by Martin Clark
Denise received the report from her sister’s husband’s nephew, who volunteered on the rescue squad and had helped deliver the body to the hospital. When she phoned Sadie Grace’s house a few minutes past nine on Sunday morning, Gates answered and did a credible job of acting surprised, foggy. “No shit,” he said, his voice freighted with disbelief. “Dead?” He stretched the black spiral cord from the wall phone as far as it would go and leaned against the edge of the kitchen table. “Do they know what happened?” he asked. Then: “Well, I can’t say I liked him, but you hate to see anyone wind up killed.” Next came a series of grunts and huh’s. Finally, he barked an indignant, insulted “No!” He glanced at Mason, who had been standing beside him, eavesdropping. “If I’d wanted to do somethin’ to his worthless ass, I could’ve done it at your place, Denise. Mason and me left your trailer and went straight to Martinsville. That’s where we were when I called lookin’ for Claude.” He told her not to worry, to just tell the truth, exactly what had been said. “Hell, I was with Mason the whole time, and we were at Peter’s Lounge. I don’t have anything to hide, babe. Here—Mason just came in. Talk to him. He’s the lawyer in the family.”
Mason took the receiver and asked Denise why Gates was so out of sorts. “I only heard the tail end of the conversation,” he fibbed.
She told him Wayne had been murdered. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mason, but I was, you know, worried about Gates because of Wayne bein’ here yesterday and the two of them arguing. It was the first thing that went through my mind.”
“Well, we left your house and drove straight to Martinsville. Gates said he called you, looking for Claude.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Wayne,” Mason told her. “Do you know any details?”
“Just that they found him shot over on Russell Creek Road.” Her voice cracked and Mason could tell she was crying. “What should I tell the police if they ask me questions?”
“Everyone needs to tell the truth, okay? Don’t try to lie or cover for Gates. There’s absolutely no reason to—we were either with you guys or at the bar or at home. We never saw Wayne again. Don’t worry.”
She sucked a cigarette so hard the sound came over the line. “It’s awful close to my house, where it happened. I was scared to death.”
“Don’t be.”
She lowered her voice. “What if they ask me about, well, about me and Wayne? Our relationship?”
“Listen.” Mason did his best to sound reassuring. “No one blames you for anything. Gates can be a handful.” He looked Gates in the eye and kept talking. “Tell the truth, all the way around.”
“This is terrible,” she said, her voice trailing off. “So sad.”
“You hang in there,” Mason offered, continuing his stare.
“Mason, I know how much you think of Gates and what you two have been through with your father and the tons of bad stuff. I mean, you’re his brother, and I understand that. Who could pick between helpin’ the police and helpin’ your family, no matter what they did? The problem is…is, to be honest, half the time I don’t know what to believe with Gates. But you’re different, Mason, okay? Everybody says so—and you’re promising me, givin’ me your word he was with you and had nothing to do with this?”
“You have my word,” he lied. He averted his eyes, quit drilling his brother.
Mason wanted to be present when the police first interviewed Gates, so they paced themselves working on their mother’s uprooted tree, taking more rest than they needed. Twice, they practiced their stories again. Sadie Grace returned home from church and, with her apron over her Sunday clothes, prepared a heavy meal for the three of them, topped off by the fresh pie. She mentioned Wayne’s death, having heard about it at Sunday school. “That’s what happens when you start running the roads drinkin’ and druggin’,” she pointedly noted, directing the comment at Gates.
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “Mason and me were talkin’ last night. I really am going to fly right and scale down on my bad habits.” He laid his fork across the rim of his mother’s old china plate. “I’m sorry to be such a chore for you,” he said softly.
Their mother nodded, dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin and didn’t linger on the topic. “Another piece of pie?” she asked them. She’d heard apologies and promises before and would wait to see if this one was any different, might actually amount to something.
A uniformed deputy and a sheriff’s department investigator arrived in the middle of the afternoon. Gates and Mason were sitting in the den, watching an NFL game, and their mother was napping in the recliner, the Parade magazine from the Sunday Roanoke Times resting on her lap, turned to a story she’d not finished. The afghan—full of orange squares and red diamonds—was draped over her legs. She woke when the cops knocked on the door, and she went to greet them, fiddling with her hair as she walked across the small room, still in her best clothes. Standing at the entrance to her home, holding the screen door partially open, she was polite and respectful to the officers, even inquired about coffee or a cold soda. She didn’t presume to ask what had brought them there, but she had her ideas, and her free hand was fidgety and her smile and hospitality were unnaturally fragile.
Danny Owen had worked with the sheriff’s office for twenty-three years, the last eight as an investigator. In his fifties, he was trim and easygoing, a pipe smoker whose one vice had discolored his teeth and yellowed the nail of his index finger. He wore glasses with silver metal frames and was dressed in slacks, a knit tie and a blue sport coat. The second officer was stocky and muscular, younger, his hat in his hand, his surname—Williams—announced on a shiny plate above his shirt pocket. Owen carried the conversation; he was gentle with Sadie Grace, and courteous. She and his sister pulled the same shift at United Elastic, and he mentioned the connection, made pleasant small talk, declined the coffee and eventually asked if Gates happened to be there, although the Corvette was parked in the drive and the answer was obvious. “He and Mason are watchin’ the ball game,” she said. “You sure you don’t want to come in?”
“We appreciate it, Mrs. Hunt, but we’ll wait here. Maybe you could ask him to step out and join us.” Owen gave her a tight, professional smile. He had brown eyes and black hair weeded with strands of gray.
Gates and Mason could hear the exchange, and they went to the door and met their mother. “Go on inside, Mom,” Mason urged, bending near to her when he spoke, hoping his size and closeness would bolster her, not letting on that her resignation and weary expression made him heartsick. She left for the kitchen and started with the dirty lunch dishes, and they all could see her through the window after Mason shut the door and the four men were gathered in the drive. She kept to her work and didn’t check on them, never so much as peeked to see how her sons were faring.
“I thought you’d be headed back to law school,” Owen said to Mason after they’d shaken hands and talked about the game on TV.
“I’ll probably leave around seven. Try to entice one more good meal out of my mom.”
Owen and the deputy forced a laugh. “Don’t blame you,” Owen said. He hesitated and took his pipe from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Mason, you mind if we talk to Gates alone?”
“About what?” Mason asked. He narrowed his eyes.
“A police matter,” Owen answered.
“Why can’t you talk to me right here and now?” Gates demanded. He was beside his brother, facing the two policemen.
“We’d rather speak to you in private,” Owen said. “We could talk in the car.” He motioned with his pipe toward their unmarked Ford.
“Mr. Owen, I don’t mean to be rude or interfere with your job,” Mason butted in, “but I think we’re entitled to know why you’re here. And if Gates wants me with him, that’s his prerogative.”
Owen produced a slick plastic bag of cherry-flavored drugstore tobacco. He dipped the pipe into the bag. “Fair enough, Mason. You don’t have to call me ‘mister,’ by
the way.”
“Thanks,” Mason answered.
“Yeah, I definitely want Mason to stick around,” Gates said. “Not often a man gets free legal advice.”
“So, you gentlemen have any guess why we’re here?” Owen inquired. He’d packed the tobacco and was lighting it, eyeing the two Hunts while he puffed and shook a match dead and teased out sweet smoke.
Mason didn’t hesitate. “I assume we do. We’ve heard Wayne Thompson was killed last night.”
“How’d you hear such as that, if you don’t mind my asking?” The pipe smoke was wafting toward Officer Williams, who moved to avoid it.
“Mom heard it at church, and Denise called Gates this morning,” Mason said.
Owen focused on Gates. “I hear you and Wayne had a little row yesterday.”
“Yep,” Gates replied. “We sure did. He was at Denise’s when Mason and me and Claude stopped by, and I let him know I didn’t appreciate it.”
“I see,” Owen said.
“But that was it,” Gates added. “He hit the road and that was the last we had to do with him.”
“Disagreement over the girl, right?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Okay.” Owen glanced at Mason. “Y’all mind if I take a few notes—help an old man remember things better later on?”
“Be my guest,” Mason said.
“So what happened after he left your girlfriend’s?” Owen now had a pen and small notebook in hand.
“Well,” Gates began, “we, uh, stayed at Denise’s, had a couple drinks, grilled burgers and whatnot, listened to music, just an ordinary day.” Gates hadn’t shaved in a while, and his face was covered with black stubble. He sawed the whiskers on his chin with his thumb, shrugged. “Nothing more than that, Danny.”
“How ’bout when you left?” the deputy interrupted, and Mason noticed Danny Owen frown before catching himself.
“We drove to Martinsville—Mason and me. Well, you know, Mason drove. I’d been drinking.”
“What time you figure you took off from Denise’s?” Owen asked.
Gates scratched his head. “Wow. Ten, maybe ten thirty.”
“That’s fairly accurate,” Mason said, looking thoughtfully upward and twisting his lips.
“No stops? Direct to Martinsville?” Owen was writing something on his pad.
“We stopped once, for a couple minutes, at Town and Country—”
“To change drivers,” Gates finished his brother’s sentence. “Like I said, I’d had a beer or two.” He grinned. “Or fifteen.”
“What in the world took you to Martinsville at that hour of the night?” Owen pressed.
“Prime party time,” Gates answered, and he proceeded to disgorge the altered, rehearsed version of events in which he and Mason had decided to track down their friends and keep the fun rolling. He stuck to the script, managing to seem carefree and helpful. He finished by admitting he didn’t have any use for Wayne Thompson—“there’s no need to lie about it,” he remarked—but he certainly wouldn’t wish this on anyone, even a guy as disagreeable as Wayne.
Mason held up his hand and volunteered the name of a girl who’d written her phone number on his palm, then went into the house and returned with a crumpled credit card receipt from Peter’s Lounge. “I realize it makes sense for you to interview us, Mr. Owen,” he said, still not using the detective’s familiar name, “but the bottom line is we didn’t see the guy after he left, and Gates could’ve taken care of his gripe at Denise’s if he’d had those kinds of intentions.”
“I suppose so,” Owen said. He perused his notes. “So you boys see the deceased at Denise Puckett’s trailer around one or so, have some hot words and he drives off. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Mason said.
“Then you two, Denise, Claude Whitlow, Shannon Stone and her cousin, lady by the name of Suzi, are at Denise’s until ten or ten thirty? Mason and Gates go to Martinsville, remain till closing at Peter’s Lounge. Then straight home.” The policeman appeared to be reciting his own notes.
“Yeah,” Gates answered. “But write down that the time we left is just approximate. We didn’t have any reason to tie it to the second, you know?”
“Oh—Claude and I went to the liquor store not long after Wayne left,” Mason volunteered. “Just so you have the full details. We also stopped by Alexander’s to buy cookout supplies.”
“I already talked to Claude.” Owen took a drag from his pipe, exhaled the smoke. “He filled me in on who was there and what happened. Anything else I should be aware of?”
“Well, I mean, if you have a doubt that we were at Peter’s Lounge in spite of everything we’ve provided you, I know Gates called Denise’s from there trying to locate Claude and the girls.” Mason’s nerves were beginning to vex him. His saliva felt as if it were thickening, and the tension was pinching his belly. He licked his lips, rearranged his feet.
“If you tell me you were there, I’m takin’ it you were. Although Claude told me y’all discussed the Dutch Inn, not this other place.” Owen flipped through several pages while holding the pipe clamped in his teeth. “Dutch Inn is what he mentioned to me,” he said from the side of his mouth. “Least that’s what I wrote.”
“Did he also tell you they all were fairly impaired? I was sober, and I recall Peter’s, but hey, you know, maybe I’m wrong. I can’t see what difference it makes.” Mason tacked on an ad-lib to demonstrate how in the dark he was: “Was Wayne at the Dutch Inn or something? Is that why you’re asking?”
“Not that we know of. It’s a difference in the accounts, so I’m supposed to see about it.”
“You have any leads or an idea who did it?” Gates inquired, patting his pockets, searching for his cigarettes. “Damn, left ’em inside. You got me wantin’ a smoke,” he said good-naturedly to Owen.
“None to speak of,” Owen answered, his tone revealing nothing of what he’d actually learned.
“We couldn’t discuss it with other people even if we did,” Officer Williams informed them. He appeared pleased with himself and his contribution.
“You own a gun?” Owen asked abruptly, addressing Gates.
“A .22 rifle that our sorry dad left here,” Gates said. He’d purchased the pistol from a greasy survivalist with a mouthful of dental neglect at a South Carolina flea market, spurning the man’s invitation to join the Aryan Brotherhood and declining the opportunity to acquire more lethal weapons, such as grenades, assault rifles and mortars. A cash transaction, definitely no paper trail.
“That it? Only one rifle?”
“That’s it.” Gates sounded almost cheerful. The pistol was deep in the woods behind their mother’s, buried there for the time being. They’d soaked his pants, shirt, socks and shoes with lawn mower gasoline and burned them first thing that morning, when the sun was muscling its way over the horizon line, raking a few leaves and setting them on fire afterward in case someone was curious about the smoke.
Owen shifted his weight. “Would you give us permission to look through the house? Conduct a search? It would protect us all later on if there are any questions.” Owen had drawn a bead on Gates and was trying to gauge his reaction.
“Hey, fine with me.” Gates didn’t miss a beat.
Mason reflexively put his hands on his hips and asserted his chest. “Well, gentlemen, I think we should ask my mom before we make any plans concerning her home, don’t you? Show her a little respect? Not to mention the legal issues.”
“Absolutely,” Owen replied.
“Absolutely,” the deputy echoed.
“How about the car?” Owen asked. “Gates, you care if we look in there while y’all talk with your mom?”
“Help yourself,” Gates said. “Door’s open.” At Mason’s prompting, they’d removed the velvet contraband sack and scoured the interior for roaches and cocaine detritus, but they’d left the trash, beer cans and empty vodka bottles, lest the Corvette seem suspiciously clean for someone of Gates’s notorious habits.
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Owen gestured to Officer Williams. “How ’bout gettin’ me one of them consent forms from the trunk?”
Gates signed a document granting the police permission to search his vehicle, and the two cops began examining the Corvette. As Mason watched them, it appeared to him the effort was on the desultory side, and he took it as a positive sign that there didn’t seem to be much enthusiasm.
Their mother was in the kitchen when they returned, facing away from the police and her sons, preoccupied by a cup of black coffee she was reheating in the balky microwave with its spinning glass carousel. The oven stopped its huffing and rotating and let out an alert, but Sadie Grace didn’t remove the coffee. “What is it?” she asked. She had been a beautiful girl and a comely younger woman, but at forty-eight her attractiveness had long ago been swallowed whole, replaced by sags and pallor and veins popped by punch-clock days on unforgiving factory floors. There was still a hint of what once was, but her blue eyes were tapped out, her high spirits gone to seed amidst hard knocks and serial betrayals. She was tall like her boys, battle-tested, resourceful, and had maintained a single vanity since her teenage years—a head full of lustrous, dark hair that seemed impervious to age and disappointment.
“The police want to search the house,” Mason announced. “They’re here about Wayne Thompson.” He paused and took her hand, engulfing it in both of his. “Wayne and Gates had a disagreement yesterday afternoon, so the police are chasing down every possible lead. They’re just doing their job.”
