Comanche

by Brett Riley

  Bradley sat on the couch near Pat and patted her knee. I was hopin you had thought of somethin we missed the other night. Maybe somebody mad at John, or anything out of the ordinary from the last few months.

  Pat took a battered pack of Marlboros and a lighter from her pocket. She offered them to both men, who declined. She lit one and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling, where it wafted and disappeared like fog.

  No. John didn’t have enemies. He’s punched out a few guys in bars over the years, but most of ’em were his best friends, and they hugged like a married couple the next day. The rest were folks we never saw again. Most people liked him just fine.

  Raymond took out his pocket notebook and a pen and scribbled in his own shorthand.

  Now, think hard, Bradley said. Did you see anything that might help us? Somethin the man said, somethin he wore, anything?

  Pat took another long drag and eyed Bradley with something like contempt.

  You mean other than what I already told you? That the son of a bitch looked like he stepped outta 1870 and didn’t have a drop of color on him? How many guys like that can there be in this goddam town?

  She looked hopeless, disinterested, as if none of this mattered. She dropped her cigarette in a beer can. It hissed as it went out. Yes, Raymond had seen rooms like this before, and not all of them had belonged to grief-stricken wives or to widowed private eyes. Some of them had housed plain old drunks who defined alcohol abuse as the failure to finish a drink. If Patricia Wayne had not been an alcoholic before her husband’s death, she would be one soon if she did not snap out of her funk.

  But Raymond was no therapist.

  Ma’am, I hope you don’t mind me askin, and I hope the chief will forgive me if I’m outta line, Raymond said. But you say this fella looked colorless. I’m not sure what that means.

  Pat sighed and favored him with an expression that seemed half patience and half consternation.

  It looked like somebody cut out a person from a black-and-white picture and pasted him into the world, she said. You seen them old pictures of cowboys with dust all over ’em or a Rebel soldier in his gray uniform? This wasn’t like that. It was like the sun had bleached him out. Not just his clothes. His skin and his hair, too. Even them guns he shot my John with. All of him.

  Raymond looked at Bradley and raised his eyebrows.

  I can see usin makeup to hide your face, Bradley said, but I don’t know why anybody would do that to his guns.

  Pat turned to him and sat up straight.

  It wasn’t no fuckin makeup, Bob Bradley. It was just him. Hell, I don’t know what you want from me. I done told you who killed John. Or what.

  Raymond looked at Bradley. The chief’s face reddened.

  Now, Pat, you know that don’t make sense. He turned to Raymond. She believes the Piney Woods Kid killed John.

  Pat Wayne scoffed. Then she got up and walked down the hall, her footfalls thudding on the bare floor. Then the sounds of drawers opening and slamming shut, of Pat’s muttering. Raymond and Bradley stood there, unsure what to do. Raymond shifted from foot to foot. When Pat came back, she carried a newspaper clipping in her hand. She walked over to Bradley, nearly bowling Raymond over, and thrust it in his face, her other hand on her hip.

  You fellas wanna know what that motherfucker looked like? she said. His picture’s right here. You can copy it onto your wanted posters or whatever the hell you use these days. I’m tellin you. The Piney Woods Kid killed my husband, and I don’t care how it sounds.

  Bradley did not take the clipping.

  We already saw that, he said. But we need a live suspect to investigate, some motive. There just ain’t no way to track down and question a fella that’s been dead over a hundred years. And we can’t find another connection between your husband and the folks in this picture. If there’s anything else you might know—

  Pat crossed her arms and scowled. I don’t know anything else. And I don’t know how to make that any plainer. Two folks in that picture are dead. It’s your job to figure out the rest.

  But we already looked—

  I don’t give a damn! she shouted. You just get out there and catch that piece of shit. Find a priest or call a goddam psychic. I don’t care how you do it. Don’t let him get away with this. She put her hands on Bradley’s shoulders, her face inches from his, her voice low and deadly and sad. You hear me? Don’t you let him get away with it.

  Outside, they stopped beside Bradley’s cruiser. Raymond put on his sunglasses and mopped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve.

  She’s right, Raymond said. We gotta be missin somethin.

  I’m tellin you, we’ve gone at this from every angle. Bradley pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  Everybody in this picture’s a suspect and a potential victim. You got enough men to watch ’em all?

  Not full time, and not if we’re gonna keep catchin speeders and meth heads and such. You know C.W. He ain’t gonna let us slack off.

  They stood in silence for a while. Some masochist’s lawn mower sputtered to life. A dog barked.

  Finally, Raymond said, You got them case files?

  Comin soon, Bradley said. I gotta make copies when nobody’s around, which is practically never. If I don’t, C.W. will know.

  We need to talk to him about all this sooner or later. Probably sooner. I’m pretty sure Rennie’s the only reason I haven’t seen him since the hotel lobby, but that won’t last.

  Yeah. Bradley got into his cruiser. But I’d rather catch my nuts in a mousetrap than get him started again.

  Raymond walked back to his car as the chief pulled away. He got in and started it up, the air blowing full blast. He leaned his head back against the seat and waited for it to cool off.

  Chapter Seventeen

  September 8, 2016—Comanche, Texas

  Raymond, LeBlanc, McDowell, and Chief Bradley stood in C.W. Roark’s office at 9 a.m., watching the mayor’s face turn an ever deeper shade of red.

  Bradley had stopped by the hotel on the sixth, bearing files. Raymond and LeBlanc had spent that night and most of yesterday going through them and found nothing new. They still had no alternative logical explanation for the similarities between the two killings, for the mysterious witness testimony and Pat Wayne’s certainty a ghost had gunned down her husband. The one conclusion they had reached—the diner would need to shut down. Take away the prey and the hunting ground, Raymond had said, and maybe the killer moves on or makes a mistake. Still, they had nothing to give Roark but their fears and suppositions.

  When Bradley escorted them into the office, the mayor had, to his credit, tried to stay calm and treat the agency with courtesy. Now you could practically see smoke rising from the man’s ears. Roark stood behind his battered desk, papers falling off and drifting to the floor, and looked at Raymond, LeBlanc, and McDowell with a mixture of anger and disappointment, a strict parent regarding a child who has broken all the windows in the house. Bradley kept shifting from foot to foot and clearing his throat, but C.W. Roark did not intimidate Raymond. McDowell appeared to be thinking about something else entirely, and LeBlanc towered over them all, his face an unreadable mask.

  Let me get this straight, Bob, Roark said. You’ve been workin with them after I ordered you not to. And you want me to shut down my restaurant because Pat Wayne believes a ghost shot her husband.

  I didn’t say that, Bradley protested. I said I ran into Mr. Turner outside Pat Wayne’s house and let him sit in. I figured you’d like that better than if he just waited till I left and talked to her alone.

  Roark glared at Raymond. You should have locked him up like I told you to. Mr. Turner is not part of the Comanche PD. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that, since you run the place.

  Look, I got a half dozen deputies and three shifts to cover. Think about the logistics here. Bradley ticked off the num
bers on his fingers. Red Thornapple. Sue McCorkle. Joyce Johnstone. Adam Garner. And you, Rennie, and Will. That’s seven possible targets. Then there’s the rest of the town, which might go to pot while we’re sittin on your house, waitin to see whether some freak dressed like a gunfighter shows up. We need help. You think the state patrol would commit any manpower here when we got no real suspects except a guy that’s been dead for 130 years? And would you want the Staties here anyway, with the Pow Wow and all?

  Roark sat down and rubbed his temples as if the conversation had given him a headache. Perhaps it had.

  Bradley looked at Raymond and shrugged. They had revealed their information and made their pitch. Bradley had promised to keep the agency in the loop, no matter what, but things would be easier if Roark listened to reason.

  The mayor leaned back in his chair and looked at Raymond, his upper lip curled.

  Go home, Raymond. This clusterfuck don’t need your help to get worse.

  But before anyone could move, a man burst through the door, the mayor’s secretary close behind, saying, You come back here. He’s busy.

  I don’t give a rat’s ass, the newcomer growled. This is a goddam First Amendment issue.

  He stopped short when he saw the office filled with people and looked at them as if they were zoo animals that had somehow wandered into his living room. The man appeared to be in his early forties and stood perhaps five feet, eight inches, a bit overweight for his height, suggesting a white-collar job and too much fast food. His red hair was parted to one side, but the heat and his sweat made it look like a bad toupee. It matched a three-day scruff of reddish beard. A sweat-stained white shirt, an ugly paisley tie, loosened, and a pair of blue jeans suggested he might have gotten dressed three days ago, perhaps in the dark. In his shirt pocket, a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen, both of which he took out.

  Might as well let him in, Janey, Roark said. Hell, everybody else in town is already here.

  Janey retreated as the disheveled newcomer shouldered his way past Raymond and Bradley, saying, I got your voicemail.

  Look— Roark said.

  You’re puttin money ahead of people’s lives, and the goddam Constitution, too. Or am I wrong? It sounded like you’re threatenin to cut me outta the loop if I print any more stories about the murders.

  Roark glanced at his guests. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on his desk.

  I never said that, Red.

  I can’t give you any information if I can’t trust you is what you said. Jesus, C.W., your name’s on that list, too.

  Roark stood up again. I know that, damn it. But if you call this nut a serial killer, half this town will hightail it outta here, and our only tourist dollars will come from sicko murder groupies and ghost chasers. Besides, we got two dead. That ain’t serial murder.

  Accordin to the FBI, it is, Thornapple said. Bob can tell you the definition if you ain’t looked it up.

  He’s right, Bradley said.

  Am I the only one here who cares about this town? Roark said.

  Thornapple said something about freedom of the press and the public’s right to know, but Raymond was not listening. Lorena Harveston and John Wayne, both dead. C.W. Roark and his son, Will, who was, what, seventeen years old? Red Thornapple, newspaperman. Sue McCorkle, a housewife and mother. Joyce Johnstone, a law-office secretary. And Adam Garner, a long-haul trucker. According to Bradley, Garner would probably be gone another week, but he ate at the diner several times a month, so once he came back, he would be a prime target. The rest were already in town. So many people to watch, investigate, protect, or avenge. And still, C.W. stood there blustering, as if they were planning a public-relations attack campaign to destroy Comanche’s reputation. Somebody needed to grab him by his lapels and yank him across the desk and shout in his face that as long as people were dying, nobody gave a shit about his beautification projects or where you could shop.

  God, Raymond needed a drink. Maybe a dozen.

  In all the years I’ve known you, Thornapple said, I never thought you’d piss on the First Amendment, especially with your own ass in the sling.

  Well, unlike you, I ain’t just worried about my own ass, Roark said. The town’s economy is at stake.

  You think I’m worried about my paper? Thornapple cried. Goddam it, I already got all the circulation I’m ever gonna get. But it’s my job to tell those people the truth, not get you their votes. Or are you just worried about your diner?

  Roark came around his desk, ready to deck the much smaller Red Thornapple. The chief grabbed Roark, while LeBlanc bear-hugged Thornapple from behind and pulled him away. Raymond stood between them, his arms outstretched like a referee trying to hold back two fighters until the opening bell. Janey the secretary pressed herself against the wall, her face as white as a cotton ball, while McDowell leaned in a corner, hands pressed to her temples. All their shit is hittin her like a tidal wave.

  After a moment, Roark shook loose from Bradley and walked back around his desk. He sat down, the leather chair creaking, and slammed one fist on his desk. LeBlanc put Thornapple down. The newspaperman shook his head in disgust.

  All right, Raymond said. If you two are through, we need to figure out what to do here.

  You ain’t in this, Roark said.

  Raymond started to reply, but McDowell touched his arm and shook her head, so he said nothing.

  Bradley edged past Raymond and LeBlanc and put his hands on Red Thornapple’s shoulders and looked him in the eye.

  I ain’t askin you to kill any story. But I’m hopin you’ll sit on it a while. C.W.’s right about some things. If you start talkin serial killer this and Piney Woods Kid that, we’ll have all the TV reporters, half-ass bloggers, and conspiracy nuts in the Southwest hangin off every lamppost and tree limb in town. Give us some time.

  Thornapple looked hard at the chief. It seemed he might tell Bradley to go to hell. But then he took a deep breath and exhaled.

  I can’t hold off forever. A week, ten days, tops. After that, I tell people what I know. And if there’s another killin, all bets are off.

  Bradley looked at Roark. That sounds fair to me. How about you, C.W.?

  Roark frowned and flapped a hand at them. Why ask me? I’m only the goddam mayor.

  As he talked, Rennie appeared in the doorway, wearing a sea-green skirt and blouse, her hair in a bun. She stepped past them all and stood in front of her husband, who groaned.

  Oh, great. Fine. Now we’re bringin people in off the street to tell me how to do my job.

  Raymond coughed. The chief held up his hands in surrender. LeBlanc looked away.

  Rennie put her hands on her hips. Ain’t this a meetin of the minds, she said.

  We’re a little busy here, C.W. said. Whatever it is, it can wait till I get home.

  Seems like every time I walk into a room, you’re yellin at my brother, she said. So let me save you some wear on your ulcer. Bob and his department will work with Raymond.

  That ain’t your call.

  Maybe you’re willin to play Russian roulette with your life, but you won’t do it with our son’s. He’s a descendant, too. Or did you forget that while you were chasin tourist nickels?

  Roark’s face reddened again. He looked murderous, as if he might reach across the desk and backhand her.

  Don’t you dare, Raymond thought.

  The police should handle town business, C.W. said. There’s more at stake here than just us.

  Rennie walked around the desk and took his hand and patted it, like a mother comforting a small child. I know there is. But Ray and Darrell ain’t the FBI. I want you to let him do what he does.

  Why would I? After all he’s done to you?

  Because I’m askin it. And because we gotta do anything we can to keep Will safe.

  Roark looked into her eyes. He seemed to deflate. Then he tu
rned to Raymond, LeBlanc, and McDowell as he restacked some papers on his desk.

  Fine. I’m done fightin this. But if y’all make things worse, it’s on your heads, not mine.

  Then he stood up and walked out of the office, bumping Raymond on the way out. He did not excuse himself. Janey the secretary trailed after him, waving some papers he needed to sign. He ignored her. They turned the corner.

  Everyone stood in the office, unsure of what to do.

  Ray, Rennie said, turning to him. Find this son of a bitch. Keep my family safe.

  She hugged him. He put his arms around her and closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head. She let go, turned on her heel, and walked out, leaving Bradley, Thornapple, Raymond, LeBlanc, and McDowell standing in the mayor’s office.

  The phone rang. Bradley glanced at it and then at Janey’s empty desk. He picked up the receiver.

  Mayor’s office, he said, opening a drawer and taking out a pen and notepad.

  Raymond and LeBlanc followed McDowell out of the room.

  Who the hell were those folks? Red Thornapple said.