by Ben Rehder
But still, it was worth checking into.
The standoff was seventeen hours old now, and Bobby Garza was starting to get nervous. Jack Corey’s behavior was becoming somewhat erratic, probably due to lack of sleep. Early this morning, they’d heard him in there shouting, apparently at Wylie; none of the deputies could make out what he was saying. But when they called him on the phone, he seemed reasonably collected. Not friendly, but not delusional or irrational, either.
Garza figured Corey’s exhaustion was both a blessing and a curse. If he nodded off, Wylie might be able to slip away or get control of the gun. On the other hand, Corey might become agitated, excitable, or violent. Garza decided to stick with the current plan, which was simply to wait. Sooner or later, Corey would realize it was hopeless and give up. That was the optimist in Garza talking. The other side of his brain knew that Corey could kill Wylie—or turn the gun on himself. And the blood would be on Garza’s hands. People would question his choices for the rest of his career.
At sunrise, some of the local volunteer firefighters had shown up with big thermoses of coffee, breakfast rolls, even hot eggs and bacon. Then they had erected a large canopy to give Garza and the deputies some shade. It was going to be a hot one for November. Texas weather could sneak up on you: cool and balmy one day, warm and muggy the next.
Most of the deputies were dozing in their cars or patrolling the perimeter, keeping curious locals and reporters away from the building. Garza was sitting in a chair under the canopy, his eyelids drooping, when he heard: “Sheriff Garza?”
He looked up to see an obese, friendly-looking man wearing a rumpled tan-colored suit. Garza figured him for media—probably radio, based on his looks. “I’m sorry, I have no comment at the moment,” Garza said, rising. “And you’re not supposed to be back here—”
The man surprised him by flipping open a badge. A U.S. marshal. “Smedley Poindexter,” the man said, extending his hand.
Garza shook it. Pudgy, but firm. “Sheriff Bobby Garza. How can I help you? I hadn’t heard the Feds were coming.”
“Oh, this isn’t official, Sheriff,” the man said, his accent identifying him as a Central Texas native. “I work out of Austin, but I was in the area and decided to stop by and offer moral support. Tough situation you got here.”
It struck Garza as a little odd that a U.S. marshal would drop by, especially since the standoff was not the type of thing that would ever fall under federal jurisdiction.
Garza gave Poindexter a quick recap of the events of the previous three days, starting with the discovery of Bert Gammel’s body and the evidence that pointed toward Jack Corey. He noted that the man nodded approvingly when Garza described his strategy to wait Corey out.
“So you think Corey’s good for it, then?” Poindexter asked, meaning the murder of Gammel.
“We’re still waiting on the results from the DPS lab, but yeah, that’s the way it looks. And I know I shouldn’t infer anything from Corey’s actions in there”—he gestured toward the building—“but it sure doesn’t help his case.”
Poindexter stared at the sheriff’s office for a few moments. “You know Corey well?”
“Sure. He grew up a few years ahead of me.”
“Any previous record?”
“None at all.” Garza eyed Poindexter, who returned his gaze calmly.
“What about this missing-persons report? Man named Emmett Slaton?”
“What about him?”
“Any leads on that?”
Garza hesitated, feeling that he was being probed. These questions seemed like more than casual interest. “Nothing so far. Blood at the scene, but it was animal blood.”
Poindexter raised his eyebrows.
“Slaton had a dog,” Garza explained. “We’re wondering if the dog might have been injured. There’s nothing to indicate that anything happened to Slaton, other than the fact that we can’t find him.”
The marshal frowned, but remained silent.
“Look, Marshal Poindexter—”
“Call me Smedley.”
“All right, Smedley. Is something going on here that I need to know about? I appreciate you dropping by and all, but it seems kind of strange....”
The big man opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to reconsider. After a moment, he said, “I’m just checking into something, Sheriff. I’m working a confidential federal case and...” Poindexter appeared to choose his words carefully. “I just wanted to make sure it had no connection to all the excitement you’re having around here.”
“And?”
Poindexter shook his head. “I don’t see any connection at all.”
“Let me ask you something, Maynard....” Marlin was back in Clements’s office, just after lunchtime, Maynard sucking the last few drops out of a soft drink from Burger King. Marlin leaned in close again. “Anyone ever try to bribe you?”
Clements chuckled, then realized it was a serious question. “Not once in twenty-three years on the job. Nobody ever even hinted around it. I got a plate of chocolate-chip cookies from an old lady once,” he smiled. “After we patched up the road in front of her house. That’s about as close to a bribe as I ever got.” Clements smacked his lips as if he was thinking about those cookies.
Marlin felt a little foolish. “Then I guess you never heard Bert Gammel mention anything along those lines.”
“No, never. And, see, John, there wouldn’t be any use in trying to bribe me or Bert anyway. We go out and solicit bids, but we’re not in charge of awarding the actual contracts—the county commissioners are. Then we manage the projects after they’ve been awarded.” Clements kicked his boots up onto his desk. “Hell, I wish someone would offer me a bribe. A big one. I got my eye on a new boat.”
“You know, this is all your fault,” Jack Corey said, rousing Wylie Smith from his nap. The deputy was stretched out on the couch, wrists still cuffed, his wounded hand heavily bandaged. Corey was back to his usual position: sitting on the floor, his back against the door.
Corey glared at Wylie, who didn’t reply. In fact, the deputy hadn’t spoken since Corey had imposed the “no-talking rule.” Corey wondered whether he could get Wylie talking now.
“You just had to keep pushin’ me, didn’t you?” Corey continued. “But the thing you don’t understand is, how can I confess to somethin’ I didn’t do?”
Wylie swung his legs around and sat upright. He stared into space, apparently groggy from the painkillers Marlin had brought in.
Corey tried to sound reasonable, tried to keep the threatening edge out of his voice. “You kept talkin’ to me about tire marks and boot prints, but come on, that’s pretty shitty evidence, ain’t it? I’m not the only guy around the county with a Firestone tire and Red Wing boots.”
Finally, Wylie spoke in a raspy voice: “Don’t forget the tobacco spit. If you didn’t do it, then the smartest thing to do is give up. The DNA evidence will clear you.”
Corey snorted. “Yeah, right. I know what you’re capable of. Hell, you pointed a gun at my head, threatened me with Death Row. Planting evidence would be no big deal for a guy like you.”
Wylie shook his head, like he was talking to a slow child. That made Corey angry, but he swallowed it down.
Wylie said, “Now, tell me, where would I get a puddle of your saliva?”
Corey had an answer ready. “I done some thinkin’ about that, and you coulda stolen a spitcan out of my truck.”
“But I didn’t even find the spit,” Wylie said, his voice rising. “Marlin found it. I hadn’t even gotten to the scene yet. Can’t you understand that?”
“You coulda put it there earlier.”
Wylie leaned back against the couch. Quietly, he said, “What you’re talking about is crazy, Jack. If I framed you for Bert Gammel’s murder, that would mean I probably killed him myself.”
“How do I know you didn’t?”
“You gotta be kidding me.” Wylie shook his head. “I had no motive, for starters. I didn’t even kn
ow the guy. And secondly, on the day Gammel was killed, I was in Austin with my wife. It was my day off. We spent the night with her sister. You’re really grasping at straws here, Jack.”
Both men fell silent. Corey felt so tired, so ready to give in. If he could just sleep for a few minutes…but he had to keep Wylie talking. “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?”
Wylie sighed. A few heartbeats passed and Corey thought the deputy wasn’t going to respond.
“Well?” Corey said.
Wylie licked his lips and said, “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”—Wylie shrugged—“the gun is just my way of speeding things up a little.”
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 dri
nk 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.
