by David Stout
He got up and stretched his back, then went to the door and shouted down the corridor: “Bestwick.”
“Yo, Captain?”
“Put me down for a tuna on rye and a soda.”
Back to the files. Cody’s name appeared again and again, as did his father’s, once he got far enough back in time. Stoker smiled at an old glossy picture of his father and Dexter Cody, flanking a handcuffed black man who had axed his wife to death and fled into the woods. It was not the recollection of the crime that made Stoker smile (actually, he winced at the crime-scene photograph showing the victim lying on a kitchen floor, her head at a crazy angle), but the close-cropped hair and full trousers his father and Cody wore.
Long, long time ago. Stoker wondered where he himself had been at the precise moment the picture was taken. Shit, in his twenties? A teenager? Goddamn, the time had just slipped right away. His time and his life had just slipped right away.…
He stared at the face of the black. Fatigue, resignation, a touch of sadness. Perhaps some contrition, though it was hard to tell. Ah, poor bastard. Back then, he probably knew what the price was going to be. Sure enough, Stoker’s fingers found the documents attesting to the fact that the defendant was delivered to the state prison in good health. In good health, that is, until he was put to death by electric current …
His father had never talked much about the executions he’d seen, and he’d seen a few. Junior Stoker had seen just one, that one time, with that kid. He shuddered at the memory. The worst thing had been the face, coming out of the mask, the tears …
A long time ago. An eternity. Whoever could have told how things would turn out. Blacks, whites, together all over now. Even in the sheriff’s department.
Stoker wondered if his father had ever regretted taking him along that day, to watch the execution. His mother had been against it, Junior knew that. Junior himself wasn’t sure if he regretted having seen what he had seen. Some of the younger law men, those who had never seen an execution, occasionally tried to get him to talk about it, but he chose not to. It made him feel sad, about his father, about life in those days, about himself, about the certainty of death.…
The old man, he would have been a damn decent law man today, Stoker thought. Despite the civil righters and the liberals, a damn good one.
Once he got to thinking about his father, it was tough for him to climb out of melancholy, so Stoker was relieved when he came to the end of the files. God, what a dull little place this is, he thought. All the crime I went through, right here on this desktop … Why, shit. A day’s worth in New York or Houston. An hour’s worth …
A knock. “Here’s your lunch, Captain,” Bestwick said, laying a paper bag on the desk. “I’ll get someone to put them files back. You be needin’ the really old ones?”
“Not right now. Oh, I don’t know.…”
There was something uneasy in Bestwick’s manner, Stoker noted. Perhaps she sensed his sadness. She closed the door quietly. Stoker unwrapped the waxed paper, and the smell of tuna fish blended with the smell of old paper telling of old heartaches. He ate slowly, and his gloom deepened. It wasn’t just thinking about his father that did it. Face it, he said to himself. In the sanctity of your small office with your so-so sandwich in your so-so day in your so-so life. This place, this damn, dull little place to live, is in your bones. Boring bones, at that. No wonder Jen got sick of it. And you. There. Honesty.
He picked up the phone. “Bestwick, let’s do have all the old files, right back to the year one, when you get a chance.”
“Right, Captain.” Over the phone, Stoker heard the sound of a siren on the radio.
“What’s that?”
“Some kinda fire over by the mill, Captain. Doesn’t sound like much.”
“Right.”
“And Captain. Sheriff Fischer says there’s only a couple of prisoners that’ve been released recently that sound even remotely promising. I mean, in connection with Mr. Cody’s death. They’re being checked out.”
“Fine.”
In a down mood, and with a little down time on his hands, Stoker called the video place and found that someone would indeed come to fix his cable, and at a specific day and hour, and that the Clint Eastwood movie he had requested was indeed in. (A Clint Eastwood movie! No wonder Jen had left! She was right! Hell, Stoker thought, a man has to laugh at himself a little.…)
Then he called about his son and was told that he was resting just fine, and that everyone felt bad about the fall, but that it was just one of those things. Just one of those things …
And then Junior Stoker wondered how, and when, and if he would tell his father about Dexter Cody’s death. Well, that would depend partly on how he had died: If old Dex had died accidentally, and there was no more to it than that, well, the old man could handle that. But if it turned out that he had been murdered (why did Junior think that?), then it would be a lot tougher to explain to him.
Damn. Gotta explain things two or three times to my father; gotta explain things two or three times to my son. Can’t win.
The phone rang. It was Bestwick.
“Captain, the deputy over by the mill says that fire’s a fatal. Old black fellow name of Tyrone.”
32
Junior Stoker had read once, a long, long time ago, that Ulysses S. Grant—in the Confederate version of Civil War history an unfeeling butcher who triumphed only because he sacrificed thousands of Union soldiers in the Battle of the Wilderness—was in reality a deeply sensitive man who could only eat meat if it was fried to a blackened crisp.
God, a blackened crisp … The image was almost enough to make Junior Stoker throw up, after what he had seen today.
He parked his car in his apartment-building lot, thankful that he encountered none of the other tenants on his way in. The last thing he needed was questions about the burned body from decent citizens transformed into voyeurs. He checked his mail slot. A thick brown envelope with something hard inside. Stoker was momentarily puzzled. Opening it, he saw the film cassette and a note from the manager of Clarendon Video. “Junior,” the note said. “Sorry for the delay. Here’s the Clint E. film you’ve been waiting for. Happy viewing. Best, Don M.”
Stoker laughed. Any other time, he would have been delighted; the movie would have guaranteed him a full (or at least not an empty) evening. Maybe a little violence is what I need, he said to himself, mockingly. In a movie, blood doesn’t smell. Neither does flesh, either rotten or burned …
Suddenly, he thought he was going to vomit. He leaned against the wall of the building, closed his eyes, swallowed hard twice. The feeling passed; he was Captain Bill Stoker again, Captain Bill Stoker of the South Carolina State Police, Captain Bill Stoker for whom highway deaths and shooting deaths and cutting deaths were supposed to be routine.
He squeezed the film cassette hard. Maybe he would watch it tonight and maybe he wouldn’t. There, that was better. He was himself again. “Go ahead,” he said, “make my day.”
Stoker took the bottle of rye whiskey from its spot in the cupboard under the sink, and poured himself an inch and a half of whiskey.
One thing that bothered Stoker so much was that Tyrone had never had a great deal in life. Therefore, one could argue, he was entitled to a slightly easier, or at least more dignified, death. But smarter men than Bill Stoker had made the point that life was not fair. So why should death, be fair?
Being black and that age around here was hard enough, Stoker thought. Never having a wife and kids … well, Stoker could understand what that was like. At least understand part way …
All right, never mind. It was time for Junior Stoker to think like a cop. Now, how the hell would Tyrone burn himself up in his own little cabin like that? Sure, he liked a corncob pipe now and then, and sure, he liked to tidy up his yard by building a little fire for the twigs. Just for something to do, like as not. And sure, the wood in his cabin was probably pretty dry. Tar on the roof, dry wood, tired old man who liked to build fires in his
yard, liked to smoke a corncob pipe, maybe smoked in bed sometimes … Sure, there were all the ingredients for an accidental death by fire.
Bullshit.
He went to the sink cupboard again, poured himself another inch of rye, and picked up the phone.
“Me, Bryant. Sorry to bother you again. Like you ain’t got enough stuff to do today.”
“What’s up, Junior?”
“Damn thing’s fishy, that’s what’s up. Tyrone burning himself up like that. Don’t make any sense to me.”
“Well, hold on, Junior. After you left, we found an empty whiskey bottle, glass all cracked, under the body. Now, you know how easy it is. Get a little hooched up, smoke in bed, or maybe a spark from his yard fire …”
“Whiskey bottle, huh …” Junior Stoker was just starting to feel, and welcoming it, the hot glow of alcohol. And he was a lot younger, in a lot better shape than Tyrone. Probably ate better, too …
“Way we look at it, Junior, the old fellow passed out, set his mattress on fire, probably died of the fumes before the flames got to him.”
“I guess that isn’t too much to hope for, in retrospect,” Junior said.
“No. Well, look, Junior. We’ll give things a good going over. I mean, we think we know what happened, but we’ll give it a good look-see. I mean, we gotta get along okay with the state police.…”
“You turkey,” Junior said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Junior hung up, finished the whiskey, then went to the refrigerator and took out a can of beer. Ah, there was some cold chicken. He could probably stand that tonight. White meat, no blood, cold, bland.
Tyrone had never had much, had never seemed to want much (who could tell?), had never caused any trouble. Never caused any trouble. What a thing to say about a man. Here lies a man who never caused any trouble.…
Junior felt very much alone, and so he picked up the phone again and dialed Jen in Columbia.
“Hi,” he said when she answered. “Just thought I’d, uh, check on Thomas.”
“Oh, Bill, hi. Umm, I haven’t heard anything new. Just what I told you …”
“Ah. Well, I was over to see my dad today, so I didn’t get a chance—”
“How is he? Your dad.”
“Oh, pretty much the same.” Junior thought his ex-wife sounded distracted, nervous. He could hear the sounds of dishes and silverware in the background.
“Well, give him my love.…”
“Will do. We, uh, have some excitement over here. At least you could call it that, by our—”
“Oh, what’s that? What’s happened, I mean?”
Junior sensed an abruptness, a nervousness over the phone (not that he considered himself that perceptive; it was just that they had been married a long time). He was puzzled and upset.
“Well, a couple of deaths. Accidents, maybe. Or maybe not. Dexter Cody. Remember him? Used to be my dad’s deputy. Shot himself accidentally, it looks like. Then there was an old black fella, got burned up just today in a fire over by the mill. His cabin—”
“No, that’s okay. The oven timer’s on.… I’m sorry, Bill. I have someone here for dinner.”
“Oh, excuse me,” he managed to say without his voice breaking. A deep breath. “I’ll let you go. Keep in touch.”
“I will. Thomas would probably enjoy a visit.…”
“I know. Bye.”
Ah, Bill D. Stoker, boring captain of the state police and thorough investigator, so you don’t know yourself quite as well as you thought. You were supposed to be over her, supposed to be happy for her new life and new success without bitterness, without pangs.
So how come you feel like a stake was just pushed through your heart?
This calls for a third trip to the sink cupboard, he thought. But when he saw the bottle, he left it alone. I’ll just mellow out, slowly, on another beer or three or five, he thought.
Bill D. Stoker thought of his brother Bob. Without warning, the thought crept in, and he was afraid he might cry. It had been so long.…
Gotta stop this, he thought, draining the beer.
Lord, how the alcohol can bring on the sadness, Junior thought. He wondered if that was what had happened to Tyrone. Maybe he had just been overcome with the sadness of everything, and so—
Jesus. Am I stupid or what? Junior asked himself, yanking the phone off the hook again.
“Bryant, it’s me. Where did you say that whiskey bottle was at Tyrone’s cabin?”
“Under the body, Junior …”
“Under?”
“Under …”
“And the glass from the bottle, you said it was all busted?”
“Yeah …”
“Well, was it all burned, like covered with carbon?”
“Well, no. Pretty clear glass. We knew right away what kind of bottle it was.…”
“So then Tyrone didn’t fall asleep, pass out, smoking in bed, did he? ’Cause he couldn’t have done that and fallen down on the bottle. And we know he fell on the bottle before the fire, or else the bottle would have been all covered with carbon.”
“Jesus, Junior …”
“Ain’t that right, Byrant?”
“Jesus, Junior …”
“Right. And you know what else? All them years, back since I was a kid, Tyrone’s been living over by the mill, used to work there—”
“And all that time nobody ever seen him drunk.”
Junior was happy for Bryant, happy that the sheriff had been able to finish his thought.
“You got it.”
“Jesus, Junior …”
“Right. And you know what else? How come we got two suspicious deaths hereabouts all of a sudden? Ain’t but, what, thirty thousand people this whole damned little county, can’t remember the last time somebody killed somebody else—”
“And now we got Cody and poor old Tyrone dead.”
“Right.” Again, Junior was happy the sheriff had finished his thought.
“Jesus, Junior …”
“Right. Listen, come to think of it, I don’t like the way the cabin all seemed to go up at once. Like somebody used an accelerant …”
“A who?”
“Fancy term I learned at an arson seminar in Atlanta once. It just ain’t right, none of it.…”
“Junior, I’ll have my men snoop around some more. Damn straight, you’re right about nobody ever seeing Tyrone drunk. I mean, shit, a big deal for him was buying up a handful of licorice at the hardware store there.”
“There you go. Ask the hardware people when they saw him last. Whether he smelled of booze. Whether any strange people been hanging around.”
“Jesus, Junior …”
“I know, what’s it all mean?”
“Somethin’ …”
“Yeah. Listen, first thing tomorrow have somebody get out the rest of the files for the cases Dex worked on. I already looked at ’em back to 1950. Might as well go through the rest.”
“Jesus. You think …?”
“Ain’t got the slightest, truth to tell. All I know is, we got two old, dead men around here. Come to think of it, I’m gonna call state headquarters tomorrow and see if I can get us an arson expert. Don’t know why the hell not. And don’t worry. You’ll still be running the show, with help from me.”
“Okay. I’ll get my people on the other stuff first thing. Them old files, too. You’ll have ’em when you come in tomorrow.”
“Terrific.” Junior was going to say more, but he heard voices and laughter on the phone. “Oh, I’m sorry, Bryant. You must have company.…”
“No, no, that’s okay. Business first. My daughter is home from college.”
“Oh, ain’t that grand. Well, her dad is a first-rate cop. You tell her that.”
“I been telling her.…”
Both happy for Bryant Fischer and envious, Junior mumbled a couple more pleasantries and hung up. Just when he got to thinking things were simple—crime and feelings both—something happened to change his mind. He was sad tha
t he would never have a daughter, or a son, home from college, sad and angry and jealous about Jen, sad and sick about the death he had seen not many hours ago.…
Ah, but there was his salvation. He was not a half-bad cop, in a world (even a quiet, Clarendon County world) that could use some not-half-bad cops. He would have plenty to work on, plenty to think about tomorrow, and the day after that.…
Meanwhile, he was getting hungry. He took out the chicken, some whole wheat bread, some cheese, some lettuce, some mustard. Maybe he would have some prune juice later, just to keep things moving smoothly …
Maybe he could make another trip to the sink cupboard. Yes, he had earned it. He took out the bottle, poured himself an inch and drank it neat. Next he piled chicken, bread, cheese, lettuce on a plate and put the plate on a tray; put the mustard jar and silverware next to the plate; took out another can of beer and put that on the tray; grabbed a handful of paper napkins.
Into the living room. Set the food tray on the table in front of the easy chair facing the television set. Take out the cassette of the Clint Eastwood movie, put it into the video-cassette player.
Open the can of beer. Turn on the movie.
“Go ahead,” Junior Stoker said to the television screen. “Make my life.”
33
Stoker barged through the front door, much more briskly than usual, much more briskly than he felt, considering his hangover. He startled Bestwick.
“Oh! Morning, Captain …”
“Hi, Bestwick.” Stoker was momentarily puzzled, for she was not in her seat. She was, rather, out in front of the counter, stapling something to the bulletin board. God, that time of year again, he thought as he recognized the large cardboard cutout in the shape of a bass. He would have to set a good example and buy several chances on the festival. He had resisted attempts in recent years to enter the fishing competition.
“Captain, all the old case files between 1945 and 1950 are on your desk. So musty and mildewy, they made me sneeze. That’s enough for you to start on, I guess.…”
“Should keep me busy,” he said. With one more glance at Bestwick’s generous curves, he went down the corridor, stopping at the soda machine to get something to cool his pipes.
