Expect the Unexpected

by John A. Broussard

  “You smashed it against the wall?” Ben’s tone was thick with disbelief.

  “Why, sure. The little bugger was just sitting there.”

  Ben looked at the splash of blood and shook his head. “Now we have one more set of fingerprints for the crew to work with.” Before his exasperation could be fully expressed, the three members of the scene-of-crime team, showed up in the doorway followed shortly by the deputy coroner. They needed no instructions, but went immediately to work, while Ben herded Shelly out, telling her to wait in the patrol car.

  A trip to the upstairs apartment found the couple drinking black coffee and looking much the worse for wear. There was little difference in the story they now told from what Ben had gotten second-hand from the patrolman, adding only when questioned that they didn’t know the victim and had never seen him before. That they might have been involved in the murder seemed unlikely, though Ben dutifully took down their names and would check out their backgrounds.

  By the time he’d returned to the downstairs apartment, the DC had pretty much wrapped up his end of the work. One of the technicians mentioned how, in a new apartment such as this, their job was enormously simplified, especially since there were no pets. Fingerprints would be few. Extraneous debris such as hairs would also be minimal. The DC noted how little blood had flowed from the wounds, and what there was had stayed on the victim’s clothing. He confirmed Ben’s opinion there were no signs of a struggle. There was certainly no indication of blood under the victim’s fingernails, though he’d taken the usual precaution of bagging them to keep them pristine for closer examination later.

  Death he estimated at somewhere around eight, perhaps as late as nine. He said it with the usual caveat about how estimates were always uncertain and how he might be able to do better at postmortem time. “From the way the body’s lying, my guess is it wasn’t someone who came in and shot him. Whoever it was was waiting for him.”

  Ben looked around the room once more. The dust left by the fingerprint man seemed to be everywhere, including—and this provided Ben some wry amusement—on the wall where the bloody remains of the mosquito stood out on the pale wallpaper. A thought occurred to him. Pointing to the spot, he asked the D.C., “Could the lab tell the DNA using a small splotch of blood like that?”

  “Sure. Hell, they can do it with just a single hair follicle. Want me to run it off to them?”

  Ben nodded.

  With a scalpel and an obviously skilled pair of hands, the DC carefully excised the wallpaper and a large portion of the plasterboard under it, leaving the spot of blood almost entirely intact. The result went into its own evidence bag, with a tag initialed by both Ben and the D.C. The latter assured the detective sergeant that, with new state-of-the-art methods, the results of a preliminary analysis would be available in twenty-four hours or less.

  ***

  Garland had expected to hear from the police, but not quite so soon. He’d answered the insistent ringing of the doorbell in his bathrobe shortly after midnight.

  Greeting the Detective Sergeant and his assistant with the requisite amount of surprise, he expressed a similar degree of shock at the news they bore. His alibi, a weak one, was his attendance at a film at the local movie house—a film he admitted he was already familiar with. The theater had been crowded. No one would know when he arrived or when he left. He assured Ben he’d gotten there at seven-thirty and left by nine.

  Further questions produced both the admission he was now the sole owner of Garland & Moss, Inc., and irritation. His irritation peaked at the request he appear at the station the following day to complete and sign a statement. He assured the sergeant he would be there—with his attorney.

  It had all been part of his plan. He had even chosen a none-too-bright lawyer who had defended him on a DUI charge, which had been dropped almost entirely because of the ineptness of the arresting officer. In any event, the choice of Leon Hay was mainly for show. Hay would certainly not probe very deeply into the circumstances around the crime, would take his word for his total lack of involvement, and would blunder along, thinking his advice to be of value at the approaching questioning.

  Meeting with Hay in his office for an hour, Garland went into his explanation of what had happened and why he was a suspect. It rather surprised him to find Hay asking some fairly penetrating questions, after first being assured Garland had had nothing to do with the murder.

  “Were you ever in Moss’s apartment?”

  “No, never. In fact, I’m not even sure where it is. I know it’s somewhere north of town, but that’s about it.”

  “Do you have any idea when he was murdered?’

  “He left work late. Around six. He was on his way to a Chamber meeting which wasn’t due to get over until nine. So it must have been between then and midnight. No, it must have been a lot earlier than midnight, because the police must have spent some time at the crime scene. They showed up at my place shortly after midnight.”

  “Alibi?”

  Garland shrugged and told him what he had told the police, adding how they’d told him they’d found Moss shot to death.

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No. I do know about them, though. Three years in the National Guard reserves.”

  “O. K. If they can’t find any evidence you were there, then you’re home free as far as I can see. But you want to cooperate with them all the way. They’ll have the usual dust from the rug, dog hairs and what not, so they may want to check your wardrobe, your shoes, your car and whatever. They may even ask for a blood sample. Any problem with that?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  “ Fine. It’s obvious they’re just blowing smoke. They don’t have any other suspects so they’ll bring the pressure down on you. I’ll go with you and see to it they don’t try to intimidate you, but I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t answer all of their questions. Cooperate!”

  Five-thirty the following afternoon found Garland, Hay, Ormond and Winter gathered in the interrogation room. With the preliminaries of identification for the tape out of the way, Ormond gave the assurance that, while Garland was a current suspect, it was only because no other motive than his was readily apparent. He went on to assure Garland and his attorney all possible leads would be followed.

  The questioning was surprisingly similar to what Garland had faced in his attorney’s office. The only difference was a request at the end for a blood sample. As Ormond explained, the blood on the victim might or might not all be his. This was simply a way of checking possible suspects.

  Garland tried not to smile and quickly agreed, following a nod from his attorney. They left the station together, congratulating each other on the quick elimination of Garland as a suspect.

  “The key,” Hay again emphasized, “is no one can be convicted unless there’s evidence they were in the apartment sometime last night. As far as I can see, you’re free and clear.”

  At work, the following morning, as Garland was going through his late partner’s files, the receptionist announced the arrival of two visitors. Within moments of their entrance into his office, Ormond had mirandized him, shrugged at his demand to have his lawyer present and allowed him his one phone call. As they sat in the patrol car, Ormond asked, “Are you still insisting you were never in Moss’s apartment.”

  “Absolutely. I never set foot in there. Ever!”

  “Then you better get your lawyer busy trying to explain how a mosquito with your blood in it could have been flying around there when we arrived on the scene.”

  NEIGHBORS

  Stopping by his house, he kissed his mother as Mrs. Hatfield was preparing her for bed.

  His mother’s condition went back many years. Mac had just returned home after his first quarter at law school. Enthusiastic over his studies and the successful completion of what his college mates called “tough” courses, Mac regaled his parents at the dinner table with stories of life at school. His mother encouraged him, heaped the food on his plat
e, and made no effort to hide her pride in this grown-up son who was on his way to becoming a successful attorney. His father listened silently to the rundown of the previous month’s activities.

  The McBain spread was a large one, covering two sections of prime grazing land with several leases on adjacent pieces to accommodate the large herd of whitefaces. Mac had left for school three months earlier with mixed feelings. He wanted badly to go on to a law degree, but he hated to leave the ranch behind.

  Ranch life appealed to him. Yet he wanted something more. The McBain Ranch, which had grown as he had grown, held endless memories. His college days brought no real break with the ranch, since he had commuted and spent his evenings and weekends at home. Law school, however, meant he would have to attend the state university. So on the day, some three months earlier, when he had climbed into his old Dodge, he had felt pangs of regret cutting across the pleasurable anticipation of what lay ahead.

  Though gorged to capacity, Mac still smilingly accepted another helping of the Indian pudding he knew his mother had prepared especially for him. His father, an older edition of his giant son, stood up, stretched, and shook his head at the offer of desert. “Got to check on the calves. When you’re finished, come out and I’ll introduce you to the new batch.”

  Barely able to straighten up after two large helpings of pudding, Mac told his glowing mother he was going out to the barn. “You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll clear up these dishes and come out in a bit. Your Dad’s real proud of those new young ones.”

  Mac went out into the familiar yard. The trees had shed most of their fall colors. The twilight seemed to accentuate the few remaining greens and to mute the reds and yellows. Mac went off to the side door where light from the interior was streaming out into the barnyard. He took in with pleasure the sounds of animals moving about, the soft mewing noise of new mothers, the responding bahs of fresh-born calves, the familiar odor of hay, of feed, even the smell of manure which never became strong in this clean and well-kept barn.

  Walking along the holding pens, he started down the length of the long building. At the third stall, he thought his eyes were deceiving him. Hanging from a rope thrown over an overhead beam, the body of his father was turning slowly; a milking stool was overturned at his feet. In a moment, Mac had him down and knew nothing could be done. How long he sat there with his father’s still head on his lap, he never knew. Looking up, he saw his mother standing in the doorway. She never spoke again.

  Today, after kissing his unresponsive mother, he went into the kitchen to see what he could find in the refrigerator. He remembered those miserable days following his father’s death. The reason for the suicide had become all too apparent. The drought of the previous two years had forced Mac’s father to borrow in order to buy feed. He had loved ranching but had never been an astute businessman.

  Good times tempted him into expansion. Bad times drove him to the bank for loans. Though he had never said anything to Mac, the years when his son was going to college had been especially bad. Simultaneously with Mac’s entry into law school, the bottom fell out of the beef market. The government’s sudden change of policy, which allowed foreign beef to flood the meat cases in American grocery stores, shook even the most secure cattlemen. For those whose footing was already shaky, it meant disaster.

  And Mrs. McBain’s condition never changed. Her sister, Aunt Sue, had arrived from Texas the morning after his father’s death. “No two people were ever more in love than your Mom and Dad,” she told Mac, “so I’m not surprised she’s taking it so hard. You’ll just have to be patient with her and hope for the best.”

  Mac had hoped for the best, prepared for the worst, and knew the ranch was doomed. His father must have added up the liabilities a dozen times and decided there was only one way out. Mac was thankful his father had waited until his son had come home. Going back to law school was not even to be considered. He would have to salvage what he could.

  The following day he had gone to see Charlie Loudermilk, the president of the First National Bank. Charlie shook hands with him and commiserated appropriately. Only a few years older than Mac, Charlie had gone from college into the vice presidency of his father’s bank. Following the latter’s retirement the year before, Charlie had moved into the presidency and into the dark wood-paneled office with its old fashioned leather-upholstered chairs and its aura of established wealth.

  Mac watched Charlie’s bow tie bob up and down under his double chin as he answered Mac’s questions. “We’re going to have to auction off everything. Notes are due by the first of the month. So you’ll have to be out of there by then. I’ve already got the auctioneer coming out to look it over. It will have to go on the block by the third. Real sorry, but you know how it is.”

  Mac nodded. “I know. Still, it will give me time to move our belongings into the town house, anyway.” The town house was a small bungalow Mac’s grandparents had lived in, and which his father had rented out following their death.

  Charlie stirred uneasily. “I guess your Dad didn’t tell you. He needed cash for feed right away, and he was borrowed up to the hilt. So I loaned him money on the household furniture. We’ll have to auction it off, too. You know how it is. Afraid everything at the ranch will have to go.”

  Mac gave shocked agreement.

  Charlie was becoming even more uncomfortable. “Your Dad took out a short term loan on the town house. He had a first mortgage on it already, so I couldn’t give him much. Unless you can come up with $55,000 by the middle of next month, we’ll have to put the house up for sale as soon as possible.

  “That’s really more than it’s worth, and you’re welcome to try and sell it beforehand, but I don’t think you’ll find a buyer who’ll come up with even a down payment at this short a notice. If we break even at the auction, I’ll be happy. After all the paper work, we’re bound to lose money. You know how it is.” He shook his head. “I really should never have made those loans. I felt sorry for your dad, what with the dropping of those beef quotas and all. Thought maybe by spring he’d pull out of it.”

  Mac knew it was hopeless, but he still tried to get an extension on the house loan. “I’m sorry Mac, but you know how it is. There’s a bank board breathing down my neck. Federal auditors could come through anytime looking for bad loans.” He shook his head. “You know how it is.”

  ***

  Mac still remembered the terrible day of the auction.

  Several well-dressed men, “city folk,” sat in the front row. He knew they had come to bid on the ranch. The rest of what was there he figured would be of little interest to them. What surprised him were the number of ranchers and families he recognized. Grim-faced men and somber women. Sitting in the front row of folding chairs, next to the businessmen, was Lem Martin.

  Years before, Mac and his father had been riding the new line fence enclosing some recently acquired pasture land, when they came across Lem driving a battered pick-up along the other side. Lem got out as they reined in. A mangy dog of indeterminate ancestry followed through the open door.

  It soon became evident Lem was angry. He was cradling a rifle with his right arm. His scrawny neck, the stubble of beard making it look like a plucked turkey’s, bulged under the internal pressure of the prominent Adam’s apple. It turned out Lem was convinced McBain had encroached on his property when putting in the fence.

  Mac knew his easy-going father would never quarrel over a few feet of grassland and, with his soft-spoken manner, could mollify the devil himself. Even though his father had assiduously followed the survey markers, he offered to move the fence. Yet Lem remained incensed, perhaps more so because the victory had been so easily achieved.

  Mac had seen him rarely in the intervening years but, when he did, the scene along the line fence always came to mind.

  He could understand Lem’s presence here today, but not of so many others he had counted on as friends. The auctioneer banged the gavel. The ranch was soon disposed of. The amount raised
would pay the mortgage. After the bank had done the necessary paperwork, there might even be a pittance left over for Mac and his mother.

  He waited and watched as the auctioneer started in on household goods and farm implements. On the first item, a stack of dishes, a young couple—strangers—seemed about to make a bid. Someone in the crowd sidled up to them and they desisted. Mac turned away in disgust. “Bunch of vultures. They’re going to get it all, and they’ll make sure no outsiders horn in.”

  He walked back through the barn. The cows and bawling calves had long ago been sold for what little they could bring in this time of depressed prices. The heels of his boots echoed off of the concrete floor. Already a spider was busy weaving her web across the walkway between the stalls. Mac ducked to let her go on undisturbed in her task. Avoiding looking into the third stall, he went out the rear entrance of the barn to take a last survey of the ranch, which stretched out toward the horizon. As he walked out into the open grassland, he could hear the auctioneer’s voice fading into the distance behind him.

  He had tried to explain to his silent mother what had happened and where they stood. He did it more with the thought of explaining it to himself, since he had no way of knowing if she understood or even heard. Jobs, as always in farm country at the edge of winter, were scarce. He would find something to do in town.

  There was an opening for a deputy sheriff’s position, mainly because the pay was so poor. All of the deputies had second jobs, and he would be no different. Except even with two jobs, how would he pay rent, take care of an invalid mother and provide for himself as well? The bank had left them what Charlie Loudermilk called “personal effects” but they now had not so much as a kitchen spoon. The stack of dishes on the auction block flashed through his mind.

  By the time he returned, the auction was winding down. The exasperated auctioneer was virtually giving everything away. There was never more than one bid on anything, always below the beginning price. The ranchers were piling tables and chairs and boxes into their pickups. Lem’s old wreck was packed to where it was flat on the overloads. His dog, looking much like the one Mac had seen years before, and probably a descendant of the earlier mutt, was lolling out the window waiting patiently for Lem.