Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 20 - Compound Murder

by Bill Crider

  Duke’s car was parked outside the opening, and Rhodes parked beside it. He got out, and in the heat of the early afternoon he could almost smell the hot metal. He didn’t see Duke, so he supposed the deputy must be in the office. Rhodes opened the door and went inside. He appreciated the cool of the air-conditioning.

  Duke stood in front of a waist-high counter, talking to a big man with the name ERIC stitched over the pocket of his shirt. So the management might have changed, but the uniform hadn’t.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” Duke said.

  He was tall, and he looked even taller in his Western-style hat, which he hadn’t removed. Rhodes never wore a hat, but now that his hair was thinning he might have to take up the habit. He’d already decided he wasn’t going to wear a baseball cap.

  “I’ve been having a talk with Eric here,” Duke said. “I don’t think he likes me. Isn’t that right, Eric.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said.

  The uniform was the same, and so was the vocabulary. Or the lack of it.

  “Eric’s problem is that he feels put-upon because I’m here,” Duke said. “He feels I’m accusing him of receiving stolen goods.”

  “Is that right, Eric?” Rhodes asked.

  “Yeah,” Eric said.

  “Would those stolen goods he’s thinking about be copper?” Rhodes asked. “The kind that comes from air conditioners?”

  “They would,” Duke said, “and the air conditioners would be the ones at the Baptist church. They won’t be conditioning any more air because somebody gutted them last night, and I thought Eric might know something about it. Not that I was accusing him of anything. Just having a little friendly talk.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said.

  He didn’t sound sincere to Rhodes.

  “What made you think Eric might know something?” he asked Duke.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Eric said.

  Rhodes turned to him, gratified to hear him speak a complete sentence.

  “He thinks we’re crooks, that’s what,” Eric continued. “Just because we buy scrap here. I told him he could look all around, anywhere he wanted to, across the street and everywhere.”

  The buildings across the street had once been cotton warehouses. Rhodes had searched them before. Besides a quantity of sizable rats, the buildings had at one time held stolen metal, but it had been removed before Rhodes got there.

  “Is that right?” Rhodes asked. “You don’t mind if he looks around?”

  “Not a bit,” Eric said. “He’s welcome to go anywhere, just like I said, just so he has a search warrant.”

  “See how he is?” Duke asked. “A friend wouldn’t be saying anything about search warrants. A friend would just invite me to look around and see what’s what. Isn’t that right, Eric.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said, “but I’m not your friend. I’m an honest businessman who’s trying to get along in a tough economy, and you’re hassling me.”

  “Some other people out there are trying to get along in a tough economy by stealing copper out of church air conditioners,” Duke said. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  “Doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Eric said. “I don’t always know where something I buy comes from.”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Rhodes said.

  “Yeah.”

  Eric was within his rights. A few years earlier, the Texas legislature had made the theft of any amount of copper or aluminum a felony, but they hadn’t imposed the same penalty on people who bought the metal. The law of unintended consequences had kicked in. Instead of decreasing, the number of thefts had soared.

  Some large Texas cities, like Houston and Austin, had fought back by passing ordinances that required scrap metal buyers to report the receipt of materials they believed to be stolen. Clearview had no such ordinance, but as far as Rhodes knew, the ones in the cities hadn’t done any good anyway. The penalties didn’t have any teeth, and they were widely ignored.

  “You’re in the clear, Eric,” Rhodes said, “no matter what. You haven’t done anything that’s against the law, so if you’ve bought any copper today, why not tell us who brought it in?”

  “You gotta understand my position here,” Eric said. “If I start calling the sheriff every time somebody brings in some scrap, people won’t sell to me. I’ll be out of business. You act like all of ’em are thieves, but they aren’t. Maybe none of ’em are. They don’t want me siccing the cops on them.”

  “Especially the thieves,” Duke said.

  “Yeah.”

  Rhodes could see they weren’t going to get anything more out of Eric, and getting a search warrant wasn’t worth the trouble. By the time they got back with it, the copper, if it had ever been there, would be long gone.

  “Let’s go, Duke,” Rhodes said. “We’ll leave Eric to tend to his business.”

  “You sure, Sheriff? I think he was about to come around. Isn’t that right, Eric.”

  “Nope,” Eric said.

  * * *

  Rhodes stopped outside the office and turned to Duke. “You have any evidence that the copper from the church wound up here?”

  “Not a smidgen,” Duke said. “It just seemed likely. More than likely, to tell the truth.”

  “You’re probably right,” Rhodes said. “It was worth a try. We’ll have to keep an eye on the place. Right now I’m going to pay a visit to a college professor. You can follow me and be my backup.”

  “You need backup for a college teacher? Why?”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He lied to me,” Rhodes said.

  * * *

  Rhodes had noticed how nervous Harris was when they’d had their conversation about Wellington, and Rhodes remembered very well that Harris had told him he’d been in the faculty lounge the morning Wellington died. Benton had told Rhodes that Harris was part of the usual crowd, but neither Benton nor Mary Mason had remembered that Harris was there that morning. That didn’t look good for Harris.

  Rhodes called Hack and asked him to get Harris’s address.

  “What for?” Hack asked.

  “I’m going to see him. Duke’s my backup. What’s the address?”

  “Hang on.”

  The radio hummed and buzzed for a minute. Then Hack came back on and gave Rhodes the address.

  “Why’re you goin’ to see him?” Hack asked.

  “I need to talk to him,” Rhodes said and signed off. He smiled, thinking that Hack’s blood pressure was likely to be spiking.

  The address Hack had given him was in one of the older parts of town, though there were still some people around who could remember when it had been one of the newer ones. When the houses were built, there had been no trees around them, but now tall pecan and elm trees shaded the no-longer-fashionable houses, most of which sat on large lots and had backyards with high board fences to shield them from the neighbors.

  Rhodes parked at the curb in front of Harris’s house. Harris wasn’t one of those people who liked to work in the yard. The grass, where it wasn’t shaded by the trees, was dead. The flower beds along the front of the house were filled with weeds, and there were no flowers in sight. Rhodes wasn’t a yard person, either, so the sight didn’t bother him in the least. He got out of his car and waited for Duke, who pulled up to the curb behind him.

  “Ranch style,” Duke said, joining Rhodes at his car. “From the fifties, right?”

  “I think so. It’s been kept up, though.”

  “Not the yard,” Duke said.

  “Not everybody likes yard work.”

  “I do. What’re we after this college guy for besides that he lied to you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rhodes said, “but something’s going on with him. I thought it might be a good idea to have someone with me in case he assaulted me with a poetry book.”

  Duke hitched up his holster. “I’m your man.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Rhodes said.

  They went up the cr
acked walk, and Rhodes knocked on the front door. No one responded, and Rhodes was about to knock again when he heard someone moving around inside. Harris’s voice, muffled by the door, asked who was there.

  “Sheriff Dan Rhodes.”

  The door opened, but only a little bit. Harris didn’t take off the chain latch, and Rhodes could see only a bit of his face through the opening.

  “I was about to go back to the campus, Sheriff,” Harris said. “Can we talk there?”

  “Better that we do it here and now,” Rhodes said.

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “Deputy Duke Pearson. He’ll be sitting in on our discussion.”

  If Harris didn’t want to let them in, there was nothing Rhodes could do, aside from kicking down the door, which might be fun but which wasn’t strictly legal, no matter how many times it happened on TV shows.

  Harris either didn’t know that Rhodes didn’t have a right to kick down his door or he didn’t want to avoid Rhodes badly enough to take the chance. The door closed. Rhodes heard the chain slide out of the slot, and then the door opened.

  Harris didn’t look as dapper as he had on the previous morning. His eyes were red, as if he hadn’t slept much, and he didn’t have on a jacket and tie, just some khaki slacks, a white shirt, and a pair of scuffed loafers.

  “I’m supposed to have office hours this afternoon,” Harris said. “I really do need to get back to the campus.”

  “We won’t keep you long,” Rhodes said.

  Harris gave in. “All right. Come on into the den.”

  Rhodes and Duke followed Harris into a paneled room with new carpet and bookshelves along two walls. The bookshelves were filled with neatly arranged volumes with colorful spines. If there was one thing Rhodes had learned so far in the investigation, it was that college English teachers owned a lot of books.

  A big flat-screen TV set hung on a third wall of the den. The furniture looked as if it might have come with the house, but if it had, it had been well taken care of. Harris stood near the sofa. He didn’t invite them to sit, so maybe he planned to do the looming this time if Rhodes gave him a chance.

  Rhodes didn’t. “We’ll be here long enough for you to have a seat,” he said.

  Harris dropped down on the sofa. The inlaid mahogany coffee table in front of it held a couple of coasters and the TV remote.

  Duke sat in an uncomfortable-looking chair, while Rhodes loomed.

  “I have a couple of questions about yesterday morning,” Rhodes said.

  He waited a couple of seconds, but Harris didn’t respond.

  “You said you were in the faculty lounge when you heard about Wellington’s death,” Rhodes said.

  Harris looked up at him. “I did? Then I must’ve been there.”

  “I don’t think you were,” Rhodes said. “I’ve talked to several people who were, and nobody remembers having seen you. You’re usually on hand to get your early cup of coffee, so what happened to keep you away yesterday?”

  “I’m pretty sure I was there,” Harris said.

  Harris had been nervous at the campus when Rhodes talked to him, but he was worse now. His voice was weak. He slumped, twisted his hands together, and didn’t look up at Rhodes.

  “Not according to the people I talked to.”

  Harris tried to buck up. He straightened his back and put his hands on his knees.

  “They must be mistaken, then,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” Rhodes said. “I think you’re hiding something from me. Why don’t you tell me now and save us both some time.”

  Harris was undergoing a transformation. He stood up and looked Rhodes squarely in the eyes.

  “I don’t know a thing, and it’s time for me to get back to the college. Unless I’m under arrest. Am I under arrest?”

  TV, Rhodes thought. Everybody watched too much TV.

  “You’re not under arrest,” he said. “You can go whenever you want to.”

  “I thought so. You can go first. I’ll see you to the door.”

  “No need of that,” Rhodes said. “Come on, Deputy Pearson.”

  Duke hadn’t said a word the whole time. He unfolded his lanky frame and got up out of the chair. It didn’t look easy, but he managed it. Rhodes was halfway to the door when Duke caught up with him.

  “He’s guilty of something,” Duke said. “I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s something.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Rhodes said.

  Chapter 17

  Duke went back on patrol, and Rhodes went to the jail. He didn’t have time for Hack and Lawton’s banter, so to avoid it and to satisfy them, he told them pretty much what he’d been doing. They didn’t have any good stories to entertain him with, so Rhodes worked for a few minutes on his reports. He had a feeling there was something he’d overlooked, maybe more than one thing. He figured it would come to him if he didn’t worry about it, but there was a little itchy feeling at the back of his brain that wouldn’t leave him alone. He’d almost figured it out when Buddy came in, and then Rhodes remembered what it was.

  “How’d it go at the courthouse this morning?” Rhodes asked.

  “The judge released the kid on a personal bond,” Buddy said. “I hope that was the right thing.”

  “The boy needs him an education,” Hack said. “Might as well let him get one. Without it he might end up like me, a broke-down old dispatcher for a sheriff who don’t appreciate what-all he does.”

  “You know better than that,” Rhodes said. “Everybody appreciates you.”

  “You think I’m broke down, though.”

  “I think you’re healthy as a hog.”

  “Now you’re callin’ me a hog.”

  Rhodes looked at Buddy. “See what I have to put up with? It’s all right, though. I’m used to it. Here’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you have to take Ike home?”

  “Nope. Somebody picked him up.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. I just know I offered him a ride, and he said he didn’t need one. I never thought to look to see who it was that came for him.”

  “See if you can find out,” Rhodes said. “Go back to the courthouse and ask around. Some of those guys who sit out under the pecan trees all day might be able to tell you.”

  Buddy left to do some asking. Rhodes checked his computer to see if Jennifer Loam had any breaking news to report. He immediately wished he hadn’t checked because the top story, crowding Wellington’s death down the page, was the epic tale of Sheriff Dan Rhodes versus the wild hog at Hannah Bigelow’s house. There were even photos of the house, the pig, Hannah, and Mr. Wooton.

  Rhodes looked over at Hack, who was sitting at his desk and trying to appear busy while affecting a look of childlike innocence at the same time. He wasn’t pulling it off.

  “Hack,” Rhodes said.

  Hack turned to face Rhodes. “You need somethin’?”

  “I need to know if there are spies in this department.”

  “Spies? What kind of spies?”

  “The kind of spies that’re feeding information to Jennifer Loam for her Web site.”

  Hack’s look of surprise was no more convincing than his look of childlike innocence.

  “You thinkin’ maybe Lawton’d do somethin’ like that?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking maybe you’d do something like that.”

  Hack looked hurt. Again, unconvincing. “Me?”

  “You,” Rhodes said. “This story quotes ‘unnamed sources in the sheriff’s department.’”

  “That could be Lawton,” Hack said. “Since it’s unnamed and all.”

  Lawton was cleaning the cells and so not able to defend himself, but Rhodes didn’t think Lawton was the guilty party.

  “Besides,” Hack said, “just because we work here don’t mean we don’t have freedom of speech. If somebody was to call here, and I’m not sayin’ anybody
did, and ask about what the sheriff was workin’ on or if there was any big stories, well, a person would be obliged to tell ’em. We work for the public, and we gotta keep ’em informed about what-all is happenin’ and how we’re keepin’ ’em safe from things like wild hogs and such as that.”

  “We don’t have to tell them about hogs that aren’t wild.”

  “Sure we do. That’s the very kind of thing that folks care about. You think they care about people stealin’ copper wire or car batteries? Well, maybe they do, a little bit, but what they really care about is a hog gettin’ into Hannah Bigelow’s house.”

  The sad thing about what Hack said was that Rhodes thought it was probably true.

  “You ain’t gonna start makin’ us clear it with you when we talk to reporters, are you?” Hack asked. “That’d be like we were livin’ in Soviet Russia in the days when there was such a thing. Censorship, that’s what it’d be.”

  Rhodes didn’t think it would be as bad as all that, but he couldn’t really blame Hack for telling Jennifer the story. Hack might have made it sound more interesting than it had been, but Jennifer Loam was the one who’d gone out for the photos and the interviews, and Bigelow and Wooton exaggerated the whole thing because they enjoyed the attention. Unlike Rhodes, who could’ve done without it.

  Rhodes couldn’t even blame Jennifer, since she was trying to get more hits for her Web page. The more hits she had, the more advertising she’d get, and the more advertising she got, the more money she’d make.

  Even though he understood how things worked, Rhodes didn’t like it. He needed some help in finding out how Wellington had died and who was responsible, not publicity for getting a pig out of a house, especially when the hog wasn’t even a real threat to anybody. Or even a hog.

  “I’m not going to tell you not to talk to reporters,” Rhodes told Hack. “I just wish the reporters wouldn’t make such a big deal out of things.”