“Pearl? Don't rightly know.” Virgil rubbed his chin. “She tricked us and run off.”
“Did you want to file charges?”
“No, I don't think so. You'll have to talk to the new owner of the café.” Virgil stopped for a moment and then continued. “Pearl's a little off, that's all. She ain't never hurt nobody.”
“I see. I'll talk to George about it when he gets in.”
“Say, I heard you used to work with Charlie McCord up in Sycamore Springs.”
Lance grinned. “Taught me everything I know.”
Virgil affirmed with a nod. The two men shook hands again, and Virgil left. Lance took a pen and small spiral-bound notebook out of his shirt pocket and began to write. He tore off the sheet of paper and stuck it under the trigger of the shotgun for later reference. After securing the gun in the weapons safe, he headed toward the door.
Talking about Charlie brought back a flood of memories for Lance. At the age of forty-nine, taking the job in Liberty had given him the sense he had come full circle. He had grown up in Kenwood, a few miles north of Liberty, near Lake Eucha. One night, at the age of seventeen, he convinced his inebriated father to sign papers so he could join the U.S. Marines. He thought it was his one-way ticket out of a dead-end town and an escape from two alcoholic parents who took turns beating him on a regular basis.
Instead, on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, he walked off of a plane in DaNang to a world filled with deadly horror. After spending the worst thirteen months of his life sloshing through rice paddies and dodging bullets in Southeast Asia, he decided Oklahoma wasn't nearly as bad as he once thought. Since then, he had also come to the conclusion there must have been better ways of separating himself from abusive parents than joining the military and volunteering for combat duty.
Still wearing his military uniform, Lance arrived home from Vietnam by way of a Greyhound bus that dropped him off in front of Bobcat's Watering Hole, a bar in Sycamore Springs. In an effort to forget what he had just experienced in Vietnam and cope with his sudden reentry into American society, he ordered shots of tequila one right after the other until his eyes would no longer focus on the bartender, or anything else.
By the time the bar closed he had lost the ability to walk on his own, so the bartender and the waitress together helped the stout young Cherokee out onto the sidewalk, left him there, and locked the door. He came to when a black-and-white police cruiser slowed to a stop and shined a spot-light in the middle of his face.
When he regained his senses, he was sitting across the table from a big man in a gray uniform at an all-night diner drinking coffee. He wondered if he looked as bad as he felt and reasoned that keeping his mouth shut at that juncture was probably his best bet. Finally, the officer started talking and, for the first time in his life, Lance thought he was hearing fatherly advice. Strangely enough, those words of wisdom were coming from a white guy not much older than himself. He really hated that. But by the end of the officer's shift, Lance Smith had agreed to meet him the next day for lunch and talk about applying for a job at the police department. That was a long time ago, but he had never forgotten the favor from Sergeant Charlie McCord, the man who had taken him under his wing and put him on the right path in life.
True to his word, Lance applied to the Sycamore Springs Police Academy, graduated with honors, and received his certification from CLEET, the Council on Law Enforcement Education and Training, to become a police officer in the state of Oklahoma. His ability to handle a weapon came from his experience in the Marines, and the rest came naturally. He put in a lot of good years working under and alongside McCord on the Sycamore Springs Police Department. But he eventually lost his ability to stomach the bureaucratic politics and decided at the age of forty-eight to leave the force and go to work as a marshal for the Cherokee Nation in Tahlequah. That job lasted less than a year before he was ready to move on.
One day he noticed a blind ad in the local newspaper for the position of “a law enforcement specialist.” On a whim, he answered it. The job turned out to be for the second-in-command on a two-man force in Liberty, Oklahoma, a small community twelve miles north of Tahlequah. That was three weeks ago.
Now he had been on the job for only one week and already had a dead body. The police chief, George Stump, had phoned in the report a few minutes before Virgil Wilson's visit. According to Stump, an old woman by the name of Goldie Ray had been shot to death on her back porch only a few blocks from the four-way stop that marked the main intersection of Liberty.
At least it isn't going to be a boring job. Wonder if Virgil's shotgun has something to do with the murder.
Lance locked the door to his office, a habit for which George Stump had been chiding him. No one in Liberty locks their doors, the chief had said, especially not the police department. But Lance ignored his superior's advice and locked it anyway.
If we can have dead bodies, we can have thieves.
As he opened his car door, he heard the unmistakable sound of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle roaring down the street. A middle-aged man with a weather-worn face rode a full-dressed Harley hog down Main Street, a U.S. flag perched above the back fender. The rider, dressed in jeans and a tank top, wore mirrored sunglasses and a red-white-and-blue bandana tied around his head. Riding without a helmet already labeled the guy as questionable in Lance's mind. The rider obviously hadn't seen as many heads cracked open on the pavement as he had.
As the rider downshifted and slid through the stop sign without so much as a tap of the brakes, Lance saw what he thought was the scabbard of a long gun sticking up next to the man. This character definitely needs more scrutiny. He turned his cruiser in the same direction the rider had gone and picked up the radio transmitter.
“Deputy Dawg, come in,” called Lance.
The radio handle had originated a few days earlier when Stump traded two old police cars for a used vehicle from the county sheriff. The front left fender still sported the word “deputy” in capital letters, and Stump had decided the cost of a new paint job simply wasn't worth the money, especially since everyone in Liberty already knew he was the chief of police. The speakers crackled a couple of times before Lance heard a reply.
“Stump here.”
Lance knew George Stump had been the one and only officer of the law in Liberty since the last head cop had fallen victim to a heart attack. The former chief had died almost two years ago while sitting at his desk eating a greasy hamburger and double order of cheese-fries. Finally, the mayor decided to bestow the title of chief on Stump, who gladly accepted the boost in prestige and reflected it in his face, his stance, and his attitude. It was a good thing to go out on top, he had said, since he was only a year shy of giving it all up and living on Social Security.
“Chief, I'm going to be delayed a few minutes,” said Lance. “I've got a suspicious-looking character in my sights, and I'm getting ready to check him out.”
“Okay,” replied Stump. “Meet me here when you're through. The doc just got here.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“Not yet. One of the neighbors reported seeing a red vehicle. One of those SUV's.”
“Do you want me to notify the state boys?”
“Negative,” said Stump. “It would take the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation three days to get here. If we need any help, I'll call the county sheriff.”
“Okay, Chief. I'll be on my way shortly.”
“Stump, out.”
Lance found the motorcycle with Arkansas plates parked in front of the American Café. The rider had removed his glasses and was in the process of stowing them in one of the large saddlebags positioned over the back wheel of the bike. He had secured the long gun in what appeared to be a special-made hard case above the saddlebag.
The stranger, ignoring the policeman, walked up to the café, rattled the front door, and stepped back. Obviously perturbed when he found it locked, he returned to his Harley. Lance parked next to the bike and got out of his car.
“Oh.” The rider looked down the street. “Sorry, ’bout that, but there wasn't another car for miles.”
“Is that a loaded weapon you've got there?”
“No, sir. Never ride with a loaded weapon. That's my motto.”
“Well, how about we double-check and see if you're living up to your motto today?”
The rider unlocked the case, pulled out a long gun in a suede cover, and handed it to Lance. Lance unzipped the gun cover, exposing a 20-gauge Remington single-barreled shotgun. He opened the chamber and saw that it was empty.
“Where are the loads for it?” asked Lance.
“Not carrying any.”
“Oh? And where would you be headed carrying a shotgun with no loads?”
“Look officer, I don't want to get off on the wrong foot here, but you must be new in town. I come to Liberty at least once a week to check on my mother. I like to be prepared for hunting season, so I keep a lot of my guns at her place. This is just one more for the collection.” The rider stepped forward and offered his hand to Lance. “Name's John Mobley. My mother lives north of town, out past the sawmill, at the bottom of the big hill.”
“You Mobleys seem to be getting around this morning.”
“Huh?”
“You got a license and registration?”
The rider grimaced and shook his head as he pulled a billfold from a compartment near the handlebars and produced an Arkansas driver's license. He dug for a moment longer and handed the registration papers to Lance.
Lance leaned the shotgun against his car while he studied the license and papers for a moment. “When did you get into town, John?”
“Just rode in. Thought I'd get a bite to eat before I headed out to the house. My mother can't cook worth a darn. But I guess the café's closed.”
Lance handed the documents and shotgun back to the rider. “Just keep it legal, John, and we won't have any problems. And try to obey the stop signs if you can, even if there isn't much traffic.”
“Thanks,” John said and nodded.
“Have a good day, now.”
Lance waited for John Mobley to ride off before he got into his car, then he picked up the transmitter. “Deputy Dawg, come in.” The speakers sputtered.
“Stump here. Smith, I'd appreciate it if you'd address me with more respect over the airwaves.”
“Yes, sir. I'm on my way.” He dropped the microphone on the car seat and headed for the crime scene of the day.
Thirty-five miles north of Liberty, a red vehicle pulled up next to a ledge overlooking a deserted lake. The driver got out, looked at the water below, and flung a long, slender cardboard box as far as possible, then watched as it fell short of the water, dumping its contents on the rocks. Seeing that nothing could be done, the driver cursed and got back into the vehicle, then drove around the north side of the lake before turning south again toward the Cherokee Turnpike.
4
Lance drove the short distance to the murder victim's house. He could see George Stump walking toward the backyard, camera in hand. Lance pulled his cruiser between the ambulance and Stump's car, barely missing the young ambulance driver leaning against the vehicle smoking a cigarette. Lance got out and offered a few words of advice to the young man before moving on. “Those cancer sticks will kill you,” he said.
The young man grinned, obviously unaffected by Lance's warning. “They're in the back,” he offered, pointing with his chin.
Lance walked around the outside of the small frame home to the back porch. Stump's camera flashed again and again as another man, whom Lance presumed to be Doc Brown, pointed at the corpse. Stump stopped taking photographs, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and held it near his left ear.
“What happened?” asked Lance.
Stump dabbed at his face. “Darned bumblebee stung me.”
“Oh.” Lance looked at the doctor. “I meant with the victim.”
Stump made the proper introductions, then stuffed his handkerchief in his shirt pocket and began to update Lance on the situation. “It looks like someone just walked right up behind the poor old woman and let her have it in the back, with a shotgun no less.”
Lance frowned. “I've seen two 20-gauge shotguns this morning. First one came off of a woman named Mobley down at the café, and the second one was in the possession of her son. You suppose the perpetrator goes by Mobley?”
“You mean Crazy Pearl Mobley?” Stump's laugh turned into a snort. “I doubt it. And John's a drunk. Been that way since he came home from Iraq.”
The doctor ignored the two lawmen's conversation and continued with his inspection of the body.
Lance returned his attention to the victim. “How long?” he asked.
“Not very,” the doctor said without looking up. “In the last couple of hours, I'd say.”
“Did you find the empty shotgun shell?” Lance turned and scanned the area. “We might be able to match it back to a murder weapon.”
Stump shook his head. “Negative. They must have taken it with them.”
Lance stepped onto the porch, knelt next to the doctor, and studied the corpse. He retrieved the spiral-bound notebook from his shirt pocket and made several notes. After a few minutes, he stood and walked to the back door of the house. “Do you need me to search the house?”
“No. I've already done that. Looks like all the damage is out here.”
“What about the neighbors?” asked Lance. “Surely someone saw or heard something.”
“Maggie said an anonymous caller reported hearing gunfire. She couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. No one was home across the street. Another neighbor said she heard the shot but didn't think anything about it since the old man down the street is always shooting at something or another.”
“Do we have a better description of the vehicle other than ‘red’?”
“SUV. That's about it.”
Lance adjusted his hat and watched as the doctor pulled off his latex gloves, wadded them into a ball, and stuck them into his coat pocket.
“You can go ahead and remove the body if you're through, Doc,” Stump said. “Can you let me know when the lab determines the size of the buckshot?”
The doctor nodded in agreement.
“Are we going to fingerprint the victim here?” asked Lance. “Or do you want us to do that at your office?”
The doctor glanced first at Lance and then at Stump with a puzzled look on his face. Stump stared blankly at the corpse.
Lance elaborated for the doctor's sake. “When we try to determine if the killer left any fingerprints, we have to be able to eliminate those of the victim.”
“Oh.” The doctor shrugged. “Makes me no difference.”
“We'll get them at your office then,” said Stump. “Let's get her out of here before it gets too hot.”
The doctor nodded again and walked back toward the ambulance. A few moments later he returned with a gurney, a body bag, and his helper. While the two worked with the body, Lance and Stump stood in the yard and watched. “Who was this woman?” asked Lance.
“Goldie Ray. She owned a little café downtown for as long as I can remember. Heard she sold it not more than a few days ago. She made the best cinnamon rolls you ever sunk your teeth into.”
“You think it was connected to the sale of her business?”
“Could've been, I guess. Wouldn't make much sense, though.”
“Married?”
“Old maid. Never married and never had any kids.”
“Think it might have been someone she knew?”
Stump looked off into the distance. “Nah, I doubt it. I can't imagine anyone who knew Goldie wanting to hurt her.”
Lance removed his hat, scratched his head and replaced it. “So you don't think she had any enemies to speak of?”
“Goldie? Enemies?” Stump shook his head. “No way.” He
turned and spit into the yard. “Couldn't have been anyone from around here. Must have been a drifter, or someone trying to steal something.”
Lance walked over to the back door that stood ajar. “But you said there wasn't any sign of a break-in or a struggle. Thieves are cowards. They don't normally shoot people.”
Stump laughed. “Where'd you learn that bit of wisdom, Smith? At the Cherokee Nation?”
Lance held his tongue for a moment and took a deep breath before he spoke. “Just picked it up along the way, I guess. You don't mind if I take a look around, do you?”
“Be my guest. I could've missed something, but I doubt it.”
Lance used his elbow to push the back door open and entered the house. Stump followed. Once inside, Lance continued his search for anything that looked out of place. He scanned the floor, table, and counter-tops, then raised the lid on the trash and glanced inside. Just as he switched off the coffeepot, the radio receivers on the two lawmen's belts squawked simultaneously. “It's Maggie,” said Stump as he spoke into his transmitter. “Go ahead.”
“Chief, I got a call reporting a break-in at the old Liberty Diner. Someone broke out the front window.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“They hung up before I could get any information.”
Stump groaned. “Okay, Maggie. We'll take care of it.” Stump clicked off his transmitter as he and Lance left through the back door and walked toward their vehicles. “I'm going to secure the area and dust for prints,” said Stump. “You check out the café, then meet me back here. It's probably just a bunch of kids causing trouble.”
Lance ran to his cruiser, hit his lights and siren, and pulled away from the curb as the doctor and his cigarette-dangling helper loaded the gurney holding Goldie Ray's remains into the ambulance. There would be no lights or siren for Goldie. Too late for both.
Across the street, a small crowd gathered under a tall blackjack tree. Three older women stood whispering to each other, and a young mother stood wringing her hands while her two children scuffled over a skateboard.
Not far away, Red crouched behind a honeysuckle-covered fence. He watched until Lance's vehicle and the ambulance turned the corner at the end of the street before he emerged onto the crumbling sidewalk. He tipped his hat politely to the women and watched while Stump strung yellow crime-scene tape from Goldie's front gate to the big maple tree on the south side of her house.
The American Café Page 3
