by Ben Rehder
Corey smiled at Wylie and rose off the floor. He walked to the table and stared down at the tape recorder that had been sitting there all along. Such an innocent-looking device. Last night, before this whole ordeal started, Wylie had wanted to record Corey’s confession.
“Thanks, Wylie,” Corey said. He reached down and pushed the STOP button.
Wylie was staring at him now, eyes bulging, mouth agape. Then his jaw snapped shut, like a dog trying to catch a passing fly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Feel like taking a ride?” Marlin asked. He was at a pay phone in Johnson City. One of these days, he’d break down and buy a cell phone. But for now, the department didn’t require it and he didn’t want one. What was the point? If something was really urgent, they could reach him on the radio. If it wasn’t important, he’d rather not take the call anyway.
“Where to?” Phil Colby replied.
“The Hawley place.”
“Swing on by,” Colby said and hung up. Marlin smiled. His best friend was like that: always up for an impromptu ride in the country, no questions asked. Sheriff Garza wouldn’t be too thrilled if he knew Colby was tagging along, but Marlin was feeling lost and needed someone to brainstorm with.
Thirty minutes later, Marlin and Colby found the gate unlocked, as Lester Higgs had said it would be, and Marlin steered his truck onto the Hawley Ranch.
On the ride over, Marlin had brought Colby up to date on the Jack Corey fiasco, including Marlin’s reluctant entry into the world of homicide investigation. He described Gammel’s mysterious supply of cash, then detailed his search of Gammel’s house and his discussions with Jose Sanchez and Maynard Clements. This, Marlin said, would be his final effort: One last visit to the crime scene, a search for anything the deputies might have overlooked. After that, Marlin would have to pack it in, because there was really nothing more he could do for Jack Corey. Marlin was feeling a little silly, actually, like he was wasting his own time. Here he was, trying to find evidence that would clear Corey, when it was becoming more and more obvious that Corey was guilty.
But that’s up to a jury to decide, Marlin reminded himself. An investigation is only about finding evidence. It was up to the district attorney, and then the jury, to decide what the evidence showed.
Marlin followed the dirt road to the southern end of the property and stopped his cruiser in the same place he had parked three days ago. Gammel’s Ford Explorer was gone now, probably at the crime lab in Austin.
Marlin killed the engine and both men climbed out. It was quiet here, only a few birds chirping in the trees, no wind to rustle the leaves in nearby Spanish oaks. A few weeks from now, those leaves would turn a brilliant ruby-red and begin to drop from their branches. For now, they merely sagged in the unseasonable heat.
Colby surveyed the wooded area. “So…what exactly are we looking for?”
Marlin shrugged. “Hell if I know.”
Colby smiled in return. “That’s what I figured.”
Marlin decided they should do another ground search, starting at the killer’s hiding spot in the cedar trees. Native grasses, dry from the drought, crunched under their feet as they tramped through the brush. After fifteen minutes, they tried the same thing around Gammel’s deer blind. All they found were the footprints of the dozen or so men who had reported to the crime scene on Tuesday.
“Strike one,” Colby said. “Nothing doing on the ground search. What’s next, Mannix?”
Marlin thought it over for a few minutes, then said: “Corey hunts with a thirty-thirty… and the deputies looked for a heavy bullet that drops quickly. Wylie says they even looked beyond where a thirty-thirty might drop, but…”
“They mighta been slackin’ a little?” Colby interjected.
Marlin nodded. “Let’s take a look around, thinking in terms of, say, a two-seventy. Something with a fast bullet and a much flatter trajectory.”
Marlin led Colby to the cedar trees where the killer had hidden himself. They crouched down and got a clear view of the ladder to the blind, giving themselves a visual line-of-flight for the fatal round.
Colby spoke up. “See that one small tree back there, directly behind the ladder? — I think it’s a mountain laurel. About a hundred yards past the blind?”
“Yep.”
“That looks like the right path to me.”
Marlin agreed, and they hiked to the mountain laurel. From there, they proceeded farther back into the brush, attempting to follow the path the bullet might have taken. It quickly became obvious that what Wylie had said was true: The area was just too heavily treed to expect success, no matter how accurately you calculated the trajectory. And, of course, the bullet had passed through Bert Gammel’s body, and there was no telling how that might have affected its flight.
Still, the men combed the woods for thirty minutes, but to no avail. No telltale sign of splintered wood or any gouge in the underlying soil.
“Strike two,” Colby muttered.
Marlin gave him a glare. “You’re doing wonderful things for my confidence.”
Colby shrugged. “Sorry, but it’d be a damn miracle if we found that round out here. Anyone tried a metal detector?”
Marlin blew out a heavy sigh. “Won’t find lead. The brass casing, sure, but not the round itself.”
“Okay, then. What’s next?”
Marlin nodded toward Gammel’s deer blind, and they walked to the towering structure. Like most blinds, it was simply a wooden box on metal legs, with a welded ladder that led to a small door on one side.
“Cover me, hoss, I’m going in,” Marlin deadpanned, and made his way up the twelve-foot ladder. He popped the eye-hook on the door and swung it open. He had expected to see at least a few of the items typically found in a deer blind: a chair, for starters, along with some empty soft-drink cans, a jug of water, perhaps some food wrappers, or maybe a couple of hunting magazines. But it was completely empty. Of course it is, Marlin thought, realizing his oversight. Everything that had been in there would have been taken to the crime lab, too. It appeared the deputies had even stripped the carpet from the floor of the blind, leaving a rough coat of dried adhesive on the plywood subfloor. Marlin didn’t even bother climbing into the blind, because there was simply nothing to inspect.
“See anything?” Colby called from below.
“Yeah, I got a severed head up here. Go get me a plastic bag, will ya?”
Colby chuckled. “I take that to mean ‘strike three.’”
“Would you shut up with the-”
“Okay, okay. We’ll call it a foul ball.”
Marlin descended, and they retreated to his truck, where they pulled soft drinks from a small ice chest Marlin had filled earlier in the morning. They lowered the tailgate and took a seat.
“This po-leece work sure gives a man a powerful thirst,” Colby said, and guzzled from a Dr Pepper.
“Don’t it?” Marlin replied. He sipped from his own drink and surveyed the woods around him. “You got any bright ideas?”
Colby cocked his head to one side, thinking. “You could always beat a confession out of him. That’s how some of those big-city cops do it on TV.”
“What if he didn’t do it?”
“Well, I guess you’d figure that out by the time you were finished, huh?”
Marlin rolled his eyes.
“Hey, man, I’m just kiddin’,” Colby said. “This thing sure has you uptight.”
“Something just isn’t right with all this,” Marlin said. “But I can’t figure out what the hell it is.” He finished his drink in silence, then stood and tossed the can into the interior of his truck. “Well, so much for this, then. You ready to head back?” he asked. Marlin had given it his best shot, tried to spot something that had eluded the deputies, but had come up with nothing. Probably because there was nothing to find. Jack Corey had shot Bert Gammel and was desperately trying to convince someone-anyone, really-that he hadn’t done it. It was typical behavior for a lawbreaker.
No matter what the evidence suggested, guilty men would profess their innocence until the end. It was as if they believed their sacred word should override the forensic science that pointed an accusing finger their way.
Strangely, Marlin felt a sense of closure. He could report to Garza now, tell him that all avenues had been investigated, and then put all this bullshit behind him.
“Ready when you are,” Colby said, draining the last of his drink.
Both men were in the truck, Marlin about to turn the key, when they heard a familiar sound. It was the clattering of a deer feeder as it slung dried corn for three or four seconds, then went silent.
Marlin looked at Colby, who simply grinned. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Marlin asked.
“That a cold beer sounds good?”
Marlin swatted Colby across the arm. “No, you dumb-ass. That nobody checked inside Gammel’s deer feeder.”
“Damn, I bet you’re right.”
Marlin maneuvered his truck through the brush and found the feeder in a small clearing fifty yards from Gammel’s deer blind. The ground beneath it had been worn grassless from the hooves, paws, and claws of all types of wildlife looking for an easy meal.
It was a fairly typical feeder: a battery-operated motor and spinning plate attached to the bottom of a 55-gallon barrel that rested on three metal legs. Eight feet tall, from top to bottom. A drum like that could hold six bags of deer corn weighing a total of three hundred pounds.
Marlin backed his truck up to the barrel, donned a pair of latex gloves, then stood on the rail of his truck bed. Judging by the dust on the feeder lid, Marlin guessed that it hadn’t been disturbed in quite some time. He removed the O-shaped locking ring that clamped the lid to the barrel, then removed the lid itself. He peered down into the feeder.
Deer corn has to be kept dry. If a little moisture builds up inside the feeder, a crusty cake of corn plugs the funnel at the bottom of the barrel. The spinning plate will rotate, but no corn will be thrown. That’s why feeders are designed to be watertight. The corn-and anything else in there-is fairly safe from the weather.
And there was more in this feeder than just corn. Looking down into the barrel, Marlin could see a small bit of clear plastic jutting out of the feed.
“I’ve got something here “
He reached down, grabbed the edge of the plastic, and gently pulled. Up came a large Ziploc bag. Inside the plastic bag was a lumpy manila envelope, a small one, maybe six inches by nine. On it, in ink, were the initials B.G.
Marlin hopped down onto the bed of his truck, went to one knee, and placed the plastic bag on the floor. As Colby watched over his shoulder, Marlin eased the Ziploc open, slid the envelope out, and lifted the unsealed flap. The envelope was filled with cash.
Marlin felt invigorated by his discovery-for about ten seconds. Then he realized it didn’t really change anything. They had an envelope with nearly three thousand dollars in it, but it didn’t tell Marlin where Bert Gammel had gotten the money or why he had been so secretive about it. And it didn’t bring Marlin any closer to proving-or disproving-Jack Corey’s guilt.
Back in the truck now, driving off the ranch, Colby said, “What ya think Garza’s gonna say?”
“I imagine he’ll be glad we found the cash… but we already knew it had to be tucked away somewhere. For all we know, Corey mighta known that Gammel kept his stash somewhere on the deer lease, but he just couldn’t find it after he killed him.”
“It was still pretty smart of you, if you want my opinion. You figured out something that nobody else had. Not Wylie Smith, that’s for sure.”
Marlin gazed out the window at the passing scenery, gently sloping hills thick with cedars, elms, and half a dozen different types of oak trees. “On the other hand,” Marlin added, buoyed by Colby’s remarks, “I can at least send this stuff to the lab in Austin and see if they can tell us anything. You never know-” Marlin stopped speaking in midsentence. Something on his police radio had caught his ear.
He turned up the volume and was startled to hear the voice of Jack Corey. Marlin remembered that Corey had the run of the sheriff’s office now, and was apparently broadcasting from the dispatcher’s radio. Marlin pulled to the side of the road as Corey’s plaintive drawl came over the airways:
“… and I understand why you might think it was me. But you gotta remember that things aren’t always what they look like. Take your boy Wylie here, for instance. I told y’all he held a gun to my head, but did anyone believe me? Hell, no. Well, screw it.…just listen to this goddamn tape before y’all make up your minds.”
Marlin heard Corey fumbling with the microphone, and then the hiss of an audiotape. Corey’s voice came on first:
“At least tell me why you pointed your gun at my head. Don’t you know a man can’t think straight in a position like that?… Well?”
Then Wylie’s answer…
“Okay, I’m sorry about that. I really am. But when I’m investigating a guy for murder, and I feel like I have some solid evidence, I tend to go at him pretty hard. It’s just my style. Let’s say, worst-case scenario, you confess to the murder but you didn’t really do it. We’d know that, because you wouldn’t be able to tell us specifics about the crime scene. And if you did do it-the gun is just my way of speeding things up a little.”
The radio went silent, and all Marlin could think to say was: “Way to go, Corey.”
Phil Colby gave a low whistle. “Now, that’s an interesting development, wouldn’t you say?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On Friday evening, Sal was sitting in the living room, his bum leg in front of him on an ottoman. Twenty-four hours since that skinny little tree-hugging bastard had broken Sal’s leg, and he was finally figuring out how to manage the pain. This codeine was pretty good stuff-you just had to watch out how much you took, that’s all. Sal had figured that out real fucking quick. It took the edge off the pain, but if you got a little too aggressive with it-say, like popping three pills instead of one-you’d find yourself in la-la land, chasing imaginary wildebeests, wearing a loincloth, all from the comfort of your own bed.
But a pill and a half worked just right, holding the pain at bay without putting Sal into a stupor. Last night had been a wild ride, one weird-ass dream after another. Stranger than any of the trips he experienced as a young punk, when he had occasionally indulged in a few of the drugs that members of his crew were selling. Kind of fun, but you had to keep a handle on that shit. Couldn’t overdo it. Sal sometimes wondered if Vinnie ever took any drugs, but he figured Vinnie was smarter than that.
Speaking of Vinnie, Sal vaguely remembered talking to him earlier in the day, asking him to take care of some things. Sal couldn’t remember exactly what he had asked him to do, but what the hell. Vinnie knew what to do. Didn’t have to spell things out for him anymore. That was the good thing about having a son. You could teach him things, help him learn a few of the basics in life. Like throwing a curveball. Changing the oil in your car. Busting a guy’s kneecaps.
Sal and the family had already eaten dinner, and Angela was doing something in the bedroom now. That’s the way it was: If Sal was in his den, Angela would be in the living room. If Sal came into the living room, Angela would find a reason to go to the bedroom. Sal knew that Angela was pissed off at him about the whole Maria thing (who, by the way, he hadn’t humped in several days, thank you very much), but he was noticing lately that she didn’t even want to be in the same room with him. That’s one angry woman, who can’t stand the sight of her own husband. What the fuck were you gonna do?
Sal was flipping through the channels, not a goddamn thing to watch on TV, when the phone rang.
“Angela, you got dat?” he yelled.
No answer. The phone rang again.
“Angela! Maria!” Where the hell was everybody?
It rang again.
“Well, fuck.” Sal leaned toward the end table and grabbed the cordless phone off its charging base. “Yeah?”
/>
“Sal?”
“Who’s dis?”
“Is this Sal Mameli?”
Sal paused. He didn’t like unidentified callers. If one of his former colleagues ever managed to track him down, Sal figured he might receive a call like this one. And this guy here sounded like he was speaking carefully, trying to disguise his voice. But he didn’t sound like a Jersey boy; more like some local yokel. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” Sal said. “Depends on what you want.”
There was no answer, and Sal began to hang up. Then the caller finally responded. “I saw what you did with the body.”
Sal’s jaw dropped and his heart flopped like a fish on a dock gasping for air. He let a few seconds pass while he tried to get his shit together. Then he spoke again, trying to sound casual-and a little angry. “What the hell are you talking about? Who is dis?”
“I saw it, Sal. I saw where you put the body.”
Sal managed to give a small laugh, one that he thought sounded believable. “Yeah, you keep saying dat, but which fucking body are you talking about? Jimmy Hoffa? Amelia Earhart? Who?”
Sal heard the caller take a breath, as if he were about to answer, but then the line went dead. Sal stared at the receiver, as if he could look through miles of telephone line and get a clear view of the man who had just called.
“Think it’ll work?” Billy Don asked around a mouthful of beef jerky.
Red had just climbed back into his battered red truck after using a pay phone. Damn right, a pay phone. Red had seen enough of those criminal-type shows on TV to know better than to use his own phone. Never knew who might be listening in, who might trace the call. Plus there was regular old Caller ID. “He sounded pretty shook up,” Red said. “Acted like he wasn’t, but I could hear it in his voice. Guy was about to drop a load in his britches.”
“So you still think it was him?”
