by Tim Bryant
When Werner Athey's family was discovered in their farmhouse on the west side of Fort Worth on December 28, 1955, the authorities were quick to point out a suspect in the press. His wife Albertine was found slumped over the kitchen counter with her head in the sink, like she was washing her hair. Or maybe like someone was trying to shove her down the drain. There was a matching pair of bullet holes in her head, so it did prove helpful in keeping the kitchen floor tidy. Not so lucky with the living room.
It would be really cheap and easy to call it death in the living room, but I've never been known for my expensive tastes or for being terribly complicated. I like things cheap and easy. And it was hard not to notice the two dead children, one draped across the back of the sofa and the other face down on the floor, halfway to the kitchen, like she had been going for one last cup of water, or maybe to help her mother with the hair washing.
The house was quiet. That was the other thing you noticed. Quiet enough that when I walked from the sofa to the front door and accidentally stepped into a pool of blood, it made a sound that you could hear all the way to the back porch.
"Careful in there, Curridge. That's a crime scene, in case you haven't noticed."
Goddamn Sheriff's Department. Wiley King had yet to appear, but his boys were all over the house like maggots. And they were already yapping to Ruthie Nell.
Me and Ruthie Nell Parker had history. When she worked for the Fort Worth Press, we had almost been a team. She was one of us little guys fighting the system. I gave her access to a side of town that she might have gotten close to but never would have gotten into. She gave me a companion at the Crystal Palace Dance Hall on Friday nights and the Deal Theater matinees on Saturdays.
Then the Anthony Cavanaugh case came along, and Ruthie went undercover with help from a D.A. I didn't much care for. I broke the case, but come to find out, the main tip had been delivered by none other than Ruthie herself. I got a mention in the Star-Telegram, the big paper in town. She got a brand new job on its reporter staff. As Lefty Frizzell says, that's the way love goes.
Lieutenant Dewey Mitchell was on the back porch explaining to Ruthie Nell that Werner Athey had not been found anywhere on the property and was thus a considered a primary suspect in the crime. I knew he was wanting to impress, but it was far too early to throw such statements out there. The call had come in to headquarters two hours earlier, and no one even knew who made it yet.
Except for two fortuitous reasons, I wouldn't have been on the scene at all. One, I was staying at a boarding house on Sharon Road, which was three blocks away. Close enough to have heard the sirens screaming down Camp Bowie. One siren might not have torn me away from an afternoon with Jack Daniels and WBAP's Western Jamboree, but when the one became two and then three, I figured I had best put my boots on and my teeth in and head over to take a look-see.
The other reason I found myself trying to pick my way through the living room without putting my prints into evidence was regrettable. I knew the house. I knew the people in it. Most of all, I knew Werner Athey. They may or may not have known me. I was a fan of Werner Athey. Athey was a fiddle player, and one of the regulars at the Crystal Springs Dance Hall on White Settlement Road. I had watched him play Milton Brown almost as good as Milton, Bob Wills songs almost like Bob. I had talked to him at the bar and told him so. I'd even bought the guy a drink or two.
Werner could have been a great one, and he knew it. Could have hit the road. Played a different town, kissed a different girl every night. He could have made records in California and been on the TV. The only thing that ever held him back was the love he had for his family.
"I'm much obliged, but I'm not really a music man, Mr. Curridge," he said to me on that first, particularly memorable night at the Crystal Springs. "I'm a family man."
The two lifestyles were like beer and vodka, he said. Good on their own, but you couldn't mix them together. He was happy where he was.
I looked out the screen door into his backyard and saw Ruthie with her notebook, talking to another of the deputies. I wondered where Werner was now. I wondered about that happiness of his. They say nothing lasts, and looking around the room there, that was pretty plain to see. Happiness don't last. Maybe sadness does. Something about that son of a bitch never seems to go out of style.
I checked out the rest of the house, but nothing seemed out of place. A bathroom where you do the things you do there. Two bedrooms with beds all made for the last time.
I left through the front door, careful to circle around any evidence that hadn't been photographed and collected. I was halfway out to the pick-up, a red '48 International, when I was apprehended.
"Sneaking away from the scene of the crime, huh?"
For a moment, I considered putting my hands up.
"I wouldn't print anything Dewey told you, if I were you," I said.
I turned around and tried to look as calm and cool as I had always tried to look when we were accomplices. Conspirators. She was wearing a dark blue dress and a white hat with a matching blue print. A nice uniform.
"Trying to be my editor now, I see."
She was smiling. Her words didn't sound hateful or angry, but they didn't sound particularly sad or wanting either.
"I don't think there's a reason in the world to think Werner had anything to do with this," I said. "And you can quote me on that if you want to."
She didn't pull her notebook out. "So I take it you're working the case," she said.
Sheriff King had pulled his Nash Airflyte into the driveway and was looking across the yard in our direction. I could hear Dewey shouting his name around the corner of the house.
"You're damn right I am," I said.
Most of the cases I worked, I was never asked. They just kind of fell into my lap. One thing I had learned in my forty-five years: When something falls into your lap, it's usually because, one reason or another, it's supposed to. The least you can do is catch it and be grateful.
About the Author
Tim Bryant published his first novel DUTCH CURRIDGE in 2010, and followed it with two more in the series: SOUTHERN SELECT in 2013 and SPIRIT TRAP in 2014. He was named one of the Top Five Texas Authors of 2014 by BookPeople in Austin, TX. His fifth novel CONSTELLATIONS was released by Behooven Press in April of 2015. His short story "Doll's Eyes" was included in Subterranean Press' IMPOSSIBLE MONSTERS anthology.
Tim also writes and records music, having released albums under his own name, 2Take Tim, Othy and with the international band Ramshackle Day Parade.
He says his heart lives in New Orleans, his head in East Texas. He currently resides with his head and visits his heart whenever possible. He shares his living space with his wife Leela and their two kids.
Read more at Tim Bryant’s site.
