GODWALKER

by Unknown

  Ralph had been hauled in for disturbing the peace and creating a nuisance. According to the witness, Kimble had been yelling at two women and a man, and it had turned into some sort of a scuffle. She hadn’t seen much more than that.

  Kimble said he’d been minding his own business when “this nigger bitch, some faggot and this other bastard” started harassing him, eventually threatening him with a gun. The gun threat was unsubstantiated. Initially Walter had discounted it. Now he wondered if maybe the gun had come out while the neighbor was away from the window, getting the phone to call the cops.

  Kimble had been crying when the patrol car pulled up, and had gotten angry and defensive in a hurry. If one of the younger officers had hauled him in, there might have been a case made for resisting arrest or assaulting a police officer. As luck would have it, however, Andy Brault had made the arrest. Andy was a plodding, patient man whose premature wrinkles made him look sad and beat down. Most people just didn’t have the will to argue with Andy for long, because he’d sigh, shrug and say, “Hey, I just gotta do my job here.” So Ralph had calmed down and switched to complaining about “Those three fuckers” instead.

  Walter’s interview with Ralph hadn’t gone too well. The exterminator was still touchy, sulky and tightlipped. The chief was pretty sure Ralph had known more about those three people than he’d let on, but in the end he’d let Kimble walk. He’d given him a little speech about how, if strangers started to harass him, he should call the police and not try to solve the problem himself, but he could see Kimble was hiding something.

  Then, this morning, someone had blown his brains to mush.

  There weren’t a lot of killings in Walter’s jurisdiction. In fact, in the twenty years he’d been chief of police, there had been exactly two. The first was Duane Monroe, who’d strangled his wife after she knocked over his motorcycle and scratched the paint job. He’d been picked up making a run for St. Louis. That had been as open and shut as a cop could want. The suspect had immediately fled the scene. The upstairs neighbors had heard him shouting “I’ll kill you, cunt!” But the icing on the cake was, Duane hadn’t even thought to wipe his fingerprints off her neck.

  The next one had been a little trickier, but not much. An early morning hit and run with no witnesses, out by Dan’s Highway Tap. During Walter’s routine questioning of Dan’s regulars, a saucepot named James Palmer had seemed exceptionally antsy and nervous. Then it turned out that Palmer’s car was missing. After a night in jail and a little browbeating, Palmer had admitted that he’d hit the girl driving home—so drunk he’d forgotten to turn his lights on. In a panic, he’d hidden the car in his cousin’s back barn. The car was where he said, with a huge dent and blood on it. Case closed.

  This one looked as straightforward as the others. One day, the Ralph Kimble gets into an argument with three strangers. The next day, Ralph Kimble is dead and the three strangers are seen fleeing from his house.

  Simple.

  Still, Walter thought, it’s best to take things slow and easy. He sighed, pushed himself out of his chair, and went to take a look at his suspects.

  * * *

  “I still don’t see why you hadda go and arrest him,” Luther said, scowling at his fellow officer Roberta Mueller.

  “I had three witnesses who said he brandished a shotgun at them.”

  “Yeah, but he thought they killed his old man. Hell, they probably did it.”

  “So what?”

  “So what? You think you could walk in, see your daddy lying all bloody and stay all calm and not do nothin’?”

  “Okay, he was upset. ‘Upset’ is not a valid defense in a court of law.”

  “Yeah? How about temporary insanity?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, but that’s for a court to decide. Are you going to deny that he was pointing the gun at them?”

  Luther thought about the gun that had been found in the back of his squad car, with his fingerprints and Joe’s on it. In his mind, he could see the windows up and down Joe’s street, with the curtains pulled back where people were looking to see what the police car was doing.

  “Yeah, but… I mean, Joe’s a friend of mine.”

  “That’s no defense either.”

  “Shit, don’t be all… I just mean I know him. He’s no criminal.”

  “Again, that’s for the courts to decide.” Roberta looked at Luther, her lower lip moving around uncertainly. “Look,” she said. “I know Joe is upset. I mean, ‘upset’ doesn’t begin to cover it. I couldn’t imagine… going through that. I don’t personally blame him for what he did. But do you really think everyone would be better off with him out and around, you know, disturbed, and carrying a gun?” Then her eyes shifted and she sat up straighter. “Hello, sir. Any news?”

  Walter looked down at his two newest officers. One brown-nosing, know-it-all woman and one black man with a buddy in jail. Both of them the first of their kind on the force. Walter didn’t consider himself racist or sexist at all, but he figured both of them had something to prove. That might work out all right. Roberta was obviously smart as a tack, and she might make a good officer if she could just shitcan the smug princess act. Luther Washington didn’t have every traffic code memorized, but Walter could see that Luther understood people in a way Roberta didn’t (or maybe just didn’t yet). Luther understood how to defuse people and deal with them and come off as a regular guy in a way that was useful for a cop anywhere, but maybe especially in a small town.

  “Nothing yet. They’ve been in there how long now?”

  “Half hour, sir,” Luther said.

  “You separated ‘em, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Certainly don’t want them to get their stories straight,” Roberta said.

  “Who’d you put where?” Keeping four criminals separated was not easy in their small jail.

  Luther coughed. “Well, we’ve got the woman in the ladies’ cell, and the younger man in the drunk tank. The old guy is in the questioning room, and Joe Kimble is handcuffed over in processing. Sir.”

  Walter shook his head. “Haven’t had a full house here for some time. Not since Grahm Hurd’s graduation party got all out of hand.” He scratched his chin. “Well, it’s time for the quiz show. Who would you pick for the first contestant?”

  The officers looked at each other, and Roberta answered first.

  “Go for the old man. I think he’s the weak link.”

  “How come you think that?”

  “Well sir, he’s got the most to lose. An older man is statistically less likely to commit a violent crime. It’s more likely that he’s along for the ride. If he was just an accessory, he’s more likely to roll over to protect himself.”

  “Hm. Luther, who do you think?”

  “I’d talk to the woman first?”

  “And why?”

  Luther smiled shyly.

  “I just don’t think anyone in a Greenpeace shirt is going to drill someone in the head. Sir.”

  Walter guffawed.

  “Luther wins this round. Ladies first, I guess. Move the old guy into the ladies’ for now and put the woman in the questioning room.”

  * * *

  At the parking lot outside McDonald’s, Carl was listening to a police band scanner, a smile on his face. He’d been translating the cop talk for Jolene ever since he’d killed Ralph Kimble, pausing only to get three egg McMuffins, two hash browns and a large coffee.

  “We’re good,” he said, and burped a little. “No one’s looking for a white truck, no one fits my description. It doesn’t sound like they’re looking for anyone.” He shook his head incredulously, marveling at the small town police inefficiency. “We got away clean.”

  Jolene snorted. “Speaking of which, you think it’s okay to go shower up now? I still got that dried sleep crud in my eyes and my hair feels all greasy.”

  “Next stop, Motel 8.”

  * * *

  “Come along please,” Luther said, putting a strong hand on
Fred Mundy’s arm. Fred stood, saying nothing, and walked with him.

  It wasn’t until they got into the actual jail that Fred started to hyperventilate. Luther looked at him, alarmed. The old man’s eyes were wide, and his mouth was twisting, clenching with horror and rage and disgust.

  “Shit,” the old man whispered. “Oh shit, shit, shit…”

  “You all right, sir?”

  “I just got… arrested for murder… an’ you’re asking… if I’m all right?” Fred was taking a deep breath between phrases, and he stumbled against the bars. Luther wondered if this was some kind of trick, but the old guy was (honestly) puny, and handcuffed, and unarmed. If he made a run for it, Luther couldn’t imagine him getting very far. Still, he kept his hand on Fred’s arm and kept his eyes on Fred’s face as he turned his head to call back into the office.

  “Roberta? Lil’ help here?”

  Roberta came running.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh Jesus… I’m… fine,” Fred said, swallowing hard. His face was rigid with humiliation.

  “Roberta, how about you open the cell an’ I’ll help him in.”

  “He needs a doctor, Luther!”

  “No I… don’t…” Fred gasped.

  “We’ll sit him down and then get him one,” Luther said, annoyed. “Would you just open the damn door?”

  Roberta did. Luther helped Fred into the cell and sat him down on the hard bunk.

  “You gonna be okay, old timer?”

  Fred dropped his head between his knees, but held up his cuffed hands. Luther thought for just a moment that Fred might wait for him to unlock the cuffs, then lunge off the edge of the bed and tackle him. But looking at the old man’s pallor, he didn’t think it was likely. He unlocked Fred, backed out of the cell and closed the door. Fred twitched at the sound.

  “We’re gonna get you a doctor,” he said.

  “I’ll be fine,” Fred snarled.

  Luther stood and watched silently for a moment.

  “Shit, can’t you give me privacy for one single minute? I didn’t kill that guy, but even if I did I wouldn’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

  “Sounds like you got your breath back,” Luther said, walking back into the office.

  Roberta was hanging up a phone. When she saw Luther enter, she stood and looked at him.

  “What did you do to him?”

  Luther stopped cold and stared.

  “I didn’t do nothin’! Shit, what you think I’ma do, beat a confession out of him?”

  Roberta put her hands up. “Hey, all I know is he looked pretty sick.”

  “I didn’t do shit to him.”

  “Fine!” She blew out a choppy breath, shaking her head.

  Luther flung himself into the chair behind his desk. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “You think he’s faking it or something?” Roberta finally asked.

  “If that was faking he’s one fine fuckin’ actor,” Luther said. But he relaxed a little. “Maybe he’s claustrophobic.”

  In the cell behind them, Fred stuck his hands through the bars, and thought about prison, and realized that he couldn’t make himself cry.

  * * *

  Kate took a deep breath in through her nose, and out through her mouth. The police chief was a big, swaggering white man with a gun and a badge, and she was determined to show him nothing but courage.

  “Hi,” was his opener.

  “I want a lawyer,” she said. It came out higher pitched than she’d wanted.

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  He stood and left the interrogation room. Kate waited, trying to decide if this was a victory or not.

  Ten minutes later, he was back with a middle-aged white woman in tow. She was a redhead, with gray and brown both showing in her roots.

  “Kate Mundy, meet your attorney, Phyllis Feldmeyer. Phyllis, meet Kate.”

  The women shook hands. Walter had a bulky tape recorder and microphone in his hands.

  “There’s supposed to be a video camera behind that mirror,” he said apologetically, “but it keeps chewing up the tapes. The county says the city should fix it, and the city says it’s the county’s job, so until they get that hashed out I’m taping.”

  All three of them sat around the table, and Walter smiled. “I shoulda figured you’d want a lawyer. Everyone else I’ve hauled in on a capital crime has.”

  “So why didn’t you have her in here from the first?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, we usually do things a little more casually around here, I guess.”

  Kate shot him a withering glance. “Please spare me the good ol’ boy routine.”

  He smiled placidly back. “All right then. Did you kill Ralph Kimble?”

  “No.” She drew the syllable out, making her lips into a round hole of utter contempt.

  “You sure?” Walter laughed a little at his own joke. “Oh hey, wait a second. I forgot to offer you a cigarette. That’s what the latest rule book from them big city cops says to do, y’know.” He held out a pack.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Yeah, your teeth are too white.” He rubbed a finger under his nose. “So. You didn’t kill Ralph Kimble. Great. Know who did?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you know Ralph Kimble?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really? Huh. How come you were driving by his house?”

  Kate took a deep breath and looked away while considering her answer.

  “You don’t have to answer if doing so would incriminate you,” Phyllis said. Kate glared.

  “I’m aware of my rights, Ms. Feldmeyer.”

  “It’s Mrs.”

  “Whatever.” She turned back to Walter. “We went there because we were worried when we saw a police car going towards Joe’s house.”

  “Ah. So you know Joe Kimble?”

  “Yes. Not very well, but I know him a little.”

  “Why did you think there might be trouble at his place?”

  “When I see a cop car speeding off with the lights flashing, I tend to think there’s trouble brewing.”

  “You in the habit of chasing police cars?”

  “I’m in the habit of going to my friends when they might be having a problem.”

  Walter was nodding, nodding, and then he said “So, the gun in your purse. You got a license for that?”

  “Yes. It’s in my wallet. I’m surprised you didn’t look.”

  “You know, concealed carry is against the law in Missouri.”

  “I didn’t know I’d been arrested for concealed carry.” She turned to the lawyer. “If that’s the charge, I might be willing to plead no contest in return for a reduced fine.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the justice system.”

  “I’m a big fan of those cop and lawyer shows. Shouldn’t you be doing ‘good cop, bad cop’ with someone?”

  “That’s what the city cop book says, but I’m kind of short staffed.” His little smile was back. “So, how come you’re packing heat?”

  “I’m a single woman traveling. I feel vulnerable, so I got a gun and I carry it for self-protection.”

  “That why you pulled it on Ralph Kimble yesterday?”

  Kate bit her lip, remembering the neighbor yelling about cops, wondering if there were other, silent witnesses.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s why. He was very abusive towards me, my ex-husband and our son. In fact, Fred has a split lip and bruised knees courtesy of Ralph Kimble. If I hadn’t intervened, it would have been a lot worse.”

  Phyllis put her hand to her forehead, rubbing her temples, and Kate realized she’d done something stupid.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she insisted. “Neither did Fred. Hey, if I’d wanted to kill him, why wouldn’t I have shot him when he was beating up my son? I’d have had a much better case, right? Self defense?” She turned to her lawyer, who shrugged.

  “Yesterday, Ralph Kimble made a statement that three people unknow
n to him approached him, became verbally abusive, and then threatened him with a pistol. The descriptions match the three of you.”

  “We talked to him. He was the one who became abusive.”

  “I can believe that,” Phyllis said. Walter frowned at her.

  “Oh come on Walt. Tell me it’s not plausible, given Ralph’s history.”

  “Ralph’s history is no worse than half the men in this town. He just got caught, is all.”

  “What? What history?” Kate demanded.

  “Never you mind,” Walter said, his condescension maddening. “What were you talking to him about?”

  Determined not to make another mistake, Kate said, “That’s a personal matter.”

  “That so? It must be mighty personal indeed to kill him over it.”

  “I didn’t kill him!”

  “Fine. It must be mighty personal if it makes you unwilling to cooperate with the police.”

  Kate sighed. Walter sat. Phyllis looked at him.

  “Walt? Maybe you could leave us alone for a minute?”

  He nodded and heaved his bulk out of the chair. When he’d closed the door, Phyllis turned to Kate and said “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What’s this ‘personal matter’ you referred to?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “If it’s not important, tell him. Staying silent just makes you look uncooperative, by which I mean ‘guilty’.”

  “Trust me, telling him about it isn’t going to help anything.”

  “Why don’t you let me judge that?”

  “Oh sure. How do I know he’s not listening behind that mirror right now?”

  “Let me assure you, anything you say right now is protected by client privilege.”

  “Hell, how do I know you’re even a lawyer?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t think I don’t know what goes on in these cozy country jurisdictions where all the cops and judges and lawyers go to the same church and have barbecues together,” Kate said, leaning forward. “Some of these small town sheriffs set themselves up like they’re lord of their little domain, punching up evidence to support their prejudiced conclusions. I’ve seen the frame go on,” she insisted.