NO SOLICITING
NO LOITERING
VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED
Below the threat, as if in symbolic warning of the stern punishment to be meted out for petty misdemeanors, a naked lightbulb hung on a twisted cord. While Moon watched, a five-mile-long cloud blotted out the sun. The photoelectric element embedded in the bulb’s socket sensed this false twilight; a sixty-watt filament was heated to a pale yellow incandescence.
Having memorized every detail of his immediate surroundings, the tribal investigator turned to his inner landscape. Charlie Moon seemed to be taking in the modest skyline that defined the small university town, but he was barely aware of the gathering of peaked roofs congregated about the soaring steeple on the First Methodist Church, or even the mountains, where a swirling, ice-speckled shawl wrapped itself about blue-green peaks. While the Ute thought his thoughts, he also waited. And presently, his patience was rewarded.
A sleek GCPD sedan pulled into the employee parking lot. A stocky, square-shouldered man got out of the black-and-white Chevrolet, pulled on a faded denim jacket.
The Ute smiled at the chief of police. “And they say the cops never come when a citizen calls.”
Scott Parris zipped the jacket, buttoned the collar snugly about his neck. He muttered something about hating these chilly days that threatened a hard winter to come. In his imagination, the blue-white monster lurked just over the mountains—a roaring blizzard of a storm whose sole purpose was to make a policeman’s life utterly miserable.
A sudden gust whipped up whatever it could from the parking lot.
Charlie Moon stood shoulder to shoulder with his best friend, holding onto the brim of his black Stetson. Like a pair of stubborn sentries, the chief of police and the tribal investigator leaned against a brisk wind that whipped across the open space, flinging stinging sand and grit into their faces. Along the ditch bank that bordered the employee parking lot, bare limbs of cottonwood and elm shuddered and shivered in their nakedness. The worst of it was over in seconds.
“Well,” Parris grumped, “I guess our two weeks of summer are about done with.”
“Rain or shine, hot or cold, it don’t matter a whit to me. I am content in all kinds of weather.”
The six-footer looked up at the taller man. “Charlie, nothing in this dreary world is more annoying than a man who is always happy as a fuzzy puppy. And won’t keep it to himself.”
Moon patted his friend on the shoulder. “What’s chewing on your leg, pardner? You’re a tad more testy than usual.”
The white man’s face twisted into a painful grimace. “Anne and me…we’ve split up.”
Having nothing to say, the Ute said nothing.
“But I’m doing all right.” As long as it’s light outside. But after sundown…
“You should take some time off. Come out to the Columbine.”
“What would I do at your ranch?” Parris snorted. “Shoot at snuff boxes and kick cow pies?”
“I’d put you to doing some productive work.” That’d get your mind off the woman.
Parris rubbed at his cold nose. “Hell, Charlie—I’m no kinda cowboy.”
“No need to apologize—everybody knows you’re a pathetic tinhorn. But I could find something simple enough even you could do it.”
“Like what?”
“Let me think.”
“Hey, take all day.”
“You could clean out the stables.”
“Why’n hell would I want to do that?”
“Shoveling manure makes it hard for a man to think about his love life.”
“Thank you kindly. But I’d just as soon stay in town and be miserable in a more hygienic fashion.” Maybe I’ll take out a second mortgage; buy me a brand-new red Corvette.
“Suit yourself.” Unexpectedly, the sun came out. Moon grinned at this welcome omen. “We could go fishing.”
“Fishing.” A dreamy look slipped over the white man’s face. “Yeah. I could swallow a big dose of that.”
“Then we’ll do it.”
“Great.”
“You feel better now?”
He squinted at the Ute. “Charlie, don’t expect instant results. My fiancé has left me. I’m passing through middle age at ninety miles an hour, and it’s all downhill from here.”
“Anne’s leaving is already history. And getting old and feeble is way off in the future. Try to think about here and now.”
“Okay. Right now, I’m standing here. Freezing my ass into brass.”
This was a hard man to cheer up. “Where did Billy park the Lincoln?”
Parris pointed toward the trees lining the drainage ditch. “Over there. Under that big knotty-looking cottonwood. When the first two officers showed up, they found Patch Davidson about six feet from the driver’s door, which was open. The old man was on his back, hurting like hell and cussing a blue streak. Mr. Smoke was behind the car. He was way past complaining.” The lawman sighed. The wind sighed with him. “But what am I beating my gums for? You’ve read the report. Seen the photographs.”
“Yeah.” About twenty times.
“So clue me in—what are we doing here?”
The Ute exhaled smoky breath onto his hands, rubbed palms together. “Where was the chunk of rebar found?”
Scott Parris pointed again. “Right behind where the Lincoln was parked—at the edge of the drainage ditch. And like I already told you, there’s no doubt it was the murder weapon. We found smears of blood on it. Most of it was from your tribal member, the rest was from the senator. State police lifted a few fibers off the rebar—they were from common cotton work gloves, made in Argentina. In the previous six months, over six thousand pairs were sold in Colorado.” He paused long enough to growl. “We’ll never know who did it unless we get a lucky break—like if the guy is picked up and convicted for another capital crime and confesses to this one. Or maybe he gets high and brags to one of his buddies about killing an Indian and busting up a U.S. senator.”
“Maybe this wasn’t a random robbery attempt, pardner. What if somebody got here before Billy Smoke showed up in the senator’s Lincoln, then waited for him?”
“Waited for Billy—why would you think that?”
The Ute nodded to indicate the electrical fixture over the Blue Light’s rear door. “The light was out. So the bad guy could wait in the dark.”
Parris followed his friend’s gaze. “Look, Charlie, I was here that night, not twenty minutes after the killing. Restaurant manager told me he grabbed a shotgun and ran out back right after Oscar Sweetwater reported the assault. The lightbulb was burned out. Manager told the dishwasher to replace it. By the time my uniforms showed up, there was a new bulb in the socket.”
“Anybody talk to the dishwasher?”
Parris thought about it. “I don’t remember.”
“I found him this morning. Nowadays, he’s burning beef over at the Burger Barn. Fella told me he went to replace the bulb, just like he was told. But when he started to unscrew the bad one, he noticed it was already pretty loose in the socket. So he tightened it just a tad—and there was light. Somebody had unscrewed it just enough to turn it off.”
There was a long silence before the matukach policeman responded. “If the bad guy did loosen the bulb, that does cast a dark light on the random-mugging theory. But it don’t necessarily prove that the guy with the rebar was waiting for Mr. Smoke in particular.”
“If not Billy, then who?”
“I dunno. Some restaurant employee going home.”
“All the Blue Light evening crew leaves at the same time—midnight. Think about it. Nine or ten people coming out the back door within a couple of minutes. Not exactly prime time for a mugging.”
Parris considered the tribal investigator with a thoughtful gaze. “You’ve really been working hard on this.”
Moon assumed a virtuous tone. “You take the tribe’s dollar, you do the tribe’s work.”
“Okay. I admit it. You’ve got a point ab
out the loose lightbulb.”
“There’s something else.”
Parris grinned. “Wait. Don’t say another word—allow me a moment to speculate.” He closed his eyes. “Aha—I got it. You already know who murdered Billy Smoke and maimed Patch Davidson.”
“Better’n that.” The Ute nodded toward his F-150. “Got that sorry sack of bones in the back of my pickup. Trussed up like a hog for slaughter.”
For the flicker of a moment, the white man’s eyes widened. Then he remembered who he was talking to. “When you get some spare time, drop him off at my jailhouse.”
“Before that, I’ll need to get a signed confession.”
“How’ll you manage that?”
“Bury him up to his neck beside to a boom box. Make him listen to Harlem gang rap for six or seven days. Whichever comes first.”
For the first time since Anne had informed him that they were basically incompatible, Scott Parris laughed out loud. It felt extremely good. Right down to the tips of his toes.
The Ute waited for the right moment. “Like I said, pardner—there’s something else.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.” I want to go fishing.
The tribal investigator shrugged. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t tell you.” Twenty seconds should do it. One. Two. Three.
“It won’t do no good—standing there doing your silent-Indian routine. I said I don’t want to hear about it and I flat out don’t. And that’s final. Phoenix can freeze over. Yuma to boot.”
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
“Oh dammit, Charlie—don’t stand there sulking. Go ahead, have your say.”
“Seventeen,” the Ute said.
“Seventeen what?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Dammit, Charlie—”
“Senator Davidson says he got bopped on the head, lost consciousness. When he woke up, the guy with the iron bar was bashing him on the legs.”
“So?”
“There’s no medical evidence the senator was hit on the head—not with something as hard as rebar.”
“So maybe the perp slugs Davidson with his fist. When Patch bites the dust, he gets whacked across the legs with the rebar. The bad guy is about to go to work on his noggin when your tribal chairman comes to the rescue and the mugger takes off.”
The Ute nodded. “Could’ve happened like that.”
The white man squinted at his dark-skinned friend. “But you don’t think so.”
“Nope.”
“Is there a sensible reason for this emphatic ‘nope,’ or are you just naturally contrary?”
“If you hit a man hard enough in the head to knock him unconscious—whether you use a honey-cured Virginia ham or a chunk of firewood—it’ll generally leave a good-sized bump and a bruise the color of a ripe plum. The doctor who treated Senator Davidson at the emergency room told me there wasn’t any evidence of serious trauma to his head.”
“Victims of violent assaults often disremember what happened. Hell, the senator probably never even got hit on the head. Or maybe he bumped his noggin when he fell down—after he got clipped on the legs.”
“Maybe.”
“So what’s your explanation?”
“I hate to bother you with it.”
“Go ahead, bother me.” Parris snickered. “And don’t worry that I’ll be disappointed—it’s not like I’ve got high expectations.”
“Well, since you put it like that, here’s my notion. If Patch Davidson did get smacked on the bean, maybe the bad guy used a sap.”
The chief of police raised an eyebrow. “You mean, like a blackjack?”
“Could be. But those Chicago antiques are hard to find. More likely, it was something homemade. Like…oh, I don’t know. Maybe a tobacco bag fulla lead shot.”
“Charlie, why would a guy who already has a serviceable piece of iron bonk the senator with a bag of lead BBs, then start beating his legs to a pulp with the rebar?”
The Ute allowed his friend ample time to consider his own question.
“Unless…” Parris pulled at an earlobe. “Unless there was two guys. Bad Guy Number One has a handful of rebar. Bad Guy Number Two, he has a bag of lead shot. Number One is the team’s heavy hitter, Number Two’s probably the lookout. When the senator interrupts the murder-robbery already in progress, the lookout saps the new arrival. After Patch Davidson hits the ground, the heavy hitter goes after him with the iron bar. And would’ve probably killed him if Oscar Sweetwater hadn’t heard Patch yelling—and come running to see what was going down.”
“Might have happened exactly like that.”
“You keep saying that. It is very annoying.”
Moon was staring across the small parking lot. At the warehouse.
Parris stamped his boots. “Charlie, it’s too cold to play games. Now tell me straight out—do you know something I don’t or don’t you?”
“Run that past me again.”
“You know what I mean.”
The Ute pointed toward the P.I.E. warehouse on the other side of the drainage ditch. “What do you reckon they keep in that building?”
“PIEs,” Parris said through bluish lips. “Apple PIEs. Blueberry PIEs Rhubarb PIEs. I’m told they haul ’em up from Pie Town, New Mexico. By the truckload.”
“I guess your guys must’ve looked around over there.”
“Around the warehouse? Sure. We searched for footprints. Calling cards. Photo IDs. Anything a thoughtful criminal might’ve left behind for the benefit of us dumb coppers. No such luck.”
“You check out the top of the building?”
The chief of police fixed his gaze on the pitched Propanel roof. “What is wrong with me.” He slapped his forehead. “Charlie, I am embarrassed beyond words. Astonishing as it may seem, it did not occur to me that the criminal might have leaped thirty feet onto that slanted, slippery sheet metal while in the process of making his escape. But if it would make you feel better, I could bring in a ladder and check the roof for footprints.”
“Wasn’t exactly footprints I had in mind.”
Parris gave him an odd look.
“About the sap,” Moon said, “I got this theory—”
“Yeah. So you said.”
“I think the bad guy pitched it onto the roof.”
“Is there any reason at all why you think such a thing?”
“When Oscar Sweetwater was running to help the senator, he says he heard a thump—like a car door slamming. So everybody naturally assumes that the bad guy left the employee parking lot in a set of wheels. But one of your fine police officers interviewed a Mrs. Bale, who was across the street in the Laundromat waiting for some sheets and pillowcases to dry. This very observant lady said she saw the big Lincoln pull into the employee lot behind the restaurant. But she did not see another motor vehicle until the cops showed up.”
“Okay,” Parris said. “So maybe the perp—or let’s say perps, just so we’ll have a second guy with your sap—let’s assume they have IQs of at least forty-six, which makes them way too smart to park the getaway car right at the spot where they intend to commit a major felony.”
“But if the bad guys don’t have a motor vehicle parked close by, what did Oscar Sweetwater hear that sounded like a car door slamming?”
“You tell me.”
“The sap,” Moon said.
“You really got a fixation on this sap business.”
“The bad guy doesn’t want to get caught with it, so he gives it the old heave-ho. My guess is”—Moon pointed across the ditch—“it landed on the roof of the warehouse.”
“Okay,” Paris said. “Let me get this picture framed in my mind. Bad Guy Number One is beating hell outta Senator Davidson when his victim starts to yell. Oscar Sweetwater—who is over yonder in the big parking lot—hears the call for help. Here comes the fierce Indian, thirty-two-caliber pistola in hand. Our bad guys decide that it is high time to depart. Bad Guy Number One drops his chunk of rebar and run
s like a gazelle. Bad Guy Number Two gives his sap a heave, and it lands on the warehouse roof with a resounding thud. That’s the sound Oscar heard—and thought it was a car door slamming. This is how you see it?”
Moon nodded. “More or less.” Mostly less.
“There’s a big hole in this bucket, Charlie. If Bad Guy Number Two doesn’t want to be apprehended with a sap in his pocket, why doesn’t he just drop it like B.G. Number One drops his chunk of rebar? Why go to the trouble to throw it onto the roof of the warehouse?”
“Now that is the question, pardner.”
“Charlie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think your line of reasoning is pretty thin.”
Moon assumed a hurt look. “You are beginning to undermine my self-esteem.”
“And another thing—why’re you so sure our perp flang his sap on the warehouse roof?” Parris squinted at the metal building.
“Well, I guess it looks like a long shot to you.” The Ute’s deep voice took on a decidedly stubborn tone. “But that’s my theory. And I’m sticking to it.”
“You really think the sap is still up there?”
Moon took a deep breath. Hesitated. “Well…yeah.”
“You sure of that?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Sure enough to bet cash money on it?”
The tribal investigator shrugged. “Well, I don’t know if—”
“Hah.”
“That ‘hah’ has a nasty ring to it.”
“If you really believed this silly sap-is-on-the-roof notion, you’d be willing to lay your money down. Like the true gambling man I thought you was.”
“Well, since it’s kinda a long shot, you’d have to give me some pretty sweet odds.”
Parris jutted his chin. “How’s ten-to-one taste?”
“Well, I guess I might have a bite of that.”
“Okay, then.” Parris removed a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. “This here Andrew Jackson covers a pair of your cherry-tree choppers.”
Dead Soul Page 14
