by Jeremy Tyler
As he wondered what his next move would be, John felt a strange tingling at the base of his neck. He recognized it. It was that feeling he always got when somebody was watching him.
Actually, he realized that quite a few people were watching him. And no wonder, considering that some strange man was standing in the center of town eyeballing the sheriff’s office while he was away.
Needless to say, he was drawing attention. The few passersby on the street openly stared at the newcomer, while darting eyes peeked through shuttered windows in the two other buildings on the street. It reminded John of a western, in a weird kind of way. Those pre-gunfight scenes, where the lone sheriff walked down the middle of Main Street to square off against the evil man in black, while townsfolk scurried to the imagined safety of a quarter-inch thick wood slatted window. He half expected a burly cowboy dressed all in white to come sauntering up the center of the street to square off against him. Only it wasn’t high noon, and he doubted he could quickdraw his .38 from his shoulder holster.
“You the Rivers boy?” a voice called from behind him.
“John Webb, actually. But I’m…a relation” he replied, turning to see a rough looking man of about 40, dressed in old farmhand clothes, and smelling of hard work. He had an odd look to him that made you instantly like him, and instantly suspect him—even if there was nothing to suspect. Or, maybe John was just a teensy bit on edge.
“Relation, huh? Well, I don’t how old Roy feels about it, but I’d be mighty sore if a son of mine—hell, my ONLY son—referred to me as ‘a relation.’ Though I don’t suppose you feel much connected, do ya’? After all, it’s been your mother raisin’ ya’, and she certainly held no love for the Rivers.”
John was a bit taken back by all of that, and didn’t bother to try and hide it.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Oh, don’t take no offense,” the man replied, raising his hands, placating, “I certainly ain’t sayin’ nothin’ bad about your mama. God forbid! That woman were a saint, an’ ever’body knows it.”
“I had no idea my family history was so well known,” he said simply. At that, the big man laughed.
“Ever’thing’s well known in Coweta County. But I guess I’m bein’ a bit rude about it. I forget sometimes that the world works a little differ’nt once you cross that county line; practically flips upside down once you leave the state! The name’s Stovall, by the way. Arthur Stovall.”
A sudden understanding rushed through John’s brain. Stovall was a name he did recognize. His mother received many letters from Annie Ruth Stovall, one of the few people in Sales City she referred to as a friend.
“Annie Ruth’s husband, of course. I suppose you would know more about me than anyone around here, as much as your wife and my mother wrote to each other,” John said. Hard as he tried, John couldn’t help let a little pain slip out with his words.
“We were real sorry to hear o’ her passin’. Sometimes I think God gets a little greedy, takin’ the best of us up with him, and leavin’ the worst lot behind to mess this old world up even more ’an what it already is.”
That was when John decided that he liked the man. Maybe it was the honest nature of his face, or the slow sincere way he had of talking, but there was something distinctly likeable about him. It was a mistake, and he knew it. Until he knew more about the case, every man, woman, child, and household pet was a murder suspect. Getting friendly with anyone would only cloud his thinking… Still, he just couldn’t help it. The damage was done. He liked the guy.
“The good reverend, for instance. There was a fella’ had no business bein’ taken like that. Awful. Just Awful.” Arthur shook his head in sympathy.
“He was the only member of my family I really knew,” John said, sympathetically. And then he wondered why. He felt himself sinking into dangerous territory—sympathizing with, even confiding in, a possible suspect. He blamed it on feeling out-of-place here. He knew just how dangerous it was to mix feelings in with an investigation, and he could even imagine what his partner would say if he was back home right now.
“He was a good man, your uncle. Everybody sure loved him.”
John’s face went a little cold. From somewhere deep inside, he forced his professionalism to take over.
“Not everyone. There was at least one person who didn’t love him—not even a little bit.”
John wasn’t here for a vacation, or a reunion, or any kind of exploration into his lost childhood. He was in Sales City to solve a murder.
“Which is what brings me here. I wanted to check in with the sheriff, but…” he jerked his head to indicate the locked doors behind him.
“Oh, you’ll find ’em all at the old Parrott River bridge,” Arthur said easily enough. “The sheriff got it figured as that was where it happened. Don’t ask me how. But he got both his deputies together and they drove out there about an hour ago.”
“Thanks,” John said, getting back into the car. He was starting to wonder how any kind of mystery could possibly develop in a town where everyone seemed to know everything about everybody. “I appreciate the help.”
“Glad to help,” Arthur replied good-naturedly.
“Oh, and congratulations on your new barn,” John added.
“Well, now, I guess it’s my turn to be surprised!” Arthur said with a big grin.
“Don’t be,” John replied, “I cheated. Wilhelmina told me how the town had a barn-raising for you.”
Arthur gave a nod that said volumes.
“I take it there’s more to that story?”
“Well, your aunt was more than happy to help get people together to put that barn up—that’s for sure. Seein’ as how it’s really her barn!”
That got John’s attention. He got back out of the car. The bridge could wait a few minutes.
“You’ll have to run that by me again. Wilhelmina organized a town function to raise money to build a barn that was supposed to be for your family, but it really belongs to her?”
Arthur laughed at John’s obvious confusion.
“Mr. Webb, there’s somethin’ you need to realize. In this town, every damn thing belongs to the Rivers family, one way or another. In my case, the land I live and work on is Rivers property, and they get their chunk out o’ any money I make off it.”
“What, like some kind of a co-op?”
Arthur laughed, “Co-op. That’s a clever word for it. I just love how you northerners can find a polite turn-a’-phrase for everything. You want to call it a co-op, that’ll work. It’s still sharecroppin’, no matter how you say it, though. Now, I can make any improvements I want, be it to the house, or the land…or a barn. But come that day when I can’t get my tired old body out to work no more, that’s the day they’ll come with smilin’ faces to move my family out.”
John was suddenly feeling awkward, standing there in the street, hearing about all the horrible things his family was doing. It was one thing to joke about them with friends from the comfortable distance of New York, when they were nothing more touching to him than a collection of stereotypes he had heard about through his mother. It was quite another thing to stand face to face with a man who was a living reminder of their excesses and indifference. Suddenly, John felt the need for a little distance. This place called Sales City was becoming all too real.
“If there’s anything else you happen to hear that you think I might want to know about, you can look me up at the boarding house. I’ll be staying there while I’m in town.”
“Ya’ ain’t stayin’ at the Rivers’ place?”
With a smirk that carried far more emotion than he meant, John simply said, “No.” Then he got behind the wheel and headed off toward the bridge.
It was a short drive to the Parrott River Bridge. John was quickly beginning to realize that everything in this town was a short drive. The trees were in full bloom, and brimming with brightly colored blossoms that were as foreign and unknown to John as if they had been transplanted fr
om the farthest reaches of China. He couldn’t explain why, but John was suddenly struck by a desire to turn back the calendar eight or nine months, and gaze up at the familiar fall displays of that wide Connecticut road that led to his childhood home. The smell of pine was in the air, and something else. John found himself momentarily distracted, trying to place the scent wafting through the air. It was familiar, somehow, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember when he had ever smelt it.
The sheriff’s car was on the side of the road, and abandoned. Pulling in beside it, John couldn’t help but park just a little too close. It was something they used to do to rookie detectives back on the force. Park so close that they would need you to move your car before they could leave—then be sure to hang around until they were ready to go, just to get a little sadistic pleasure out of watching them trudge back and ask for your help. The best ones always tried to move anyway, and they always ended up scraping paint.
John made his way down to the edge of the river, where the sheriff and his two deputies were busy…doing something. To tell the truth, John wasn’t really certain exactly what they were up to.
“Sir, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave…” one of the deputies said as he sauntered up to John. “This is a crime scene.”
He smiled from behind his wide, dark sunglasses, as if to emphasize a warm southern charm, combined with a hard backwoods sensibility. John wondered if it ever really worked.
“To tell you the truth, from all the reports I’ve read, nobody’s actually sure where the crime was committed, which would make this,” and he motioned with his hand in a broad gesture, taking in everything around him, “just a scene.”
While the deputy stared, trying to figure him out, Sheriff Roy Rivers came up beside him.
“Dan, for the love a’ Gawd! Sales City gets strangers in town about as often as we get a new mayor. And seein’ as we’re actually expectin’ one today, you’d think you’d have enough sense ta’ figure that this just might be my son!” Shaking his head, the sheriff moved past Deputy Dan and walked up to John.
The sheriff was a big man, wide of shoulders, and imposing. He managed to be heavyset without appearing flabby or soft, and he wore a tightly trimmed mustache close upon his lip. As he walked, he demonstrated a measured gait, full of confidence, but somehow lacking in arrogance. Everything about him, somehow, echoed professionalism. It irritated John greatly. And not in the smallest part because he realized that Wilhelmina was right about one thing: He did look like his father.
“Been a long time,” Roy said. It was matter of fact and slightly cold; reserved in the way it was delivered, as though he were speaking to someone else’s distant cousin who stopped in for Christmas or Thanksgiving once or twice a year. And at the end of it, Roy Rivers stuck out his hand formally.
Gee, Dad, how touching. Yes it has been a long time. I believe it was around the time I learned my ABCs, come to think of it. Those, and many other thoughts came racing to mind, and as much as he would have liked to throw them at him, he decided on a different tact.
“So, I hear we’ve got a theory.” So his own father was an ass. It didn’t change the job.
Apparently, Sheriff Rivers agreed.
“We know that Carl was on that bridge when he was shot.”
“And how did you figure that out?”
For the first time, Roy smiled.
“A splinter in his thumb. The Parrott River Bridge is one of the oldest bridges in the county, and it has one particularly interesting thing that makes it special. It is the only bridge—hell, the only thing in Coweta County—constructed entirely out of California Redwood.”
“So, you pulled a redwood thorn out of his thumb? How do you know that he didn’t just pick that up earlier?”
“Well, it was about an inch long. I don’t know about you, but I know I’d be in a hurry to pull somethin’ like that out before movin’ on.”
Though he didn’t like it, John had to admit that he had a point. And you didn’t get a splinter like that from casual contact. It was the kind of thing you got when you grabbed for some kind of support, during distress. It was good police work.
“That’s why we’re here,” Roy continued. “We figure that we’re at the best possible place for a man to hide until Carl passed along the bridge. Once your uncle was in sight, he took aim, and shot him.”
John looked off to where the bridge lie, a good 50 yards in the distance. He did a little quick figuring in his head, and then looked back at his father. So much for good police work.
“Deputy…Dan, wasn’t it?” he asked politely. He only nodded in response. John’s natural antagonistic personality was going to get him in trouble, especially with this one. But he just couldn’t help himself.
“Are you a decent shot?” John asked. Dan snorted with a smile in response.
“He happens to be the best shot in the county,” Roy beamed, proudly.
John smiled at that. The “son he never had.” Any thoughts he might have had about taking it easy on this poor fellow just went out the window.
“If you look over there, about 40 yards away, just over the rise, where your other deputy is looking around, can you see that beehive?” It was a big beehive, about the size of a head, and Deputy Dan had no problem finding it.
“Great. Do me a favor, and put a hole in it.”
Both Dan and Roy looked at him like he had just turned into a monkey.
“Humor me. Let’s call it an experiment. Just take aim, squeeze the trigger, and shoot the damn thing. Dead center, please.”
Dan took a moment, looked over at Roy, who just shrugged and motioned for him to go ahead. Seeing that John was serious, and the sheriff had no problem with it, Dan shrugged, then took out his service .38 and carefully, slowly took aim, and fired.
The shot went wide about a foot to the left. A little embarrassed, Dan took aim again. He gave himself a little extra time to check the wind, braced and locked his legs to keep him rock-steady, then fired again. This time, it was just a few inches off, to the right.
John had seen enough. He motioned him to put the weapon down. Then, almost as an afterthought, he pulled out his own snub-nosed and fired a single round dead center into the hive.
It was childish and rude, and probably did more harm than good. But John just couldn’t resist.
“As it happens, I’m considered one of the best shots in New York. Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, have your other deputy down there go and fetch that hive—once the bees have settled down, of course.”
“Other than a trophy, what purpose would it serve?” Roy asked, belligerently. He was clearly angry that this upstart Yankee had just shown up his prize deputy.
“It’s a new science we’ve been using at the NYPD. It’s called ballistics.” John was rewarded with blank looks all around. He had figured as much.
“Simply put, we’ve figured out that bullets react the exact same way when fired from the same gun. Now, I’m not actually an expert, so I can’t tell you as much as one of those lab guys could, but I can definitely tell that a human head is a lot denser than a damn beehive. And I can already see from here, that my bullet is still rattling around in there.”
The expressions on the two faces were still giving him nothing. John sighed at the thought of having to dumb it down for them even more, but what choice did he have?
“The gunshot that killed Carl Rivers went into his temple, and left a nice big hole on the other side of his head,” John said slowly, as if speaking to a child.
“So it stands to reason that, if your theory about a stranger hiding in the bushes, all the way down here, was at all accurate, then A, he would have to be a better shot than anyone in the county, and B, his bullet would still be lodged in Uncle Carl’s head.”
Deputy Dan still hadn’t connected the dots, but Roy got it.
“Whoever shot him was on the bridge with him,” Roy muttered.
“Which means it was probably someone he knew,” John added.
“That makes things complicated…”
“Why?” John asked, honestly. Roy smiled sadly, yet truthfully.
“Your uncle wasn’t exactly the wallflower type. On top o’ bein’ rev’rend o’ the biggest church in three counties, he’s on the plannin’ committee for Coweta, and travels up to the state capital two or three times a year to talk with the governor’s office. Everybody knows him.”
John looked off into the distance, as if allowing these thoughts to absorb for a moment. The truth was, the sheriff didn’t have to tell him about his uncle’s involvements. It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know, but he saw no point in telling him that. Despite his innate desire to irritate and annoy his father, he knew he would have to work with the man in order to find Carl Rivers’ killer, and that was simply more important to him, right now.
“So, where does that leave us?” John finally asked.
“With a lot more suspects,” Roy spat in agitation.
“Believe it or not, this woulda’ been a whole lot easier if it had been a random stranger. Folks around here ain’t used to people ‘just passin’ through.’ I coulda’ got a complete description of anyone that weren’t local. Car. License plate. Full description. In less than a day. I’d a had the son-of-a-bitch.”
“The problem is…you would have had the wrong son-of-a-bitch.”
Chapter 2
Tuesday, May 24th, 1942
You know it’s going to be an interesting day when you get up, walk outside, and find a peacock sitting on the hood of your car. Certainly for John, this seemed to have all the makings of a classic omen of some kind, though what type of omen exactly, or what it might be pointing to, he couldn’t even venture a guess.
And yet, here he was in his best suit, at 7 a.m. on his second day in Coweta County, staring blankly at the bright blue and green bird squatting contentedly on the hood of the Studebaker he’d been lent by his estranged aunt so that he could investigate the murder of his uncle…
Actually, if he decided to take a good hard look at his situation, it shouldn’t really seem that odd at all. Still, it caught John off-guard. It was only after a few moments that he broke out of his reverie long enough to wonder what people might think of this very odd scene, should anyone see him. But not quite soon enough…
