrell?”
“I can take off plastic wrap with the best of them.”
“They had it waiting for you?”
“Penny.”
It was long past her usual shift, so he must have arranged this earlier.
“I’m always surprised this place is open at this hour.” Actually, it stayed open until eleven, which I knew from a few emergency cookie runs after a newscast. “Considering most stores in town close early.”
“Serving the after-work crowd.”
I raised my eyebrows at the widely spaced vehicles — all pickups — in the lot.
“Ranchers quit work when last light goes. You get a good order from a rancher coming in for a stock-up, and that makes it worthwhile staying open.”
I looked at the profile of the man beside me.
Growing up in Illinois, Abraham Lincoln’s portrait resided in every grade school classroom I attended. I never quite shook the feeling Abe was the presidential version of my patron saint.
Thomas David Burrell bore a resemblance to the sixteenth president of the United States. Tom’s bone structure was more refined, his nose less substantial, his hair not as unruly. Somewhere between Daniel Day-Lewis as Lincoln and the real thing, yet all himself.
I sidestepped the thought that desire and a patron saint didn’t mix, and addressed what made me turn to him in the first place.
“Yet here you are, working after sunset on something entirely different.”
He glanced to his left, then pulled out into the empty road.
“Tamantha,” he said, in full and eloquent explanation.
A good reminder of priorities. His daughter was worried about him. He’d do whatever he could to put her mind at rest. Even give up prime ranch time to chase after threads he hoped would tie up a murderer.
It wasn’t the Gettysburg Address, but then it was a lot shorter.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Hur
ry up,” Jennifer called as Tom and I entered my house. “Thurston’s interview with Lukasik is about to come on. They teased it before break and this is the last commercial.”
Diana was there, too. “Hope you don’t mind us turning on the TV.”
“Of course not.” I’d already deposited the trays on the kitchen counter, leaving the heavier liquid refreshments to Tom, and joined them in front of the TV.
The establishing shot of Thurston at the anchor desk faded to a one-shot — the camera in tight enough to see only Thurston’s head. Which was how he thought the entire broadcast should air.
“Tonight, I have an exclusive interview conducted today with world-famous defense attorney Norman Clay Lukasik, Cottonwood County’s most famous son.”
“Mike’s as famous as him,” Jennifer grumbled.
“And far more popular,” Diana added loyally.
Lukasik’s face came on the screen. With the camera adding weight he looked somewhat less skeletal. Needham’s phrase came into my head. A bunch of bones strung together.
“KWMT-TV’s viewers are grateful to you for coming to me to bring your thoughts to all the listeners out there.”
“I’m honored, Thurston—” The view switched to a two-shot, to include Thurston. It also showed that the interview had been conducted in his office, with a huge promotional poster of him visible on the wall between them. “—to talk to a journalist of your caliber at this difficult, difficult time. This horrible tragedy.”
He was talking Thurston’s language. Empty hyperbole.
“It is, indeed, a horrible tragedy, this difficult time for you.”
Figures Thurston would goof and twist the phrases around to make Lukasik having a difficult time the horrible tragedy. Unless his sycophantism believed that and he’d said what he meant.
“It is an extremely difficult time as well as an important time,” Lukasik intoned.
“Still a two-shot?” I muttered. Generally interviews are introduced by the interviewer, then concentrate on the interviewee. Not in Thurston World. I consciously unclenched my teeth.
“For me, for the Lukasik Ranch, for all who work at Lukasik Ranch, all who are associated with Lukasik Ranch, and for Cottonwood County.”
Lukasik World vs. Thurston World. A battle for the ages.
“Surprised he didn’t call it Lukasik Cottonwood County,” Diana said.
“What matters now is justice and the correct functioning of the legal system I have spent my career toiling in. The adversarial relationship that hammers out the truth on the forge of the courtroom.”
“Oh, brother.” That came from under Jennifer’s breath.
“I call on all the citizens of Cottonwood County to rise up with the truth, to share whatever they know about the tragic death of the long-time foreman of Lukasik Ranch. Because justice and truth are the bulwarks of the legal system to which I have devoted my life, as well as because of my devotion to Lukasik Ranch, as well as this, the home of my youth, I am offering a reward for information.”
Thurston looked around, undoubtedly in search of the camera. He so seldom filmed outside the studio, he was lost. “Ah, yes, information they can call into the Cottonwood County Sheriff’s Department at … Well, uh, to the number on their website.”
Still in the two-shot, something crossed Lukasik’s face. As if he’d grimaced from the inside without anything on the outside moving.
“Tell me, Norman Clay Lukasik, about your long-time foreman, uh, Furman York, so tragically killed yesterday.”
Lukasik’s face arranged into solemn planes. “He was with Lukasik Ranch for many years. He worked beside so many of my employees, who have benefited from their time at Lukasik Ranch, and, I am proud to say, a great number of them used their experience in my employ as a springboard to achievement.”
Jennifer, with hands poised to take notes, said under her breath, “Is he ever going to say anything about York?”
“Furman York contributed greatly to that by delegating—”
Tom made a sound.
“—allowing those he supervised to constantly add to their skills and take on new responsibilities.”
“In other words he made others do the work and take any blame?” Diana asked rhetorically. “One of those It’s not my fault — ever types.”
“Bull’s-eye,” Tom muttered.
Jennifer typed.
On the screen, Thurston shook his head. “A loss. A true loss to Cottonwood County. I am happy, Norman Clay Lukasik, to bring your important words to all our listening audience.” He turned to where he thought he’d have eye contact with the camera. He was almost right. “We’ll have more of this important interview tomorrow at five o’clock. Tune in then for more of what Cottonwood County’s most famous son told me exclusively.”
“Was that it?” Jennifer demanded.
“Shh.”
The shot cut back to the live one-shot of Thurston at the anchor desk.
“Be sure to tune in tomorrow at five for the rest of my exclusive and important interview with Norman Clay Lukasik, who came to me to bring his important and exclusive news to you, my audience on KWMT-TV, Sherman, Wyoming.”
“Why’d he repeat all that?” Tom asked.
“Because he forgot what information was included at the end of the piece, because he didn’t bother to listen to it again after it was edited.”
“Or he wanted to say all of it again because it sounded — what was the word? — important,” Diana suggested.
“Or that,” I agreed.
Mike burst in the front door, his eyes on the TV screen, which had gone to commercial. “Did you see it? Did you see it?”
“Just ended,” Diana said. “But—?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Not heeding our questions, Mike’s face fell. “No. It couldn’t have. It’s too early.”
“Oh, you mean sports? Nah, hasn’t been on yet,” Jennifer said.
“Then what—? The Lukasik interview? Saw it in the editing room. Awful.”
“Even worse on-air,” Jennifer told him. “Thurston repeated the outro nearly word for word live.”
“Hold it.” I raised my hands. “How can you be here now—”
“I finished all the spots for the other stations.”
“No, I mean KWMT’s sports hasn’t been on yet.”
“Thurston had one of his fits after the Five, said having Warren and me in the studio live would prevent him from doing his best work with the Lukasik thing. Les made us record our segments. And he’s not going to include a ‘previously recorded’ bug.”
“That is an all-time low.”
I agreed with Diana, but since Thurston Fine and Les Haeburn continually dug deeper with their lows, there’d be other opportunities for commentary on that. My question followed another tack. “Mike, you saw the whole interview in editing?”
“No. Just tonight’s.”
Darn that meant we’d have to watch or record tomorrow’s newscast. Just in case Fine accidentally got Lukasik to say something interesting.
“You think there’ll be anything useful in tomorrow’s?” Diana asked. “Tonight’s was content-free.”
“Doubtful,” Mike said cheerfully. “So, what was it all about? Lukasik grabbing a spotlight?”
I shrugged. “Like Pavlov’s dogs hearing a bell? He sees the possibility of publicity and can’t resist? Could be.”
“Can he think a reward will really make a difference?” Diana asked.
“How? A witness? Not likely there was a witness when York was shot. Somebody the killer talked to? I know that happens, but this fast?” Mike asked. “Maybe Lukasik just wanted to annoy the sheriff’s department.”
Jennifer, who hadn’t participated in the speculation, twisted around, looking into the kitchen. “Was that food you brought in? I haven’t had any dinner. All Elizabeth has is peanut butter and cookies. Not even peanut butter cookies.”
Before I could protest that I also had yogurt, as wel
l as a freezer unusually supplied with leftovers from my parents’ visit, Mike said, “I haven’t eaten, either.”
“Am I the only one who managed to have a meal?” Diana asked.
Tom and I nodded.
“See?” Jennifer said. “Can we eat now?”
Tom said, “Thought we’d wait ’til after sports. Got more of your interview on, don’t you, Mike?”
He grinned. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“How did you guess that?” I asked Tom.
Mike grinned wider. “I might have said something.”
We all grinned back at him. Who could resist?
When the sports segment came on, though, he turned a serious gaze to the screen. In the lead-up I watched him assess himself with professional regard.
I shifted my attention when the interview came on. It was only a short piece of what he had — Thurston didn’t allow sports or weather to interfere much with his camera time. Didn’t matter. The quality showed through.
Mike was even better than I’d expected. Had I not been paying attention to his progress? Taking it for granted?
Those questions had produced no answers when Mike said, “That’s it. Let’s eat.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Since you’re done eating, Elizabeth,” Jennifer said, “start telling us everything you found out, since you did lots today that you haven’t told anyone else.”
After that it seemed petty to say I’d been eyeing the cookies included with the sandwich makings and finger-food vegetables.
I started the everything while Diana helped Tom with the minimal cleanup in the kitchen.
I’d covered the phone message to Odessa Vincennes, my parents’ new schedule, the highlights with Penny, the start at Lukasik Ranch, and reached the point where Gable Lukasik rode over, when Diana placed a plate of cookies on the coffee table.
The woman’s a mind-reader.
Fueled by cookies, I told them the rest from Lukasik Ranch, finishing by asking Tom, “You want to add anything?”
Reaction Shot (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 9) Page 19
