‘I don’t know what line you mean. It sure ain’t no lunch line. He’s been out to lunch for years, but this time he’s grazing in never-never land. I’ll tell the chief about the shot. Did you see anything?’
‘No. Tell Rocco that I heard one round of small arms fire about three hours ago. That’s all I know.’
‘Gotcha. Is Senator Wentworth home? I got to interview her, too.’
‘The State Senate’s in session today. Bea’s in Hartford. My wife wasn’t home when I heard the shot.’
Jamie gave him a casual salute and turned to jog toward the faint path that led through the woods.
As Lyon looked after the retreating police officer, last spring’s high school English class materialized in Nutmeg Hill’s side yard.
Boots Anderson sat in the first row directly in front of Lyon’s podium. Her short skirt was barely within the allowable limits of the school dress code. Her exploratory seductive gaze was disconcerting. At the end of his presentation she had raised her hand with a slight squirming motion to the rest of her body.
‘Mr. Wentworth, about those Wobblies you write about, are they a boy and a girl or are they the same sex?’
‘Boy and a girl.’
‘Then do they … Well, what I mean is, do they …’
‘Make out?’ a male voice blurted from the seat behind Boots.
‘Make what?’ Lyon had automatically asked. He immediately regretted his naive response as laughter swept the room. He remembered Boots valiantly attempting to maintain her composure. Laughter built within her like strong pressure from an underground spring. When the giggles broke through she leaned her head back and was convulsed by a paroxysm of guffaws. That was his remembrance of the dead young woman.
The phone rang inside the house. Lyon took his time going to the kitchen phone. He hoped that the caller would get discouraged. He counted twelve rings and became certain that the caller would persist. The insistent caller won. He snicked the phone from its wall bracket. ‘I will not come over there to view the body of a dead girl,’ he said without preamble.
‘How did you know it was me?’ Rocco asked. ‘Don’t you have any other friends?’
‘I know how you operate,’ Lyon answered. ‘My other friends do not call when they know I am trying to work. I refuse to scour the woods for clues or get more upset over the death of a young woman who I knew.’
‘I’ve got to bring Spook in, Lyon. I don’t want to use a state police SWAT team to do it. I need your help.’
‘Spook didn’t kill her. I don’t care if you did find one of his souvenirs in her hand. He may be in orbit, but he’s not a killer anymore.’
‘Jamie Martin doesn’t keep police investigation secrets well, does he?’
‘A lot of men served in that army division.’
‘That may be, but Spook has to be brought in and I need your help. If I have to do it formally he could get hurt.’
‘Damn it, Rocco! I’ll go with you, but I don’t like it.’ He slammed the phone into its mounting to break the connection.
Two
On Route 40, beyond the trailer park, Lyon turned into the narrow lane that led to Spook’s acre. He parked his red Saturn behind car one of the Murphysville Police Department. He waited while Rocco finished a cellular phone call. A heavy growth of brush marked the boundaries of the property. Through a narrow opening hacked through the overgrowth he could see the large tree that held Spook’s house.
Rocco finished his call and slouched over to the Saturn. He placed both hands on the roof by the driver’s window. ‘He’s home,’ he stated laconically.
‘Maybe you had better call your brother-in-law on the state police and ask him to send over that SWAT team he’s so proud of.’
‘Very funny. You know Spook would go ballistic if he spotted a bunch of guys wearing camouflage suits carrying automatic weapons.’
‘I suspect he would consider their intentions dishonorable.’
‘Exactly. So, it’s going to come down my way. Same as last time. I’m the company commander and you are the battalion surgeon.’
‘OK. We’re going to do another “he’s in trouble for not taking his malaria tablet again” scenario.’
‘You’ve got it,’ Rocco said.
‘He might remember that we used that only a couple of months ago to get him down to the VA hospital for his medication change.’
‘Hell, it worked then, it will work again.’
They pushed single file into the narrow path that cut through the overgrowth into the hedged perimeter containing the huge oak tree. The tree divided into two distinct sections twelve feet up the trunk. It was at this junction that Spook had constructed his tree house. Short lengths of two-by-fours nailed to the trunk provided a ladder access. A twelve-by-fourteen-foot room had been built using the tree’s wide crotch as a base, with support pillars provided by the divided trunk. Tar paper covered a slanted roof and the wooden sides.
Looking directly up toward the floor of the tree house revealed that it was primarily built from scavenged lumber of assorted sizes and types.
‘I would think living up there would be OK in the spring and summer,’ Lyon said. ‘But in winter the wind would swirl around the trunk and seep up through the wood flooring and freeze him out.’
‘He’s got carpet remnants covering the floor and a potbellied wood stove that makes him snug as a bug. You’ve never been inside, have you?’ Rocco said.
‘No. How does he perform his private functions?’ Lyon asked.
‘A bucket. He brings it down every morning and dumps it in a lime pit over in that corner.’ He pointed toward the newly turned earth of a slit trench. ‘I make sure he sets it up properly. Periodically I make him fill in the trench and dig a new one. Put in a sprinkling of lime and it’s decent field sanitation.’
‘Let’s get it over with. I hate lying to the man,’ Lyon said.
‘In the long run it’s the most painless way to bring him in for questioning.’ Rocco stepped to the base of the tree and cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Spook!’ he called. ‘Corporal Williams! This is Captain Herbert. You up there, soldier?’
‘I hear you, Captain,’ was the muffled reply. A trapdoor above the makeshift ladder opened. A face peered down at them. ‘What’s up, Cap?’ a quavery voice asked.
‘You got an Article Fifteen, Spook,’ Rocco said.
‘Hey, man. I done nothing.’
‘You got punishment, Corporal. Doc here says you didn’t take your malaria tablet today. You know that’s an Article Fifteen under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I won’t lean on you hard, maybe a little extra guard duty.’
‘I hate their damn taste, Cap.’
‘Corporal, get your ass down here. And I mean now!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The trapdoor slowly opened to reveal a tall cadaverous man of indeterminate age whose long locks of hair fell over his shoulders. He wore holed sneakers and faded army fatigues. He cautiously climbed down the makeshift ladder leading from the tree house. When he reached the base of the tree he straightened into a caricature of attention and attempted to give Rocco a smart salute.
‘I just forgot to take the pill, Doc,’ Spook said to Lyon.
‘You have to come to headquarters with me, Corporal,’ Rocco said.
‘Yes, sir. Whatever the captain says.’ Spook turned to hand Lyon a wadded First Cavalry Division patch with its distinctive dark horse head silhouette set against a vivid yellow background. ‘You need to sew this on your uniform, Doc. Pill pusher or not, we’re all First Cav here.’
The Murphysville Department of Police Services consisted of twelve sworn officers and three communications operators, who also doubled as department clerks. Their new location was a block down from the town green, across from the volunteer fire department. The building was occasionally mistaken for a reform temple due to its stained-glass window whose abstract design vaguely resembled a burning bush.
Except for the fact that it was twice as lar
ge, Rocco Herbert’s new office was similar to the one he occupied when they shared space with the town library. Although the construction budget allowed for new furnishings, Rocco insisted on retaining his old. The room contained the same massive wooden desk and worn leather couch. The ancient Mr. Coffee machine still squatted on the marred credenza.
Lyon sat on a wooden side chair next to Rocco’s desk. Spook slowly lowered himself on to the leather couch. He used both hands to clasp his knees.
‘I know you got a little taste there, Captain,’ Spook said.
‘You know we can’t drink on duty, Corporal,’ Rocco replied.
‘Come on, man. Just a little goddamn taste. And I ain’t no corporal anymore. Fact is, I think I’m out of the service now.’
Rocco arched his eyebrow at Lyon before he reached into his bottom desk drawer to pull out a pint of Smirnoff vodka. He poured three ounces into a jelly glass and carried it to Spook.
The former corporal grasped the glass with both hands and steadied their tremors by pressing his elbows against his thighs. He slowly bent toward the glass and drank greedily. ‘Oh, boy, that tastes good.’
‘Do you know Boots Anderson?’ Rocco asked mildly.
Spook shrugged and chugged down the remains of the vodka. ‘Yeah, I know her. She works down at the supermarket.’
‘How well do you know her, Spook?’
Shutters clamped shut behind the veteran’s rheumy eyes. ‘I know what you’re after, Captain.’
‘Glad you do,’ Rocco answered in a non-judgemental tone.
‘I’m not saying another word.’
‘I think you should seriously reconsider that position, Williams,’ Rocco said. ‘Things are coming down heavy.’
‘My lips are sealed. I know that the manager at the market sicced you on me. But you get nothing from me. Not a word.’
‘The manager?’ For the first time Rocco sounded puzzled. He wondered if Larry Bell, the market manager, was involved. Were she and Boots an item?
‘You can bring in Viet Cong torturers and you won’t get anything from me. I owe her.’
‘Boots went out to the state forest today with either Eddy Rashish or Larry, right?’ No answer. ‘You saw them on the blanket without clothes on,’ Rocco continued. ‘The guy left and Boots decided to sunbathe without clothes …’
‘Huh? What are you talking about, Captain?’
‘Don’t fade out on me now, Spook,’ Rocco snapped. ‘You’re here. You’re in Murphysville. Earlier today you were in the state forest watching a lovely young woman parade around naked. It turned you on.’
‘You better stay away from the booze for awhile, Captain,’ Spook said. ‘You’re talking crazy.’
‘You couldn’t help yourself, Spook,’ Rocco continued. ‘I understand how it was. I don’t blame you. No one blames you. You just got carried away and had to shoot her.’
‘Shoot her!’ Spook stood on trembling legs. ‘She was an angel. I thought you got me here because the manager made you because of the check-out line stuff.’
‘What in the hell are you talking about?’ Rocco snapped impatiently.
‘Boots kinda ran her own food bank down there at the market. Toward the end of the month, when my disability check runs out, she lets me buy tuna fish and crackers cheap. If she knows you don’t have much money she keeps the cost down. She kinda slides stuff around the scanner, know what I mean? I don’t want to get her in no trouble. What you talking about, naked girls and can’t help myself? The manager sent you after me because of the tuna fish, right?’
‘Oh, Lord,’ Rocco groaned. ‘Where were you today, Spook?’
‘Hell, Captain. It’s the end of the month and I don’t have no money left. If I had a few bucks I’da been down at Sarge’s place tossing down a few.’
‘You’ve been in your tree house all day?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you kill Boots, Spook?’
‘I don’t kill no one anymore, Captain. You know that.’
‘What did you do with the gun?’ Rocco pressed.
‘I don’t have no side arms since I turned in my army forty-five when I was shipped home from Nam. You know that, Cap.’
Rocco sighed. ‘We’re going to have to check out your tree house. Is that OK with you?’
Spook held out his tumbler for more vodka. ‘Hell, yes. That’s OK with me, Cap. That’s your job, right?’
Sarge’s Bar and Grill was a neighborhood bar that occupied the ground floor of a clapboard house. It was set back from a secondary highway by a small parking lot. Sarge Renfroe, the retired army master-sergeant owner, had living quarters on the second floor. The bar room had wide plank flooring, a massive wooden bar with a brass footrail and faded red stools. A half-dozen booths lined the walls of the remainder of the space. Large jars of pickled eggs bracketed each end of the worn bar, while the wall decor consisted of several beer company posters. Sarge Renfroe occasionally swiped the worn wood with a dubious-looking bar rag and cooked fat hamburgers on the grill.
At noon a dozen men lined the bar for hamburgers washed down with draft beer. Jamie Martin, his police uniform replaced by chino pants and a checkered sports shirt, drank a beer with a side shot of bar whiskey. He’d just finished his midnight-to-eight with three extra hours of overtime due to the girl’s murder in the state forest. Now it was catchup time.
‘The chief says no way did Spook blow her away,’ Jamie announced authoritatively to his section of the bar.
‘Spook’s not only out to lunch, he never made breakfast,’ Sarge mumbled as he flipped another burger on the grill. ‘He’s crazy enough to think that Boots was Viet Cong.’
‘Well, maybe Chief Herbert just better look into who was jumping the kid’s bones,’ Jamie said.
‘Yeah, does Rocco know about Eddy?’ Sarge asked as he slapped a burger into a roll and slipped it on a paper plate next to a large pickle and a handful of potato chips.
‘I told him,’ Jamie said as he pushed his shot glass forward for a refill. ‘I figure that Eddy might have put a bun in Boots’ oven and now wanted to turn off the pilot light.’
Sarge nodded and poured Jamie’s shot. He waved away payment. ‘That makes sense.’
‘What are you talking about?’ A large meaty hand grasped Jamie’s shoulder and spun the police officer around on his stool. He faced an overweight, ruddy-faced man with wisps of dull red hair.
‘Uh oh,’ Sarge mumbled as he reached under the bar for his baseball bat. ‘I didn’t see you come in, but you keep it calm now, Mr. Anderson. We want no trouble in here and Jamie is the law.’
Anderson ignored the bar owner. ‘You talking about my kid, Boots? That who you talking about, brother?’
‘Jesus Christ, Mr. Anderson, didn’t they tell you yet?’ Jamie said.
‘Do not take the name of the Lord in vain. Tell me what?’
‘About what happened to Boots.’
‘You been saying in here that my daughter was breaking a commandment with Eddy. You mean Eddy Rashish of Rashish Motors?’
‘Well, yes, sir. But there’s something you should know.’
‘I don’t need to know nothing more, Jamie. Eddy has sinned once too often and the wrath of God shall punish him. I am His messenger and I shall call upon the avenging angels.’
‘Sir, please listen to me. About your daughter …’
‘I don’t want to hear anything more about Boots. I’ll deal with her tonight. Right now I’m going out to that cheap excuse of a used-car lot that Eddy runs to have a talk with the sinner.’
The large man started for the door. Jamie Martin pushed off the bar stool and hurried after him. He put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘Please, Mr. Anderson …’
Anderson pushed Jamie back against the wall next to the door. ‘Listen to me, brother. I don’t care if you are a cop. Eddy’s going to get his. He’s fooled around for the last time.’
‘About your daughter, she’s …’
‘She’s what?’
‘She’s dead, Mr. Anderson.’
Lister Anderson was a man who thought with his hands. His sensitive fingers could run across an engine block and sense the miscue of bad timing or a maladjusted carburetor. This ability did not translate into verbal understanding. At times, when his auditory senses became overloaded, he suffered from a type of auditory dyslexia. It took a certain amount of time for him to assimilate conversationally imparted information and sort out the meaning of the words and phrases. He clearly heard what Jamie Martin had just said. The words did not directly register, but created immediate images of road kill—pictures of small animals flung to the side of the road by speeding vehicles that snuffed life from their furry bodies. He could not immediately transpose these images and those words into the acceptance of his daughter’s death.
‘I didn’t hear what you said,’ Lister Anderson said to Jamie Martin, although he had heard every word quite clearly.
‘Your daughter is dead, sir. She was found in the state forest by a bird watcher. We think she had been shot. The medical examiner has the body and they will probably want you for a formal identification.’
‘And Eddy Rashish did this?’
‘We don’t know for sure. I didn’t mean to say …’
Lister Anderson knew there was no need to talk further. Words were unimportant. There were actions his hands could take. Here was a physical course of action. He broke away from the light grip that Jamie Martin had on his shoulder and marched through the door of Sarge’s bar out to his waiting pickup truck.
‘I’ve never tossed a tree house before,’ Rocco said. They had just climbed the wooden rungs and entered through the trapdoor. Although the exterior construction was of different materials scavenged from a dozen sites, the interior was neatly papered with Sunday newspaper funnies. The taut blanket that covered an army cot was made with neat hospital corners. Two footlockers on each side of a card table provided storage and seating. A single electric line, run from some illegal connection, provided power for a single hanging bulb, a small television, and a hotplate. Three orange crates along the far wall provided space for food storage and a place for a few dishes and other utensils. The potbellied stove and discreet toilet bucket completed the furnishing. The room was spartan, neat, and well kept. It was the room of a cadet or professional soldier.
Death in the Secret Garden Page 2
