Left Hanging

by Patricia McLinn

  That didn’t stop the head-shaking, but he also spoke. “Yeah. Never figured it would be this way. Never figured he’d go first. Suppose most people say that in this sort of situation,” he said with unexpected acumen. “But in my case it surely is true. Keith was the businessman. All I know is livestock. Mind you, he wouldn’t have stayed in rodeo without me buying and breeding and tending my livestock. But I couldn’t do the business like he did. He loved the game of it and the winning, especially when he could beat the other side. Meeting people, making sales, writing contracts and all. He was a wonder at it, and that’s the truth. We’ll do fine this year. I suppose we’ll get by the next. After that? It’ll be like a snake that keeps moving after its head’s been cut off because it don’t know it’s dead.”

  I saw no indication that he saw any significance in his likening Landry—and their business—to a snake as he concluded, somberly, “I surely don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

  Chapter Five

  I RETURNED TO our isolated spot in the bleacher seats with two boxes of popcorn and reported the conversation to Mike while watching the end of team-roping, which Cas Newton and another kid won. Now steer wrestling was starting.

  “That’s all?” Mike asked when I’d finished.

  “Wanted to keep the door open, keep him as a potential source of information. I have a question for you, too. What was Landry like?”

  “Didn’t really know him. He’s been contractor here for years, but we didn’t cross paths. He bid this year, too, but got underbid by a new contractor. The committee signed the new one end of last year.”

  “Last year? But Linda Caswell just took over as chair—”

  “Yup, Fine got that wrong. Linda wasn’t chair when they signed the new, low-bid contractor. It was Fine’s ol’ buddy Judge Ambrose Claustel in charge then. When Claustel—” He bent a look of significance on me. “—stepped down, Linda Caswell was named.

  “Then this new contractor notified them he’d gone bankrupt and wouldn’t fulfill the contract. That put Linda and the committee in a real bind. With only a few weeks until the rodeo, they either had to cancel after paying out a lot of money they’d never recoup, or they had to find somebody fast and hope to come out ahead. Landry was the somebody available.”

  “What about the bankrupt contractor? I remember you reported on the company—”

  “More like reported on not being able to find it. One letter saying he was bankrupt and poof! He was gone. Linda gave me her file, but what little contact information it had led nowhere. Claustel must have had the full file, and it went when he did. I tried contractor and rodeo associations, called long-time contractors, and no leads on this Sweet Meadows. Haeburn ordered me to stop spending time, on air or off, on it. I tried digging into bankruptcies on my own, but good lord, do you know how many bankruptcies there are? I didn’t even know the state.” He huffed out a breath. “I don’t know why I had such an itch to find out. It just felt . . .” He looked away. “ . . . wrong.”

  “Gut instinct can be the best reporter tool around. Maybe set Jenny on the bankruptcy search. She’s good with a computer.”

  Good with the insides and the outsides. The newsroom aide/sometimes production assistant had gotten my home computer set up fast, as well as running down information for me on the Internet.

  “I will.” He sounded significantly cheered.

  By this time, steer wrestling had ended. Bull riding came last. It’s often the most dramatic, certainly potentially most dangerous. Mike had told me to watch every one of the eight seconds—and well past. After the ride can be the most dangerous for the competitor, not to mention the rodeo clowns, whose job it was to distract the bull from his intention of goring or trampling the competitor. I think I’d skip a want ad with job duties of Draw attention of angry bull, keep it while everyone else flees to safety.

  Mike leaned forward, focusing on the action in the arena. But I wasn’t watching the bull riding.

  I’d turned to reach for my jacket on the seat beside me. A flash of something caught my eye. Something visible in the open space beneath the empty bleacher seat behind me. Something blue.

  Twisting around and down until I was almost lying crossways on the bleacher seat allowed me to see between the floor and seat of the row behind me. What I saw was the blue-haired girl from the animal rights protest.

  Inside the rodeo grounds. The heart of enemy territory. What could she be up to?

  She shifted, and I realized she was not alone. Then I realized what she was up to. What many young people get up to under bleachers.

  She and her companion were upright and not quite doing the deed, but even in the murky light I was pretty sure there were hands inside clothes, and a definite rhythm going.

  I leaned more and made out a black cowboy hat in the faint light.

  Great. That narrowed it to every male in the place and a few of the females.

  A cramp scratched at my side. I shifted . . . and realized that what little light reached the amorous pair sifted through the open sections between the bleacher seats and foot wells. Considering their position and mine, I figured my legs were shadowing them.

  Adjusting my center of gravity, I lifted my legs, balancing on the seat, along with the support of both hands on the foot well behind my seat.

  “Hey,” Mike protested. I could tell from his voice he was still looking toward the arena. “Put your feet down. I don’t want that shoe closer to my nose.”

  I ignored him. The light was definitely better. I saw the crown of the black cowboy hat clearly. But the darned thing kept the wearer’s face shadowed.

  “What are you doing?” Mike demanded, now speaking from over my shoulder.

  Like the first domino tipping, that started a rapid sequence.

  I reached back with one hand to wave sharply in the universal sign to “Shut up while I’m teetering on this bleacher seat!”

  The scratch of the cramp in my side turned into a claw. And I was no longer teetering.

  With only one hand to balance on and writhing with the cramp, my head dropped, my forehead whacked the foot well, accompanied by an involuntary sound of pain.

  Ms. Blue Hair and her companion looked up. For a fraction of a second, the light shone on her companion’s face, his tilted-back head removing the protective shadow of the brim.

  My feet dropped back to my footwell. By the time I scrambled around to look again—a process made speedier because I no longer cared about noise, but hampered by the full-blown cramp, a sore forehead, and Mike demanding to know if I was having a fit—Ms. Blue Hair and friend were gone.

  MIKE DID NOT seem overly impressed with my tale of how Cas Newton and Ms. Blue Hair were consorting, as well as cavorting, with the enemy. He shrugged and mumbled something about teenage hormones as we applauded the bull riding winner and headed down the grandstand steps. He clearly hadn’t had much experience with PMS to so lightly dismiss hormones.

  I thought back to my encounter with Heather Upton and her mother. Not a pair to take interference with their ambitions lightly, in my estimation. And those ambitions appeared to include Cas.

  “What does this have to do with Keith Landry’s death?” Mike asked when I tried to explain all this.

  “Fair question,” I admitted as we joined other spectators weaving around parked vehicles in search of their own. “But if Blue Hair has a mishap, I say we look right at Heather and her mama.”

  He rolled his eyes, but had no time for more because his phone rang. One glance at Caller ID, and he answered quickly.

  “Hi, Aunt Gee. Yes, I’m coming Sunday. I don’t know. That hasn’t been decided yet.” His eyes cut toward me. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . Oh . . . uh-huh. Okay. Yes, ma’am. I will. Thank you.”

  He ended the call as we reached his four-wheel drive. The vehicle’s outside blended
unpretentiously with those around it. Inside, it offered the luxuries befitting his status as a former pro football player, without slipping into flashy. It was a lot like Paycik.

  His Aunt Gee—Gisella—was the long-time dispatcher for and acknowledged queen of the county sheriff’s department’s unit in the town of O’Hara Hill. She’d provided invaluable help in the Foster Redus investigation. I’d worried she might be in danger of losing her job. But since the sheriff was being recalled by voters, going after Aunt Gee appeared unlikely.

  While being more circumspect, she’d also provided a mild tidbit or two in the weeks since. So, I was strongly tempted to whack Mike upside the head and demand to know what his aunt had said. On the other hand, she might have been calling on a family matter that was none of my business.

  “Mind a detour, instead of going right to the station?” he asked.

  “To?”

  “The sheriff’s department. I have this sudden hunch Deputy Alvaro might have something interesting to tell us.”

  Chapter Six

  “OH, GOD.”

  “Now, is that nice, Deputy Alvaro?”

  “I should have known. If you’re . . .” He looked around, saw other deputies in earshot. Instead of finishing, he sighed. “In here.”

  “Is this an interrogation room?” I asked as the door closed us in.

  “No. Observation room. You think I want anybody to hear this? Listen, what happened this spring, that was only because of extraordinary circumstances. You can’t think I’ll tell you things all the time. And Mike, you’ve got to tell your aunt to watch her step.”

  Mike was unmoved. “You were promoted to working here in Sherman based on what happened this spring. Besides, if you want to keep things quiet, don’t put hints over the radio. Aunt Gee says she’s already had calls from two scanner regulars asking about tomorrow morning’s news conference. If you think she was happy to hear about it that way, you are wrong.”

  “All it said was—oh, hell.” He dropped his butt onto the table. “This has been one hell of a day. I don’t suppose you two would go away and come back in the morning?”

  Mike and I shook our heads.

  “C’mon, Richard,” I said. “We can’t get anything on the air until tomorrow, but we need background now to start working.”

  “Fine probably won’t let anybody else come to the news conference,” Mike added gloomily.

  “Fine?” Alvaro appeared heartened by that prospect.

  “Les Haeburn is out of town, and Thurston Fine’s running the show. As in the nutjob’s running the insane asylum.”

  Alvaro blew out his breath. “Tell me about it. Acting sheriff’s out of town, too. The number two guy’s wife went into labor last night. I added his overnight to my dayshift from yesterday, then right into today’s dayshift. And the wife still hasn’t had the kid, so in this case, I’m the nutjob running the insane asylum. At least on Keith Landry’s death.”

  “It wasn’t an accidental death?”

  Mike’s head whipped around to me at that question. He needed to work on his poker face. Alvaro regarded me steadily for a moment before he went to the door and opened it.

  Really? He meant to throw us out?

  “Lloyd, come in here, will you?”

  Or have his colleague throw us out? After we’d kept his role in the Redus case strictly confidential and—

  “What’s this about, Richard?” Mike asked.

  “I want somebody else to know what I’ve told you. No, don’t get huffy. I trust you. I guess I have to after . . . But I need to be sure the people here know what I’ve told you.”

  The deputy we’d seen earlier appeared in the doorway. Alvaro waved him in. “Deputy Sampson, this is Ms. Danniher and Mike Paycik from KWMT.”

  I received a hello. Mike got a big grin, an extended hand, and “Mike Paycik? I saw you play ball. You were really something. Course we all hoped you’d play pro at Denver after UW instead of going off to Chicago.”

  Mike returned the handshake and a few practiced words of humble appreciation cut short by Alvaro saying, “Sit.” He gestured to chairs for Mike and me on the far side of the table. He and Deputy Sampson took the ones opposite us.

  “To be clear, I’m giving you a preview of the morning’s news conference, and you won’t use this material until after the news conference. Agreed?”

  He spoke with authority. He’d picked up a lot of confidence since we’d met the young deputy only weeks ago. I was impressed. That wouldn’t have stopped me from refusing his restrictions if there’d been a way to get the news on before the morning conference. But since there wasn’t . . . “Agreed.”

  “I caught the call this morning, proceeded to the rodeo grounds, where I found the deceased, Keith Landry. After a preliminary investigation, including initial collection of evidence and statements, I was not entirely satisfied with the scene. After consulting with local officials, and in consultation with sheriff’s department colleagues, it was determined that the investigation will continue in consultation with other investigatory professionals.”

  It took a moment after absorbing all that consulting to realize he thought he’d finished. “What does that mean?” I asked.

  He turned mulish. “Just what I said.”

  “Why weren’t you satisfied?” Mike asked.

  Alvaro shook his head.

  “Why call in other people? What are you going to have them look at?” Mike pursued.

  Alvaro shook his head again.

  “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” I asked.

  He started to shake his head a third time, then caught himself. “I’ve given you my statement.”

  “You’re not sure it’s Keith Landry, yet you gave his name—”

  “What?” My barb rattled him. “We’re sure. We wouldn’t have released the name if—”

  “How do you know? Did next of kin identify him?”

  “No. No next of kin to—”

  “You assumed—”

  “I did not. We had ID and his phone.”

  “Pieces of it, just like him,” mumbled Deputy Sampson. He looked up, apparently startled by a belated realization that he’d spoken aloud.

  “I’ve given you my statement,” Alvaro said.

  “Deputy Alvaro, may I speak to you alone?” I asked.

  “I don’t see what purpose—”

  “It’s a follow-up on the Redus case. If you’d prefer—”

  “Okay. Lloyd, you can accompany Mr. Paycik out. Leave the front doors unlocked. Ms. Danniher will be there in a moment.”

  I kicked Mike under the table. He flinched, but said nothing. At the door, he looked back and rolled his eyes without either deputy seeing. Message received.

  “Richard—may I call you Richard?”

  “It depends,” he said warily, not as authoritative as before.

  “You are a smart, dedicated and honest law enforcement officer. I respect you for that. And we worked well together on the Redus case.” His lips parted. No doubt to repeat what extraordinary circumstances that had been. “That’s why I want to give you a little advice for dealing with the media.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Oh, yes, you do. If you think that statement will fly at a news conference, you desperately need my advice. I don’t know if even Thurston Fine would be satisfied with that example of doublespeak, and I guarantee Needham Bender of the Independence would make you feel as if a buzz saw had just had its way with you.”

  “It’s early in the investigation, and—”

  “And you want to keep everything to yourself. That’s the instinct of every law enforcement type on this planet. It never works. Never. Even in the most repressive countries, there’s always leakage. Where there’s a free press and emphasis on individual free
doms—sound like anyplace you know?—it’s just asking for aggravation. And suspicion. How many people will think you’re trying to protect something other than the investigation? Your own mishandling of it, maybe? Or a big shot who’s involved?”

  He winced and didn’t argue. Progress.

  “With the recent history of top law enforcement officials in Cottonwood County, people will be suspicious. There’s no getting around that. You have to be even more open and aboveboard than usual. Lay it all out on the table. At least as much as you possibly can. You need to think through what’s absolutely essential to keep away from the public. But there’ll also be aspects you would rather keep quiet that will get out despite your best efforts. You’re far better off being open with the media about those aspects than trying to pretend the public doesn’t already know.”

  “The public doesn’t know—”

  “Everything a civilian saw, heard, or told you will be out to the public by morning, if it’s not already.”

  “We instructed them not to talk about their statements or the situation.”

  “Richard.” I shook my head again. “I’ve only been in this county a few months, and you’ve lived here all your life, and I already know that half the county knew Keith Landry had been found dead in the bull pen before you reached the rodeo grounds. If you think anybody you’ve talked to today won’t share the juicy details, you are not half as smart as I think you are.”

  He opened his mouth to stonewall me. I saw the realization and the weariness hit him, and he slumped. “Oh, crap.”

  “Exactly.” I gave him half a minute before asking, “What bothered you about the scene?”

  He heaved a sigh. “You know what shape the deceased was found in?”

  “I heard.” No point in reminding him I’d also seen, along with every TV viewer of Jenks’ video on tonight’s news.

  “It was real hard to tell exactly what happened. The new deputy coroner didn’t tell me anything I couldn’t see with my own eyes, either. Seemed awfully nervous.”

  I could imagine. A young deputy and a new deputy coroner handling the death of a well-known figure. “Why wasn’t the coroner there?”