Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  A possible arson at the new airport was interesting, but Moon reminded himself that nosing around in Scott Parris’s business was not going to help him get his job done. He directed the conversation back to the tribal chairman’s concern. “Billy Smoke’s stolen wallet—was it holding any plastic?”

  “We determined that Mr. Smoke had been issued a Visa and Conoco. Both had been used by the victim within a few hours prior to his murder. So the cards must’ve been in his wallet when the perp bashed his skull in.”

  “And so far, nobody’s used either card for a purchase.”

  “You got it. But that ain’t so surprising. Few hours after he does the dirty deed, the bad guy finds out he’s assaulted a United States senator. That makes the killing of Billy Smoke more than just your average run-of-the-mill homicide. The criminal knows that half the cops in the country will be on the lookout, waiting for him to make a dumb move. So you know what he does with Mr. Smoke’s credit cards.”

  Moon nodded. “Drops ’em into the nearest sewer.”

  “You bet.”

  “If I remember right, you’ve got the murder weapon.”

  “Your memory’s working just fine.” Parris jammed his hands into his pockets. “Fourteen-inch piece of rebar. Found blood on it—Billy Smoke’s and Patch Davidson’s.”

  “But no prints.”

  “Life is full of bitter disappointments.” Parris looked sideways at his friend. “So where do you go from here?”

  “I’ll go do some rooting around.” Enough to satisfy Oscar Sweetwater. “I’ll see a few people. Ask some questions. Then I’ll call the chairman.”

  Parris was recalling former cases they had worked together. This canny Ute had a way of stumbling over things. “Charlie?”

  “Yeah?” Moon kicked at something among the glass shards. It looked like a flattened piece of metal. Soft metal.

  “If you should pick up anything important—you’ll let me know.”

  “Sure I will, pardner. But don’t hold your breath.” Moon squatted to have a closer look at the object. It was a flattened piece of lead. He looked up at the chief of police. “What do you make of this?”

  Scott Parris picked up the chunk of metal with plastic-tipped forceps. He gave it a professional once-over. “I sure hope this wasn’t a bullet, because it’d have to be at least half an inch in diameter. Hell, that’s all I need—some gun nut shooting a fifty-caliber machine gun in my jurisdiction.” He found a plastic evidence bag in his jacket pocket.

  “Could be a slug from one of those old black-powder buffalo guns. Maybe some Daniel Boone?type shot a hole through the terminal window, punctured the propane tank.”

  “Well thank you. Some guy in a coonskin hat shooting out windows. That makes me feel lots better.” Parris bagged and tagged the lumpy artifact, dropped it into his pocket.

  Moon leaned on his pickup. “I’d like to get this Billy Smoke business behind me. I’ve got a lot of work to do at the ranch.”

  Parris grinned. “Like what?”

  The stockman’s expression was solemn. “For one thing, we got a big cougar threatening the stock. He might even be a danger to my cowboys.”

  “A cougar. Boy, I’d change places with you in one second flat.” The white man grinned at his best friend. “So when’re we gonna go fishing?”

  “Soon as I get this work for the tribal chairman finished.”

  “You do seem to be awfully focused on that.”

  “Well, now that you mention it—”

  “You’d sure appreciate any help.”

  “Glad you took the hint.”

  “Whatever you want—all you got to do is ask.” Parris looked up at the taller man. “For starters, would you like to read the official report on the investigation into Mr. Smoke’s death?”

  “Cover to cover, pardner.”

  “It’ll be dull as daytime TV.”

  “That’s good—if I’ve suffered some, it’ll help my conscience when I cash the tribe’s check.” He had an afterthought. “The postmortem, it turn up anything unusual on Billy’s remains?”

  “Unusual—like what?”

  “Tiny transmitters hidden under his skin by aliens. A twenty-dollar gold piece in his stomach.” Moon hesitated. “Or drugs.”

  Parris shook his head. “Not unless you count the legal kind. Mr. Smoke was just a smidgen under the blood-alcohol limit.”

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “Word has it, the man was drunk fifty percent of the time and not quite sober the other half.”

  “Sounds like Billy had no business driving a motor vehicle.”

  The chief of police almost shuddered. “Gives me the cold chills to think about a drunk chauffeuring our senior senator around in that big Lincoln.”

  Moon frowned. “I just remembered something I was supposed to tell you about.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Aunt Daisy met this young woman at a discount store in Durango. She was just a kid—probably needed to talk to a social worker.”

  “So what was her problem?”

  “My aunt thought she was scared of somebody.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Didn’t mention her name.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A few months ago.” Moon grinned. “Like I said, it sorta slipped my mind.”

  The chief of police stared at the Ute. “Last night on a TV talk show, there was this Harvard psychologist. She said as we get old, the memory’s the second thing to go.” He feigned an expression of intense concentration. “But damned if I can remember what the first thing is…”

  “The reason I forgot might be important. Just a few hours after my aunt had her chat with this gal, something happened that distracted my attention.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Billy Smoke was murdered. Senator Davidson got his legs busted up.”

  Parris raised an eyebrow. “You think there might be a connection?”

  The tribal investigator shrugged.

  “Any notion where this Jane Doe hangs her hat?”

  “Aunt Daisy said the gal mentioned Arroyo Hondo.” The old mining settlement was in GCPD jurisdiction. Which made it Scott Parris’s official business.

  The busy chief of police shook his head. “Nobody stays at Hondo on a permanent basis. And it’s been quite some time since your aunt talked to this young lady.”

  “I know it’s a long shot.” Moon looked toward the western highlands. “But what if she’s out there in the wilderness, hiding from some bad-ass.” His eyes twinkled. “Poor thing could be living in a cave. Wearing filthy, flea-infested rags. Eating roots and grubs.”

  Parris grimaced at the image. “I guess I could send a couple of officers up to have a look.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Aunt Daisy said she was white. Early twenties. Slender. Freckle-faced.”

  Parris snorted. “Well that sure narrows it down.”

  “And she’s a redhead.”

  The chief of police, who had been jotting notes in his pad, paused to stare at his best friend.

  “What?”

  “You’ve just described a young woman we got a call about last winter. Brewster—but what’s her first name.” Parris closed his eyes, scratched at thinning hair. “Oh yeah. Wilma Brewster.”

  The tribal investigator searched his own memory. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “She’s an engineering student over at RMP who went AWOL. Her mother reported her missing about…let’s see…I think it was just before Christmas. One of my officers took the complainant to her daughter’s apartment, got entry from the supervisor. No sign of foul play. The mother wasn’t sure whether any clothes were missing. The daughter’s university-issue bicycle was in the apartment.”

  “What was she doing with university wheels?”

  “Miss Brewster worked part-time for the campus police force.”

  “And she just upped
and left without a word to anybody?”

  “That’s about the size of it. And the girl has had some medical problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “Schizophrenia. This isn’t the first time she’s wandered off. But according to her mom, the symptoms have been pretty much controlled for the past three years—as long as she takes her medications.” Parris grimaced. “Bad news is that when Miss Brewster left her apartment, she also left her prescription pills in the medicine cabinet.”

  “How’d a schizophrenic get a job with the campus police?”

  “I doubt they had access to her complete medical history. Even if they did, they might’ve given her a chance. There are a lot of sick people who manage to function well enough to get by.” The chief of police shook his head. “Are you not familiar with the two or three borderline psychotics working in my own department?”

  “Say no more.”

  “Thank you. It is not a subject I wish to dwell on.”

  “This missing gal own a car?”

  “She did. The Toyota was parked right outside her apartment. Dead battery.”

  “So the bike’s in her room, her car won’t start. How does she leave town? Hitchhike?”

  “Quite possibly. But I should point out that Miss Brewster’s apartment is on the north side of Eikleberry Avenue, between Gish Lane and Arnett Street.”

  Moon closed his eyes, visualized a mental map of the small town. “Right across from the bus station.”

  “You got it. Grumpy old duffer working behind the counter wasn’t much help—said, ‘Maybe I seed her, maybe I didn’t—damn scruffy college kids are comin’ and goin’ all the time.’” Parris grinned. “He sells lots of tickets. Denver. Rock Springs. Albuquerque. Salt Lake. Wilma Brewster could’ve gone anywhere. But from what you’re telling me, sounds like she ended up in Durango.”

  “There been any activity on her credit cards?”

  “The kid didn’t hold any plastic. She had a spotty credit record—her Visa was pulled last year.”

  “Wherever she’s living, maybe she got some kind of job. Any employment reports on her Social Security number?”

  “We haven’t tried that hard to run her to ground. I figured she was hanging out with some friends—or maybe bumming her way across the country.” Scott Parris squinted sad blue eyes at his Ute friend. “Sometimes college gets to be too much. A fair number of these kids get burned out. Some drop out and go home. Others join the Peace Corps—or the Marines. A few, like Miss Brewster, just walk away.” The chief of police scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Maybe Durango PD could turn up something. If she’s still hanging around down there.”

  Aunt Daisy was certain the redheaded woman was scared of something. Or somebody. Moon wondered who the young woman might be running from. “This Wilma Brewster, she have a boyfriend?”

  Scott Parris shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You have a picture on file?”

  “We got a high school yearbook photo from Wilma’s mother. It’ll be in the folder—I’ll get you a copy made.”

  “Tell me about her mother.”

  “Jane Brewster. Widow. Early to mid-sixties.”

  “Where would I find her?”

  Parris gave his friend a complicated set of directions.

  The tribal investigator scribbled notes on a small pad. “The mother have a job?”

  “Mrs. Brewster mostly lives off her Social Security check. But she picks up some work here and there. Whenever she can.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Cleaning homes. Laundry. Ironing. But primarily, the woman is a first-rate cook.” Parris held his tongue for a moment. As if he didn’t want to say it. “Before her daughter left town, the old lady spent three or four days a week fixing meals for Senator Davidson.”

  The Ute gave his friend a look. “Seems like all roads lead to the BoxCar Ranch.”

  The chief of police bristled his eyebrows into a frown. “Charlie—I sure hope this is a coincidence.” He looked up at a cloudy sky. “You hear any more from this Wilma Brewster look-alike, you be sure to let me know.”

  “I’ll do better than that—if this redhead contacts me, I’ll give her your unlisted telephone number. Tell her it’s okay to call you any hour of the day. Or night.”

  “Thanks, pardner.” Scott Parris felt like he was getting a fever. “And if I should pick up a serious case of the flu, I’ll be sure to cough in your face.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE WIDOW

  CONCERNED THAT HE MIGHT HAVE TAKEN A WRONG TURN, CHARLIE Moon continued down the weed-choked dirt road. Around a hard left turn, he passed under the brittle arms of a diseased elm and slammed on the brakes. The little-used lane was blocked by a rusted Dodge pickup; the hulk was perched precariously on wooden blocks.

  The tribal investigator checked his scribbled notes. This layout was more or less what Scott Parris had described. Between by an orchard of sickly peach trees and a tumbledown barn, there was a small cottage. The dwelling had a pitched roof covered by tar shingles, deathly gray clapboard walls, a redbrick chimney that leaned ever so slightly southward. In stark contrast, the sparkling clean windows were flanked by freshly painted green shutters. The dusty yard had been broom-swept. The overall effect was a melancholy mixture of grinding poverty and stubborn pride.

  This has to be the place.

  The Ute got out of the truck, approached a sagging porch.

  A small mixed breed dog appeared from under the house. After scratching at an invisible colony of fleas and shaking off some excess dust, she yapped dutifully at the intruder. Turned to look expectantly at the front door.

  Moon paused to offer a kind word to the half-starved animal.

  The mutt responded with a wag of a drooping tail.

  A woman, looking a decade older than her sixty-some years, appeared at the door. Jane Brewster wiped reddened hands on a cotton apron. Dark red hair bobbed on plastic curlers. The work-hardened face was flat, without expression except for a hint of don’t-mess-with-me-buster. Only the eyes were alive. Her frank blue orbs engaged the Ute’s dark face. Her voice was tired. “You the Indian policeman?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The visitor removed the black Stetson. “Charlie Moon.”

  “The chief of police—Mr. Parris—he told me you’d be stopping by.”

  “Hope this isn’t a bad time. I would have called first, but…” Jane Brewster’s telephone had been disconnected.

  “I didn’t pay the bills, so they pulled the plug.” She laughed mechanically. “Anyway, don’t worry about schedules. Out here, one time is about the same as another.” She clicked her tongue at the dog. “I expect there’s something you want to talk about.” There was not the least sign of curiosity on her face. “It’s too chilly to stand out here on the porch.” She turned toward the door. “C’mon in.”

  The inside of Jane Brewster’s home was like the outside. Well worn, but clean.

  At her direction, Moon seated himself at the kitchen table. He accepted her offer of coffee. He eyed the small sugar bowl, decided to do without the usual six teaspoons of sweetener.

  After lowering the flame under an aluminum saucepan filled with Great Northern beans, Jane Brewster turned her back on the sooty kerosene stove. She removed the apron, hung it on a nail by the back door. The woman smoothed a wispy tuft of gray hair, sat down across the table from her visitor. “This about Wilma?”

  He looked at the cup, nodded.

  “Ain’t seen her since last December.” Jane Brewster’s eyes glazed over. “First time she wasn’t home for Christmas.”

  “Heard anything from her since then?”

  “Not a word.” A half smile. “O’course I haven’t had a phone for a couple of months now.”

  He took a shot in the dark. “Anybody else seen her?”

  “Oh, sure. Every time I get out, I see somebody claims they’ve spotted my daughter.” She waved a bony arm in a gesture of hopeless frustration. “Hey, Jane�
�I saw Wilma up in Grand Junction at the Kentucky Fried. Over in Pueblo at a flea market. Down yonder in Salida at the post office.” She rubbed the back of her hand over a moist eye. “I don’t know why she don’t write me a letter.” Her tone and expression had turned bitter. “Maybe because I don’t have no reg’lar work—or any cash money to help pay her tuition.”

  “Was she having any problems at the university?”

  Jane Brewster shrugged under the oversized print dress. “How would I know—my daughter never told me nothing.” She stared at the Ute. “There’s something else you’ve been wanting to ask me about. It’s all right. Go ahead.”

  Thanks for making this easy. “I understand she was using prescription medication.”

  “Wilma was a sick girl. But as long as she took her pills…”

  An unpleasant picture was forming in his mind. “Mrs. Brewster, what might happen if your daughter didn’t take her medicine?”

  “Most of the time, nothing too serious. Other times, she could get a little crazy. Hear voices—see things that wasn’t there. Sometimes, she’d get pretty excited. One time, when she was still in high school, my ninety-pound daughter punched out her gym coach.” The woman smiled. “He was a pretty big guy, but she broke his nose.” Jane Brewster looked across the table at the Ute. “Where’s this going?”

  Good question. “A young woman matching your daughter’s description has spoken to my aunt. It was in Durango.”

  A faint spark of hope glimmered in the pale blue eyes. “What’d she say?”

  Another good question. “Not a lot. But it sounded like she wanted to talk to me about something.” Moon gauged his words with care. “Far as you know, could she have left town because she was afraid?”

  The woman’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Afraid of what?”

  “I don’t know. A boyfriend?”

  “Wilma didn’t tell me about any boyfriends.” She cast a wary glance at the tribal investigator. “Aside from the fact that she spoke to your aunt, why’s an Indian cop interested in my daughter?”

  “I’m working on something for the tribe. When Senator Davidson was assaulted, one of our people was killed.”