Well alone.
If the lake was named Karagol, and the stream also, then one might have expected the town to be similarly denominated. This had actually been the case until the 1880s, when a meeting of local worthies concluded with a decision to alter the town’s name to Cargill, on the grounds that it was easier to pronounce and spell while retaining some connection to the original nomenclature, which was certainly true, and was the way most people pronounced Karagol anyway. It was also believed that a settlement named Cargill might attract more residents and businesses than one called Karagol, which turned out to be mildly delusional. A century-and-change later, Cargill still didn’t amount to a great deal of anything: a couple of pleasant buildings from the twenties and thirties, a whole bunch of average ones from the decades after, and a few thousand souls, including the coloreds, because they were God’s children too.
Cargill sat at the heart of Burdon County, the smallest and least prepossessing county in the state of Arkansas. The next smallest, neighboring Calhoun, had a population ten percent larger, of which half could barely rustle up two nickels to rub together. In Burdon, by contrast, nobody rubbed two nickels together, not unless he had a friend, and particularly one he could trust not to steal his nickel. The county had known poverty and hard times, but little else.
Timber had been Cargill’s wealth, relatively speaking, until the last big mill closed in the 1980s. Since then, the town appeared to have been inching its way toward oblivion, with little prospect of rescue. Folks prayed for the coming of the Savior, mostly to put them out of their misery, until – lo! – their better prayers were answered. A savior appeared, and he even resembled the guy on the church walls by virtue of being a white male who smiled a lot. William Jefferson Clinton, the son of a traveling salesman out of Hope, Arkansas, became the forty-second president of the United States, which meant that some federal manna was bound to come the Bear State’s way. And while Burdon County might have been right at the bottom of Bubba’s list, at least it was on the list.
Now all folks had to do was wait.
Because, miracle of miracles, Bubba had come through for them.
3
The Cargill Police Department wasn’t much to look at from the outside, which meant it had the good grace not to stand out from the rest of town. It shared offices and facilities with the fire department, and a parking lot with Ferdy’s Dunk-N-Go, a popular doughnut store, diner, and appliance repair center. The department numbered a chief, four full-time patrol officers, and a handful of part-timers, but was still understaffed. It had lost two full-time officers during the past month alone, both to better paying jobs elsewhere – which wouldn’t have been hard to find – and neither of them in law enforcement. It meant that the Cargill PD was no longer properly functioning on a full-time basis. The state police had temporarily assumed some of the emergency burden when the station house was closed, backed up by a rotation system whereby one full-time officer agreed to be on call during the night, but it was far from satisfactory for all concerned.
On the other hand, the remaining officers were at least as good as Cargill deserved, and some far better, in large part because Chief Evander Griffin had recruited most of them himself, once he’d managed to get rid of some of the dead wood during his first year in the job. He had fired one officer, persuaded another to accept a retirement bonus of $2,000 to go live with his daughter in Tacoma, and an automobile accident had saved him the trouble of dealing with a third. Fortuitously, Kel Knight, the only man left standing after that initial cull, was the sole officer Griffin would have chosen to retain anyway. He had immediately offered Knight a sergeant’s stripes – well, after they’d buried what was left of the previous holder of those three stripes, the automobile accident being a bad one involving a tree, a fire, and a combination of accelerants, namely gasoline and all the alcohol in the victim’s system.
But rebuilding and expanding the department after years of neglect was a struggle. Griffin had only recently managed to secure funding to replace what had passed for their best patrol car – a used Crown Vic without air-conditioning or heating, and troubled by a seat stuck in a semirecumbent position – with a means of transport that permitted a driver to sit up straight and not suffer dehydration in summer or risk hypothermia in winter. He’d raised salaries to the maximum the town could afford, and used his own money to buy some vests that might potentially stop a bullet, or at least slow its progress. The mayor and council had been as supportive as they could, given their limited resources, because the alternatives were to amalgamate with one of the neighboring townships, all of which were worse off than Cargill; rely solely on the state police, who already had their work cut out; or strike a deal with the Burdon County Sheriff’s Office, and Griffin would rather have resigned than take that last step. So, in order to retain its chief and provide a police service that was fit for purpose, Cargill had ponied up.
But it was also in the town’s interests to invest in law enforcement, because decisions were being made in Little Rock and Washington, D.C., that might yet prove to be its salvation. Sometimes, one had to spend money to make money …
On this particular evening in downtown Cargill, Griffin was finishing up some paperwork, and contemplating the possibility of getting home in time to consume a leisurely dinner, followed by an hour in front of the TV with his wife. He caught sight of his reflection in the window as he glanced into the night and concluded – not for the first time – that his wife ought to have found herself a younger, better-looking mate. He was grateful that she had not, and was so far resisting any inclination to trade him in for a superior model, but Griffin was a modest man with, he felt, much about which to be modest. He was approaching fifty, and had recently been forced to purchase a new belt for his pants due to an insufficiency of holes in the previous cincture. He still retained much of his hair, which was a blessing, but the dark luster of youth was a distant memory. Napping had become habitual to him, and his feet often hurt. Wherever he looked, downhill beckoned.
Griffin had recently relocated his office from the back of the building to the front because the view was depressing him. Tornadoes had begun to shift east in recent years, meaning that Tornado Alley – previously the preserve of Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas, for the most part – now included regions of Arkansas, including Cargill. The first of the year’s twisters had struck a couple of weeks previously, leaving a trail of wrecked homes and ruined lives. In the days following, Griffin had discovered the remains of a mongrel dog stuck up a bald cypress. The dog was trapped in the topmost branches, and was entirely undamaged – apart from being dead, which, Griffin supposed, was about as damaged as a dog could get. The equipment wasn’t available to remove the dog, being required more urgently elsewhere, and so its body had remained in the tree for days. By an unfortunate quirk of fate, Griffin’s office window had provided a direct line of sight to the dead dog. Even when it was eventually retrieved, he could still see the tree and picture the animal, so he moved his office because it wasn’t as though he didn’t have enough to feel depressed about.
Griffin was currently reading a governmental memo relating to the threat to law enforcement posed by the Y2K problem. With a little less than three years to go to the new millennium, the worrywarts were prophesying a version of the end times, with planes falling from the sky and computers exploding because no one had thought about what might happen once all those nines turned to zeroes. Griffin wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. He hated flying, which meant his only worry on the Y2K front was ensuring that he wasn’t under any malfunctioning planes as they dropped, and the department’s sole computer was so old that it ought to have come with a key attached in order to wind it up. The computer would be doing him a favor if it went up in smoke, because Griffin couldn’t use the damned contraption anyway.
Kevin Naylor, one of the full-timers, appeared at his office door. Griffin liked Naylor. The kid was barely into his twenties, but brighter than any three members of his extended family put
together, and was somehow managing to combine his obligations to the department with a course in public administration. But he was supposed to be off duty, and should by rights have been home studying, or even just resting that big brain of his for a while.
‘Kevin,’ said Griffin. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I think we might have a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
Naylor chewed his bottom lip, as he tended to do when troubled. Griffin had spoken to him about it because he felt it made Naylor appear unsure of himself, or possibly mentally deficient, neither of which was desirable, but it was a habit the boy was struggling to shake.
‘Someone,’ said Naylor, ‘is asking questions about Patricia Hartley.’
Cargill boasted six bars – if ‘boasted’ was the right term, which it probably wasn’t; ‘could fess up to’ might have been more appropriate – of which three were unspeakable, a fourth was tolerable as long as one didn’t eat the food, another was functional at best, and the last might just have managed to keep its head above water even in a town with a greater range of more acceptable drinking and dining options. That establishment was Boyd’s, which was clean, served average food in above-average portions, and was generally untroubled by outbreaks of alcohol-related violence, which meant that Griffin regarded it with a tolerant eye. Boyd’s took its name from Boyd Kirby, who had opened its doors back in 1972, and departed to wipe down that great counter in the sky in 1991. Since then, Boyd’s had been in the hands of Kirby’s widow, Joan, who ran the place much as her husband had done, minus the swearing, Boyd Kirby having regarded the spaces between every syllable of a word as an opportunity to exercise the range of obscenities at his command, which had been considerable.
Boyd’s was quiet when Griffin and Naylor arrived, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays being the days when Joan made the majority of her money, the rest of the week representing pocket change. The bar had a well-stocked jukebox, although light on soul and R&B, which meant none at all. It was currently playing something by the Eagles, because somewhere in town was always playing something by the Eagles, and it might as well be Boyd’s as anyplace else. Griffin counted a dozen customers, of whom he could have named eleven. The twelfth was sitting in a corner booth with his back to the wall and a window to his left. From this vantage point, he could watch the parking lot, the bar, its clientele, and the door. A copy of the Washington Post was folded before him, next to a slightly diminished roast chicken platter and two glasses, one half-filled with soda, the other with water. As Griffin approached, the man placed his hands flat on the table, where they could clearly be seen. Naylor hung back by the main door, and joined everyone else in watching Griffin, just in case anything more interesting than the Daytona previews might be about to unfold.
The stranger was in his early thirties, Griffin guessed: not tall, and of medium build. His hair was dark, fading prematurely to gray at the sides. He was wearing a heavy blue cotton shirt that hung loose over his jeans, and a dark T-shirt underneath. Naylor hadn’t been able to tell if he was armed, but Griffin thought he looked like the kind of man that might be. It was the way he held himself as the chief approached. He didn’t appear nervous to be the object of police attention, which meant he was used to it. That made him police, criminal, or a private investigator. Police would have had the manners to introduce himself before asking questions about Patricia Hartley, and private might have had the good sense to do the same.
Which left criminal, and the closer Griffin drew to him, the more this showed signs of being the likeliest possibility. His eyes burned very bright. There was rage in them, and something approaching agony. Griffin had seen a facsimile of it in the gaze of bereaved parents, and those driven to take revenge on tormentors. If this man were not in possession of a weapon and a grudge, Griffin would have been very surprised to hear it.
‘Evening,’ said Griffin.
‘Evening,’ said the newcomer.
‘Mind if I sit?’
‘Not at all.’
He was smiling slightly, more in resignation than good humor, as though this intrusion upon his evening had been anticipated, even as he might have hoped to avoid it.
‘My name is Evander Griffin. I’m the chief of police here in Cargill.’
‘I know.’
Griffin felt unease keeping pace with curiosity. Were this man’s hands not so visible, Griffin might well have had him under a gun by now.
‘That’s usually the cue for someone to offer his name in return,’ said Griffin, ‘or I could ask you to produce some identification, but I find a plain exchange of appellations to be more civilized.’
‘My name is Parker.’
‘And where are you from, Mr Parker?’
‘New York.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘I’m currently between positions.’
‘Unemployed?’
‘By inclination.’
‘So what was your previous vocation, before you became inclined to divest yourself of it?’
‘I’d prefer not to say.’
Griffin grimaced. The man hadn’t done anything wrong – or not so far as anyone could tell – beyond asking questions that the majority of people in the county would have considered unwelcome. He hadn’t broken any laws, but the chief was used to a degree of cooperation from those who strayed into his orbit, because it contributed to the smooth running of the town. If knowledge was power, ignorance was powerlessness. There were gradations of both, but Griffin preferred to remain firmly in credit with the former.
‘What happened to your hand?’ he said.
The knuckles of Parker’s right hand bore traces of lacerations, now almost healed.
‘The jack slipped while I was changing a tire.’
‘Looks like you were punching the tire, not changing it.’
Parker glanced at the limb and stretched the fingers. The action made him wince, and his eyes assumed fresh traces of pain both actual and remembered.
‘I might have lost my temper,’ he said, almost vacantly.
‘You do that a lot?’
‘I try not to.’
‘That seems wise. What’s your interest in Patricia Hartley?’
‘None.’
‘But you’ve been asking about her.’
‘I have, but I’m done asking now.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because I thought her death might be relevant, but it isn’t.’
‘Relevant to what?’
‘To another inquiry.’
‘Which inquiry?’
‘A personal one.’
‘Are you a private investigator, Mr Parker?’
‘I told you: I’m between positions.’
‘Yes, you did tell me that. The investigation into Patricia Hartley’s death is ongoing, and therefore it’s of interest to me when someone comes along to check on its progress.’
‘Is it?’
‘Is it what?’ said Griffin.
‘Ongoing? Of interest? Both?’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Not at all. It just strikes me that if there is an investigation into the girl’s death, it hasn’t made much progress at all, which begs the question: Just how interested are you?’
‘I don’t think I appreciate your tone.’
‘I hear that a lot.’
‘I’ll bet you do. Did you know Patricia Hartley?’
‘No.’
‘Or her family?’
‘No.’
‘This your first time in Burdon County?’
‘First time in Arkansas.’
‘You can prove that, I suppose?’
‘Would I have to?’
‘You might, if you were the suspect in a killing.’
‘What killing would that be?’
‘The killing of Patricia Hartley.’
‘I’m confused.’
‘And why is that?’
‘My understanding is that Patricia Hartley�
��s death was determined to be accidental, but you’ve just described it as a killing.’
‘Mr Parker, I’m starting not to like you. You appear averse to transparency.’
‘Patricia Hartley’s body was discovered on December tenth of last year. If I have to, I can prove where I was on that date.’
‘And where would that have been?’
‘New York.’
‘Were you in employment at that time?’
‘I was.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No.’
‘Good, because I thought I might have missed part of the conversation.’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Griffin.
‘If I’m under arrest, you’re obliged to Mirandize me.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘And offer me access to a lawyer.’
‘I’m aware of that too.’
‘Then you’ll also be aware that I don’t have to answer your questions. I’m going to reach for my wallet now so I can pay the check. I’d prefer if you, or the gentleman by the door, didn’t shoot me. Is he one of your officers?’
‘He is.’
‘I think I’ve seen him around. He has a good eye.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be flattered to hear it. Where’s your wallet?’
‘In the pocket of my jacket.’
The jacket was hanging from a hook beside Parker’s head.
‘If it’s all the same to you,’ said Griffin, ‘I’ll ask my officer to retrieve it for you, just in case.’
He raised his left hand, summoning Naylor.
‘Mr Parker’s wallet is occupying a pocket of his jacket. I’d be obliged if you’d find it for him.’
Before he reached for it, Naylor asked if the pocket held any sharp objects or anything else of which he should be aware. That was how he said it, Griffin noted: ‘of which I should be aware.’ The boy really was wasted in Cargill.
‘No,’ said Parker.
‘Are you armed?’
‘No.’
Which was a pity, Griffin thought, because Boyd’s was a bar, not a restaurant, which made it illegal to carry a firearm on the premises. It would have been sufficient justification for placing Parker in a cell overnight while Griffin tried to figure out the Hartley angle.
The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020) Page 2
