No Saints in Kansas

by Amy Brashear

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mary Claire stands at her locker, talking to Landry. They’re hunched over a newspaper. “They probably just belong to some hunter,” she’s saying.

  I approach, but slowly.

  “But they’re from a twelve-gauge shotgun,” Landry argues, stabbing his index finger at the print. He reads aloud, “‘According to West, another gun theft in the area is being checked for possible connections with the Holcomb shootings. A twelve-gauge shotgun was reported stolen last week in Dodge City.’”

  She shakes her head. “But—here; look what it says.” She reads, “‘Police caution against rushing to judgment. Shotgun pellet casings are more difficult to match to a specific weapon than bullet casings, and require more time from ballistics experts.’”

  “So?” Landry asks. “They always say that. They can identify a shotgun casing from other things, like the firing pin.”

  Mary Claire sniffs. “How do you know? Are you a ballistics expert?”

  Landry shrugs. “I saw it on Perry Mason, okay? But I bet it’s true.”

  On any other morning, I might have laughed. Now I just feel sick. I listen to their conversation, but I don’t dare interject. Mary Claire and Landry look like they could come to blows over an article in the Garden City Telegram. I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.

  Too late. Mary Claire turns and sees me there.

  “Hey, Carly, what’s wrong?” she asks.

  “I was the one who found the shells last night,” I hear myself answer.

  Landry folds the paper and cocks his head at me with a frown.

  “Sorry, we found the shells,” I correct.

  “Excuse me?” she says.

  “We found the empty shotgun shells,” Landry clarifies.

  She smirks. “I’m not dumb, I understood.”

  I lean in close and whisper, “Last night, we went to the farm—”

  “You did what now?”

  “Went to the farm and—”

  “You didn’t do that. Tell me you really didn’t do that.”

  I straighten and look her in the eye. “I had to see it for myself.”

  “You could have gotten caught.”

  I grin miserably in spite of myself. “We did, by Mr. Stoecklein and the sheriff.”

  “Mr. Stoecklein almost shot us,” Landry adds.

  “You guys,” she says, pausing as Mrs. Walker passes. She lowers her voice. “I’ve been to enough funerals for my lifetime.”

  “But we finally have a lead,” I whisper back. “Even though I’m on the sheriff’s radar now, and have been warned and threatened by my parents to stop, to stay out of the police’s business—”

  “And the KBI’s investigation,” she interrupts.

  “Yeah, them too . . . but as I said, we finally have a lead.”

  She shrugs.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, mimicking her shrug.

  Mary Claire doesn’t answer. Instead she takes the newspaper from Landry and reads, “‘Boris E. Bailey, forty-eight years old, Hodgeman County rancher, died Wednesday of injuries received when the car in which he was riding veered out of control Tuesday night, throwing him into a barbed wire fence.’”

  “That doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”

  “True, but what a horrible way to die,” she says, looking first at me and then at Landry.

  “Mary Claire Haas!” I gasp.

  Landry slams his locker shut and marches off to class.

  She watches him go. Then she gives me a sly smile and shoves the newspaper into my chest. “That’ll teach him to put himself in danger. Carly, tell me you didn’t go inside the house?”

  “Well—”

  “I told you not to tell me.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After school, I stop at my locker to get my homework, though I have no interest in doing any of it. I see Asher going into the gym for basketball tryouts. “Good luck!” I yell. He does one of those half shrugs and half smiles.

  Mary Claire is sitting on a bench outside, next to where the buses line up. “Hey, Carly,” she calls, waving me over. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Pushing the strap of my bag over my shoulder I walk toward her.

  “Are you going to apologize?” I ask.

  “For what?” she asks.

  “For being so mean to Landry.”

  “I’m not going to apologize,” she says.

  “Then why did you call me over?”

  “To warn you.”

  “Warn me?” I ask.

  Mary Claire leans toward me. Her eyes are big and bright. “Doesn’t it make you nervous that maybe—just maybe you find out whoever did this and it changes everything forever?”

  Her tone makes me nervous. “How so?”

  “It might be one of us; did you ever think about that?”

  “Bobby? Because—”

  “Stop. I’m not saying him. I’m saying it could be any one of us. I know how to use a shotgun, and so do you.”

  “Any one of us?” I repeat.

  “Yes,” she says.

  I open my mouth, but I can’t think of an argument. Mary Claire is right. Most people in Holcomb own a shotgun. Including us. And I know from my dad that even the ones who don’t own shotguns have been borrowing spares from their neighbors who do.

  Funny: Seth was the one who taught me how to shoot. Or tried, anyway. Dad never touched our shotgun after he bought it. At first, I couldn’t get the hang of it. The shotgun flew out of my hands, I landed on my butt, and Seth laughed real hard. He said it took him a while to get used to the pull, too. He had to have his shoulder popped back in after a couple of false starts. Maybe I’d dislocate my shoulder, he said, but it was worth it to bag a pheasant. I still hear the ringing in my ears.

  “What I’m saying is . . . just be careful,” Mary Claire is telling me.

  I nod.

  She sticks her hands in her pockets and watches the stream of kids piling onto the buses. “I need to go to Garden to the Vogue Shop to get some new nylon stockings for the Sadie Hawkins dance Friday night. I tore a hole in the only nice pair I have yesterday at the funeral.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to the dance,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m grounded and anyway Seth and I had a fight.”

  At first she’s quiet. “Did you guys break up?” she asks. Her voice is gentle. I wonder if she’s remembering the reason she got me to date him in the first place—to get in good with Nancy.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I . . . don’t know.”

  “Well, no matter, you’re still going with me to Garden.”

  “I don’t think I should. My parents were really mad when the sheriff talked to them,” I say. “I’m grounded. I have to let the locksmith in at four.”

  “It’s just to Garden.”

  “Um—”

  “I’ll buy you a cherry limeade at Candy’s.”

  I turn to Mary Claire—to get a look at her face and those eyes that always tell me what she’s thinking. Her eyes never lie, even when her mouth does. She smiles, and I smile back. And I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. Those cherry limeades at Candy’s are pure heaven in a glass.

  On the drive over, my happiness melts away. I’m afraid I’m going to get caught. Like my dad is going to come out of his law office and see me, or my mom will be shopping at the Vogue Shop at the same time Mary Claire’s purchasing her nylons. I keep a panicked eye on my surroundings. As we pass the Finney County Courthouse, I spot a crowd of men in overcoats and fedoras.

  “Mary Claire, stop!” I yell.

  She slams on the brakes and I go sliding straight into the dashboard. “What is it?”

  “Can we make a pit stop? It won’t take long.�
�

  She sighs. “Where?”

  I stretch my arm behind me and point to the courthouse, where the men are clamoring up the steps and disappearing through the building’s big double doors.

  “Car-ly,” she says, dragging out my name like my mom does when she’s upset.

  “Please.”

  She throws the truck in reverse, nearly running over a straggler as he crosses the street. I recognize him; it’s Mr. Brown, the editor of the Garden City Telegram.

  “Sorry,” she yells, waving as she pulls into an empty spot close to the square.

  I’m desperate to find out whatever scoop he’s chasing. Mary Claire’s never panicked or paranoid. She’d be the first one into a burning building. I’m usually the cautious one. The one who is always afraid of getting caught or into trouble. But since last Sunday, I’ve grown a spine—or as Mr. Haas would say, “a pair.” I’ve had a gun pointed at my face and had the sheriff escort me home. But Mary Claire doesn’t want to be here. She lingers in the truck. I have to walk over to her side and practically pull her out.

  We race up the steps, pushing our way inside the two heavy doors, and head down the long hallway. There’s a marble staircase at the end. The men all gather at the bottom of it, waiting for someone to descend and make an announcement. I know they’re doing this because I’ve seen my father do the same thing. But he’s not here, thank goodness. At least not that I can see.

  “Since when have you been afraid of us getting into trouble?” I whisper.

  “Since when have you not?” she asks.

  But I brush her off and try to find a spot off to the side, where we can be relatively invisible. I hold my breath, listening to scraps of conversation.

  “The Kansas City Star,” one man says to another.

  The man nods. “The Denver Post.”

  I turn to Mary Claire. “What paper should we say we’re from?”

  “Carly, be serious,” she groans.

  I hug the wall and slide farther into the mob. I’ve never seen the courthouse so crowded.

  Agent Dewey appears at the top of the staircase. Everyone surges forward and suddenly I’m swept up in the current from behind, separated from Mary Claire, who had the good sense to stay back and not get caught up in the stampede. Oh well. I’ll slip out once I hear what I need to hear.

  “Agent Dewey, over here, question, over here,” one man yells, raising his arm.

  Just like that, everyone’s yelling over each other. I catch the names of dozens of newspapers: Dodge City Daily Globe, The Hutchinson News, The Wichita Eagle, The Hays Daily News, El Dorado News-Times, Great Bend Tribune, Garden City Telegram . . . another KBI agent joins Agent Dewey at the top of the stairs. Both men stand with their hands in their pockets. They look unnerved. Finally, Agent Dewey pulls his hands free and gestures for the crowd to quiet.

  “Please, please,” he calls. His voice is scratchy. “Agent Nye and I will take questions after I make my statement.” The place turns quiet. All eyes are on him as he pulls a scrap of paper from inside his jacket and starts to give an update on the case. His hands tremble slightly. I listen, but there’s not a single piece of new news. He finishes with, “Shotgun shells were found in the vicinity of the Clutter farm.”

  I glance over my shoulder and shoot Mary Claire a slight smile; she’s shaking her head.

  “What about the blood?” someone yells.

  “The blood found on the Arkansas River Bridge was in fact hog blood, not human . . .”

  As I turn back around, a man pushes me forward and I hit another man, who pushes into another man, then another, and another—until I hear a high-pitched yelp. Everyone laughs. For a second I wonder if some other girl from school had the same idea I did. Then I hear a woman’s voice, low and deep, with a strong Southern accent.

  “Truman,” she scolds.

  Once the crowd splits in two, I catch a glimpse of the yelper. My jaw drops. It’s not a schoolmate; it’s a man. He’s shorter than I am, with a big head and glasses. His outfit is ridiculous. He’s wearing a pristine white suit in the middle of winter and a long coat. It touches the ground even as he straightens himself, his tiny mouth twisted in a scowl. The ensemble is topped off by a colorful scarf, wrapped around his neck at least three times. A woman with a fancy bonnet towers over him, shaking her head, as if he were her child—though she looks younger than he is. Agent Dewey’s not deterred. He pointedly ignores the strange little man, turning instead to Mr. Brown.

  “Your readers at the Garden City Telegram will probably like to know that Mrs. Bentley took Teddy, the Clutters’ dog,” he says. “Now if there’s nothing else, we have to get back to our investigation . . .”

  There’s a nudge from behind. I turn and see Mary Claire, who’s squirmed her way through the crowd. She looks miserable. “If only that dog could talk,” I say to her.

  “What’s that, little girl?” the tiny man calls to me, peering over his thick eyeglass frames. His voice is so squeaky and nasal, it’s hard not to stare.

  “Who you calling little?” I retort.

  More laughter. Even Mary Claire chuckles.

  Agent Dewey and Agent Nye glance at each other. Someone shouts about the thousand-dollar reward that The Hutchinson News is offering. The rest of the journalists start to chat among themselves, shoving their notebooks back into their pockets. It’s clear that this press conference is over. No new leads, no new clues. At least none that the authorities are sharing.

  I elbow Mary Claire in the side. “I’m going to ask a question,” I whisper.

  “No, don’t,” she hisses.

  I raise my arm.

  She turns to me. “What are you doing?” she mouths, pulling at my arm.

  “Agent Dewey, Agent Dewey!” I call over the din. A hush falls over the crowd. Heads turn in my direction. “And what paper is she with?” the tiny man squeaks.

  “Holcomb High School,” I say, lowering my arm. “The Longhorn yearbook staff.”

  Agent Dewey sags a little. I can sense Mary Claire doing the same beside me, probably wishing she could melt right into the floor.

  “Carly, what are you doing here?” Agent Dewey asks tiredly.

  “On a first-name basis . . . impressive,” the tiny man says.

  There’s some laughter, but Agent Dewey just glares at him, annoyed.

  “Carly, you shouldn’t be here,” he says, turning to me and crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Why did the police clear out Bobby’s locker at school if he’s not a suspect? Why do you need his tennis shoes? Does it have something to do with that bloody footprint in the basement?”

  Agent Dewey is glaring at me now. He no longer looks annoyed. He looks angry.

  “Bloody footprint?” the tiny man cries. “What bloody footprint?”

  Agent Dewey places his hands on his hips. He chooses to ignore me. The room is dead silent now.

  “Now, what paper are you with?” he asks the tiny man.

  “I’m not with a paper,” the man says.

  Agent Dewey squints, looking him up and down, lingering on the outrageous scarf. “Then what are you doing in Finney County? I reckon you’re not from around here.”

  The man shakes his head. “I’m from civilization. I write for The New Yorker.” He looks around the hallway, taking in a sea of blank expressions. “It’s a magazine? My name is Truman Capote. I’m a writer?”

  His tall companion sighs loudly. She glances toward the exit.

  Truman. That name! The name she called him! It hits me all of a sudden. Grabbing hold of Mary Claire’s coat, I start shaking her. “He’s the author of my book!”

  “I’m glad you’re reading; now let me go,” she says, squirming. She couldn’t care less. Like Mr. Capote’s tall friend, Mary Claire clearly wants to get out of here, too. No one else is impressed by the fact that a r
eal-live famous author is in our midst, either. And the real-live famous author looks like he’s personally offended by this fact.

  “Well, I’m here to tell your story,” Mr. Capote harrumphs.

  “And how do you suppose you’re going to do that?” Agent Dewey asks.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m here to help.” He coughs. “I’ll do as you do—investigate. Did Herb have any enemies?”

  “Not that we know of at this time,” Agent Nye chimes in. “Now, if there’s nothing more, we have to get back to work—”

  “One more thing,” Mr. Capote interrupts. “When will we be permitted to enter the house for a look-see?”

  “You will do no such thing,” Agent Nye replies, his voice harsh. “This is an ongoing investigation. The Clutter home is still a crime scene, and we intend to handle it as such.”

  Mr. Capote’s companion nudges him, but he shakes her off. “I’m not going to get in the way,” he whines.

  “Someone’s got their panties in a wad,” one of the reporters says. The hall erupts in laughter once again.

  “You want to see?” Mr. Capote says without missing a beat, unbuttoning his suit coat.

  “Come on, now, there are children present,” another reporter snaps.

  Mr. Capote shoots me a smirk before turning back to the stairwell. “My apologies to the children.”

  “There is one statement I’d like to make,” Agent Nye calls loudly, silencing everyone. All the reporters turn to face him, ready in a flash once more with their pens and paper—well, except for Mr. Capote, who just listens, still grinning. “There have been several false claims and exaggerated stories circulated. The Clutter slaying victims were not tortured or mutilated. Each was shot in the head, and the throat of the father was cut. The women were not molested. That is all. And I would appreciate if you would print every word that I just said for your readers. Thank you.” He turns and disappears up the stairs to the second floor. Agent Dewey turns and follows. I try to catch his eye but fail.

  Mary Claire tugs at my sleeve again. “I guess we better leave, too,” she says.

  “In a minute.”