Murder in the Air

by Bill Crider

  For some reason Rhodes found himself drawn back to the rock pit. He didn’t know what kind of answer he thought he’d find there. He was pretty sure the turtle didn’t have any wisdom to impart, and the giant catfish wouldn’t be any smarter, not if Rhodes knew catfish.

  Rhodes went by his house and got his fishing tackle. The tackle box was dusty, and Rhodes hoped the monofilament line hadn’t deteriorated. It had been a long time since it had been in the water.

  After leaving his house, Rhodes drove by the Dairy Queen and bought a burger, fries, and a drink. He told himself that he would’ve gotten a vegetarian burger if there had been one on the menu. It wasn’t his fault that one wasn’t offered, and, after all, he’d passed on getting a Blizzard. They were on sale, too. He could at least feel virtuous about that.

  When he got to the rock pit, he put his five dollars in the mailbox, this not being an official investigative visit. He drove close to the willow trees to park. No one else was around, maybe because it was a little too cool for fishing or because it was the wrong time of day. Rhodes sat in the car and ate his burger and fries. If he’d been expecting inspiration to hit, he’d been fooled. The fries were good, though.

  Rhodes finished his meal and made sure to get all his trash into the paper bag the food had come in. Then he got his rod and tackle box out of the car and walked to just about where Hal Gillis had been when he spotted Lester Hamilton’s body. The breeze ruffled the leaves of the willows, making a sound as if invisible sparrows were flitting around in them.

  Clicking open the tackle box, Rhodes took out a spinner bait with a yellow and black plastic skirt. He tied the spinner to the monofilament and cast it into the rock pit. He reeled it slowly back toward the bank, never thinking he’d get a strike, which he didn’t.

  He made another cast, remembering everything that had happened in the last few days, from the discovery of Hamilton’s body to the death of Hal Gillis to the tussle between Benton and Qualls.

  It was Qualls who occupied most of his thoughts. What would he do, now that he was the owner of the chicken farm? Would he shut it down, or would the lure of the money be too much for him to resist? It might be that he could take steps to make the operation more acceptable to the people in Mount Industry without the state having to intervene, but would it be as profitable if he did? Having fought against the place for so long, what would he do without it? He’d have to find a new hobby. Maybe he’d like to take up fishing.

  Or maybe that was too dangerous. Look what had happened to Hamilton. Rhodes wondered if Qualls had been mixed up in Hamilton’s death, but he just couldn’t see it.

  Rhodes reeled in the spinner. As it got nearer the bank, it rose higher and higher, and the silver blade glinted under the water’s surface. It should have looked enticing to the fish, and Rhodes couldn’t believe they were able to resist it. They were, however. As far as Rhodes could tell, the rock pit was as empty of fish as his bathtub at home.

  He made another cast. The sinker hit the water with hardly a splash and began to sink. Rhodes reeled it in.

  He thought about what he’d found at the scene after Lester’s death. Something about the experience had bothered him at the time, and he replayed it in his mind. When he pulled the spinner out of the water for another cast, it came to him. It might not be anything, but it was something he should have checked at once. Not that it was hard to overlook, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly or he’d have seen that something was wrong.

  He drew back the rod and sailed the spinner as far as he could over the water of the rock pit. The wind caught it and took it a bit farther than Rhodes had thought he could cast, at least halfway across the pit, maybe more. This time he was bound to get a strike.

  He didn’t, but the spinner that was trolling through his mind hooked something else that he’d seen, something that had meant nothing to him at the time, but it was something he should have paid more attention to. Once again, it might be nothing, but it was one more thing he’d have to check out.

  This time when Rhodes lifted the spinner from the water, the old moss-backed turtle floated up almost to the surface. A smaller turtle rose beside it and bobbed up from the water like a cork. Both of them looked at Rhodes, or he thought they did. They might have been looking at the sky, or they might have been looking at nothing at all. It was hard to tell with turtles.

  Rhodes delayed his cast and watched the turtles that might or might not have been watching him. A minute or so passed with nothing happening, and then the turtles sank below the surface and disappeared. Rhodes wondered how they rose and sank so effortlessly. There was obviously more to a turtle than met the eye.

  He cast the spinner, wondering what else he’d overlooked in his investigation. His biggest mistake had been asking Seepy Benton for help. What had happened with Qualls wasn’t entirely Benton’s fault. Rhodes should never have involved an amateur, though of course Benton didn’t consider himself an amateur. He thought of himself as a seasoned crime fighter, something on the order of Batman.

  Thinking of Benton’s amateur approach, Rhodes realized he’d made another mistake, or maybe two mistakes, both of them involving Jennifer Loam. He reeled in the spinner as quickly as he could, buzzing it across the top of the water. He didn’t want a strike this time.

  Rhodes pulled the spinner out of the water and used a pair of nail clippers from the tackle box to snip it off the line. He shook some of the water out of the skirt. The spinner clinked as water droplets glittered in the sun. Rhodes put the spinner and nail clippers back in the tackle box. After he stowed the rod and tackle box in the car, he headed back to town.

  Rhodes had just passed the Clearview city limit sign when Hack came on the radio.

  “You need to get out to the college,” Hack said.

  “Another riot?” Rhodes asked.

  “Nothin’ like that. It’s that Seepy Benton. He says he’s got to talk to you. Says it’s urgent. That’s the very word he used. Urgent.”

  “Did he say why it was so urgent?”

  “Nope. Just said it was something you’d want to know about.”

  Rhodes hoped Benton wasn’t being held hostage in his office by Qualls.

  “Did he sound all right?”

  “Sounded fine to me.”

  “Not nervous or anything?”

  “That fella never sounded nervous in his life,” Hack said.

  Rhodes didn’t want to take a detour, but when Benton said something was urgent, it probably was, even if Benton wasn’t nervous about it. Rhodes told Hack he’d drop by the college and see what was up.

  “Ruth told me about what happened while ago. You think she oughta be seein’ a fella like Benton?”

  “He’s okay,” Rhodes said.

  “Hah,” Hack said.

  The college campus was calm when Rhodes arrived. It was three thirty, the afternoon lull between the majority of the daytime classes and the ones held in the evenings. Rhodes parked and went inside. He didn’t see the dean, which was just as well.

  Benton sat in his second-floor office. Qualls was there, too. They were talking quietly when Rhodes got to the door. He stood outside until they noticed him.

  “Come on in, Sheriff,” Benton said. “I’d ask you to have a seat, but as you can see there’s not another one.”

  “I’m used to standing,” Rhodes said.

  He shoved some papers away with his foot and noticed something on the floor. He bent to pick it up and saw that it was a small ceramic turtle. He held it up and asked Benton if it belonged to him.

  “Yes,” Benton said. “I’m glad you found it. I’ve been looking for it. Did you know that turtles are considered sacred in a lot of cultures, including Native American culture?”

  “No,” Rhodes said, handing Benton the turtle.

  “Well, they are,” Benton said.

  Benton held up the turtle for Qualls and Rhodes to admire. Qualls didn’t look at it. He sat looking down at his feet or at something on the floor.


  “Turtles figure in a lot of creation myths,” Benton said, “and they carry a lot of wisdom. Turtles have been around for a long time, maybe forever. They’ve seen hundreds, thousands, of other animal species come and go. They know patience and how to wait. They can teach us a lot if we’ll just open ourselves up and listen.”

  Benton set the turtle on his desk amid the clutter, and Rhodes thought about seeing the turtles at the rock pit. He didn’t think it would be wise to mention them to Benton, who’d just go off on some tangent about how they were mystical visitors sent to give him insight. Rhodes didn’t think that was at all likely, though Benton would have certainly disagreed.

  “Hack told me you’d called,” Rhodes said to Benton. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ask not what you can do for me,” Benton said. “Ask what I can do for you.”

  “I’ll play along. What can you do for me?”

  Benton looked at Qualls, who was still contemplating the floor.

  “Dr. Qualls has something to tell you,” Benton said. “You might want to close the door first.”

  Rhodes wasn’t sure he wanted to be shut in the office with Benton and Qualls, but maybe the turtle would protect him in case of emergency. He closed the door. It locked automatically with a click.

  “Your turn, Dr. Qualls,” Benton said.

  Qualls raised his head, but he didn’t say anything. Rhodes looked at his hands, but the left one was concealed under the right.

  “Let me help out,” Benton said. “Dr. Qualls is having a little trouble with phrasing what he wants to tell you. It’s sort of a confession.”

  “Sort of?” Rhodes asked, thinking of how he’d told Burns that he’d “not exactly” made an arrest.

  “It’s not a confession,” Qualls said, speaking up at last. “It’s more in the nature of a question about the law.”

  “I can handle questions,” Rhodes said. “Ask me.”

  “It’s not exactly a question, either.”

  “Just start talking, then,” Rhodes said. “Sometimes that’s the best way.”

  Qualls hesitated, thinking it over. Finally he got the words out.

  “I came down here to apologize to Dr. Benton,” Qualls said. “I’m the one who started our little . . . tussle. I overreacted. I admit it.” He paused. “At any rate, Dr. Benton and I started talking, and he told me about his undercover work as a citizen deputy.”

  Rhodes hoped he didn’t wince. If he did, Qualls didn’t notice.

  “Dr. Benton said that if I talked to you about . . . certain things, I might not have to go to jail, which was certain to happen otherwise because you were ‘onto me.’ ”

  “I didn’t make him any promises,” Benton said. “I know better than that.”

  “Can we talk about this as a hypothetical situation?” Qualls said, ignoring Benton.

  “Sure,” Rhodes said. “Let me help you out. If someone in this office right now was, hypothetically, the fella we’ve been calling Robin Hood, he really wouldn’t have much to worry about. Misdemeanors only, unless one of the county commissioners gets too carried away. I think I can help out there. It wasn’t the joke that bothered him, by the way. It was the tire. Robin Hood really shouldn’t have shot the tire.”

  “He couldn’t help himself,” Qualls said. “Hypothetically. He hadn’t planned to do it, but the car just looked so smug sitting there that he couldn’t resist.”

  “I can see how that would happen.”

  “It shouldn’t have. Robin Hood would be glad to apologize.”

  “That might do him some good. Let’s say Robin Hood decides to admit what he’s been doing. What would be the reason for the change of heart?”

  “Dr. Benton’s very persuasive,” Qualls said.

  Benton sat up straighter and seemed to swell a little in his chair, but Rhodes figured he was just imagining it.

  “He told me that you knew what I’d been doing,” Qualls continued. “He said that you were just biding your time and that you’d asked him to help out so I could get off as lightly as possible.”

  Rhodes had, of course, said no such thing. He looked at Benton, who had assumed an expression of what he probably thought was bland innocence.

  “Then there’s the fact that I seem to be the new owner of the chicken farm,” Qualls continued. “Or I will be when Lester Hamilton’s will is probated. That’s going to take a while, according to the attorney.”

  “Randy Lawless,” Rhodes said.

  “Yes. Odd name for an attorney. At any rate, I’ll eventually be the owner of the chicken farm, and I’ll have a responsibility to the community. I don’t want to have the possibility of a jail sentence hanging over me.”

  “We don’t seem to be talking hypothetically anymore,” Rhodes said.

  “No, I suppose we aren’t. I want to do the right thing. I’ve been childish, and it hasn’t paid off. I need to clear my conscience.”

  “Just a minute,” Benton said. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. The Robin Hood bit helped call attention to the problem, and the state needs to come in and get that place cleaned up now. We can’t wait until you’re the owner in six months or a year.”

  “I might have helped call attention to the problem,” Qualls said, “but I went about it in the wrong way. It wasn’t just the Robin Hood thing, Sheriff. I was rude to you and your deputy when you questioned me, and that was wrong, too. I’m sorry about that. What do you think will happen if I make a formal confession?”

  “You’ll have to pay a fine,” Rhodes said. “I don’t think it will go any farther than that.”

  “The publicity will be embarrassing,” Qualls said, “but I can handle it. I can even handle making a public apology to Commissioner Burns if that will help.”

  “I think it will,” Rhodes said, thinking that Burns might be a little disappointed that terrorists hadn’t shot his tire. There went the grant for the M-16. “I can’t make any promises, though, any more than Dr. Benton could.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.” Qualls stood up. “Let’s get started.”

  Benton stood up, too.

  “Book ’im, Dan-o,” he said.

  28

  “I’m armed, you know,” Rhodes told Benton. “I could shoot you right now and claim self-defense.”

  “There’s a witness,” Benton said, indicating Qualls.

  “I can’t see a thing,” Qualls said. “There’s something in my eye.”

  Benton held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was just making a joke. I wasn’t even sure you were old enough to remember that TV show.”

  “I saw it in reruns,” Rhodes said, “and I’ve heard the joke before. Not since I was a deputy, though. Even then it was old.”

  “I promise not to say it again.”

  “Good,” Rhodes said. “Dr. Qualls, you can turn yourself in tomorrow. Right now I have some other business to take care of. I’ll have the dispatcher give you a call.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Rhodes left the two instructors in Benton’s office and drove to the building that housed the Clearview Herald, Blacklin County’s only newspaper. For over a hundred years, it had been a daily. Rhodes had been a paperboy there in his youth, but the newspaper industry had fallen on hard times in recent years, and the Herald was no exception. There were no more paperboys, just a couple of guys who drove around town throwing the paper from their cars.

  Even sadder to Rhodes was the fact that the paper was now going to a three-days-a-week schedule in a couple of months, and the staff, which had consisted of the editor and two reporters, had been cut back. The editor had retired, and Nelson “Goober” Vance, who had done all the sports reporting, along with a number of other things, had become editor. Vance was about fifty, mostly bald, and about forty pounds overweight. Besides being the editor, he still had all his other duties, and he wasn’t too happy about it.

  He also didn’t know where Jennifer Loam was.

  “She told me she had to get some info
rmation,” Vance said. “Then she left. She’s kind of independent, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Rhodes said.

  They were in Vance’s little office, which looked out on the empty newsroom. The furnishings consisted of three desks with computer monitors on them. The computer monitors were dark. No one sat at any of the desks. The secretary had left for the day, and Jennifer had disappeared.

  “She didn’t give you any idea of where she was going?” Rhodes asked, though he thought he knew the answer already.

  “No, she didn’t say. I think it had something to do with the story she was working on, but she was pretty close-mouthed about that. It was her story, and she wasn’t going to let anybody else in on it.”

  “So you don’t know what she was looking for?”

  “Nope. She thinks this chicken farm reporting is the big series of stories that’s going to win her the Pulitzer.” Vance wheezed a laugh. “Or if not that, get her a job on a bigger paper than this one. She doesn’t seem to realize that in ten years there won’t even be any more papers.”

  “There’ll always be newspapers,” Rhodes said.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Sheriff. Loam’s just a youngster, but she’s a dying breed. My advice to her would be to get herself a blog and forget the print media. It’s over for us. Look around. Nobody here but me, and before long they’ll get rid of me, too. That’ll leave Loam, if she’s lucky. If she’s not, they’ll just fold the paper around her and toss her in the trash.”

  “You’re a real ray of sunshine,” Rhodes said.

  “Just a realist. It’s not just newspapers. Won’t be any books around in ten years, either. Everybody’ll have those little handheld deals that you can download books into.”

  Rhodes thought about Clyde Ballinger. Rhodes was sure the books that Ballinger liked to read wouldn’t be available on the handheld machines.

  “I’m playing out the string here at the Herald,” Vance said, “and I hope I make it to retirement before they cut me loose.”

  “Have the Robin Hood stories and the chicken farm stories helped the circulation?”