Dust in the Heart

by Ralph Dennis

  Joe Croft edged in, the notebook in his hand. “Give me the best description of the man you can.”

  “Like what?”

  “How tall?”

  “Six feet.”

  Everybody is six feet tall. At least, all the witnesses think they are. Wilt got a Chesterfield from his shirt pocket and lit it.

  “Hair color?”

  “Sort of brown. A light brown.”

  “Color of his eyes?”

  “I didn’t see them. He wore those wraparound sunglasses.”

  “Shape of his face?”

  “Long and narrow. Thin.”

  “Kind of skin?”

  “Pale, real white.”

  “Notice any scars?”

  “A lot of them,” Gus said.

  “What?”

  “Little places here and here.” Gus touched his cheekbones.

  “Acne?”

  “The little pits. From bad skin.”

  “Any acne now?”

  “Not that I saw,” Gus said. “Just the dried pits.”

  Wilt looked around. He couldn’t find an ashtray. He had another swallow of coffee and dropped the cigarette butt in the coffee. “This man and woman … you think you’d recognize them if you saw them again?”

  “Maybe not the woman, but I’d know the man for sure.”

  “Why?” Wilt knew the station was busy. A lot of cars and people passed through. Wilt knew the answer might be important later. It was the kind of question a defense lawyer asks.

  “He was snotty, that’s why.”

  “How?”

  “He got the key to the rest room. He goes in there while I’m pumping his gas. He comes back a minute later and he screams at me that it is the dirtiest toilet he’s ever been in. I tried to tell him that my cleaning man ain’t been in yet but he’s not listening. He shouts at me that the toilet ain’t been cleaned for a month. So I just keep my mouth shut and let him wear himself out.”

  Wilt nodded. That would wash in court. “Set a time when Gus can come in and make a statement.”

  “What am I making now?”

  “I mean one we can get typed up and signed.” Wilt walked outside. The wind was drying the air, pushing the rain that had been over the area toward the coast. But it was cold, very cold.

  Wilt dumped his coffee cup in a trashcan and got into the cruiser. A few minutes later Joe joined him. He leaned on the roof of Car # 1 and bent his head toward the open window.

  “He’ll come in at two-thirty or three, when his nephew relieves him.”

  “I hear the Police have an Ident-i-kit they’ve never used.”

  “That’s the word.”

  “Who handles it for Amos?”

  “I think Johnny Ferrell took the lessons.”

  “You know him?”

  “Pretty well,” Joe said.

  “I can talk Amos into letting us use the kit. I want you to sit in and make sure it’s good work, that it’s not slipshod. You do that without hurting Johnny’s feelings?”

  “I think I can.”

  Gus Triffon stood in the doorway. He took a step toward them and stopped.

  “I’d rather do it at our place. If Amos won’t go for that, you’ll have to work at the Police Department.”

  “Why make a case over it? We’ll do it at their place and not ruffle any fur. Let the Chief think he’s in charge.”

  “Sly,” Wilt said. “You’ve got that streak.”

  “Not me, Sheriff.”

  “You ever get sly with me?”

  “Not often.”

  “But you stroke me now and then?”

  “Hardly ever. You’ve got thorns.”

  Wilt laughed. He was rolling the window up when Gus left the doorway and headed toward them. Wilt waited. There was always a chance that Gus remembered something else about the people in the Thunderbird.

  “This is about that little girl, ain’t it?”

  Wilt said it was.

  “This happens in Greece … the man who did it … they’d cut off his business and stuff it down his throat. This man … I knew as soon as I …”

  “Gus,” Wilt said, “driving a red and white Thunderbird isn’t a crime. We don’t know for sure that this is the man we’re looking for.”

  “Well …”

  “Keep this to yourself until we know for sure, one way or the other.”

  “Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

  On the drive into town, Wilt laughed to himself. The first humorous moment since the call came in the day before about little Cathy Dobbs. That Joe Croft. Saying he didn’t stroke but doing it in such a way that it was, even in the denial, a masterful stroking.

  Election was still a year away. He’d have to keep an eye on young Joe Croft. Maybe he’d learned enough. Maybe he’d decided that it was time for him to sit in the big chair in the office.

  Joe wouldn’t be a bad choice. But it would happen only when Wilt decided he’d had enough of the job. He had no plans to be pushed out by a new kid.

  The new kid would have to wait his turn.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Susie flagged him down and passed him the brown envelope with his name written on it in the old looping Palmer penmanship method. “Doc said for you to call him if there was anything you needed explained.”

  Wilt stared at it. He didn’t want to read any part of it. But that went with the job. The bad days that ruined the memory of the good ones.

  “And this.” Susie smiled and held out a memo sheet. “A woman called. She wouldn’t give her name.”

  Wilt looked at the number. It didn’t mean anything to him. “What’s the smile for?”

  “She said it was personal.”

  “I don’t know any personal ladies,” Wilt said.

  “Maybe you’re about to meet one.”

  “No such luck.”

  He carried the memo sheet to his office and punched in an outside line. He dialed and waited.

  Her voice was throaty. She didn’t have to identify herself. “I read the morning paper. Now I know why you were the way you were.”

  “Don’t give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m always like that, Diane. Exactly that way.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Except for the steady, soft breathing he’d have thought she’d hung up on him.

  “You want me to call you back for any special reason?”

  “You bother me,” she said. “You keep hanging around. I keep asking myself why and I don’t come up with any answer I like. I think you’ve already decided what kind of woman I am and you don’t like much of what you believe. I guess I don’t understand why you drag it out and pick at it.”

  “All I said was that you interest me.”

  “How? In what way?”

  “That’s the part I’m having trouble with.”

  “Come by tonight. This time I promise I’ll be good.”

  “That’s part of the problem. I’m not sure I want you to be good.”

  Her throaty laugh got inside him and echoed in the hollow of his chest. “You had your big chance last night, buster.”

  “That wasn’t a chance. That was a calculated insult and you know it.”

  “You understood that, did you? First thing I know you’ll interest me.”

  “I doubt it. Redneck Sheriffs probably aren’t your style.”

  “You’re right. But it’s a strange and confusing possibility that I might change. A one in a thousand shot.”

  He waited. He thought she expected him to say something more but he didn’t.

  “Bye, Wilt.”

  He punched the button and broke the connection. He waited a few seconds and punched in the outside line again. He dialed the Police Station.

  “It’s like a television screen.” Joe explained the method while Wilt stared at the result of Joe’s hour of work with Johnny Ferrell and Gus Triffon. “You’ve got a choice of a lot of foreheads, hair styles, and you match those with a chin. Then you settle on the kind of
nose and the shape of the cheekbones. Then the eyes and the mouth …”

  “Gus Triffon satisfied with it?” The likeness had a certain mechanical quality to it.

  “He says it’s as close as he can get.”

  “It looks like it was drawn by a machine that didn’t know what a man is.”

  “Well, it was drawn by a machine.” Joe moved around the desk and stood behind Wilt. “What do you want done with it?”

  “You think it’s useable?”

  “Probably. A photograph would be better but we don’t have one.”

  “Copies. Enough for us, enough for the police and some spares. A hundred copies to start.” He passed the drawing over his shoulder to Joe. “On the way back from getting the copies made, stop by the Herald office. Talk to Charlie Giddings. See if he’ll run this on page one in the morning. Suggest a caption like Do You Know This Man?

  “He’ll do it.”

  “Sure,” Wilt said, “but ask. Asking and thanking, that’s good politics.”

  “The other area papers?”

  “Might be worth a try. Have Susie type up a letter for my signature. Say a man fitting this description is wanted for information he might have on the kidnapping and murder of Cathy Dobbs, aged six. Keep it vague.”

  “A call from you to the managing editors of the papers might help.”

  “Could be.” Who the hell was running the office anyway? All those ideas from Joe irritated Wilt. But he accepted them. That was the balance he prided himself on. Not to reject an idea just because someone else had it.

  Joe left with the drawing. Wilt sighed and drew the phone toward him. He started with the Raleigh News and Observer. Within half an hour he worked through the Durham Morning Herald and Sun and even the Chapel Hill Newspaper.

  At the end he decided the calls had been worth the time.

  The afternoon dragged. Amos Wilson called and said that the door-to-door was completed in the West Oak and 12th area and they’d come up empty-handed.

  Bad breaks. Nothing but bad breaks.

  At four-thirty, he tired of listening to his stomach growl and sent out for two burgers from the Char Pit. He got a Coke from the Station machine and sat at his desk and ate one burger. He’d just taken a bite from the second one when Joe pushed the door open without knocking. The push was so hard that the door slammed against the wall.

  “We’ve got another one, Wilt.”

  “What?”

  “Another little girl’s missing.”

  “Where?” Wilt wrapped the rest of the burger in the foil it came in and tossed it in the waste can.

  “The call just came in.” Joe lifted the pad and read from it. “Seven-years-old. Second grade. The child’s name is Dana Moore. The Moore live in the county, in the Tall Pines complex.”

  Wilt grabbed his coat and cap. On the way through the outer office, he stopped long enough to tell Susie to call in all the off-duty deputies. After he talked to the parents, he’d set up a search pattern.

  The sky was dark. It had all the makings of a miserable night ahead. As soon as it got dark, the temperature would drop like a lead sinker.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The apartment complex was in the western part of the county. It was an architect’s hybrid idea of what an adobe complex in New Mexico might be like. The outside was constructed of imitation adobe and each unit had been painted in a pastel tone. The units faced a courtyard in which several yucca trees were slowly dying, leaf blade by leaf blade.

  Parking was in the back.

  The Moore family lived in Unit D, #3, an apartment that had been painted a dark clay color. In the parking space for Unit D, # 3, there was a Subaru station wagon and a Pontiac Firebird.

  After Joe parked the cruiser, he and Wilt walked around the end of the complex and entered the courtyard. On the porch-landing, Wilt noted the bundle of red chilies, the functional decoration he’d seen passing through the southwest. While Joe rang the doorbell. Wilt put out a hand and touched the peppers. There was no real “give” to the pods and he realized that it was ornamental, made of plastic.

  The woman who came to the door was in her thirties. Her dark hair was shaped and neatly arranged. She wore tan slacks tailored in the mannish way, a white blouse and wore a ski sweater over her shoulders. She might have been attractive on some days. Today she wasn’t. Her mascara was wet and smeared and her eyes were red. A lacy handkerchief was pressed to her mouth.

  Past her, Wilt saw a man about her age. He was seated on a sectional sofa, the central part, and he wore suit pants and a vest that was unbuttoned. A burgundy tie was loose at his neck. He clutched a drink in one hand and held a cigarette in the other.

  Mrs. Moore lowered the handkerchief and Wilt saw the red bruise on the side of her chin. Then, conscious of Wilt’s stare, she covered the bruise again. “You’ve found her? She’s alright?” Tears pooled in her eyes. She wiped the overflow away with her free hand.

  “Not yet.” Wilt introduced himself and then told them who Joe was. He stepped past her and into the living room.

  Mr. Moore stood. He placed his drink on the coffee table. There was a faint weave to him as he approached Wilt. “I’m Jonas Moore. This is my wife, Arlene.”

  Wilt pressed the manicured hand. “Just how long has your daughter been missing?”

  Jonas Moore released Wilt’s hand and turned and looked at the wall clock. “It’s five-twenty now. The bus wasn’t always on an exact schedule but she should have been here between three-fifteen and three-twenty-five.”

  Wilt opened his coat. The room was overheated. “Where does the bus usually drop her?”

  “Down the road. There’s a yellow school bus sign. It’s about two hundred yards from the bus stop to the entrance road to Tall Pines.”

  “You usually meet her or wait for her?”

  “Today I didn’t.” Arlene Moore said. “I had an appointment at the beauty shop. The only open time Betsy had was at three. I left a note for Dana and I asked Mrs. Daley … Margaret to keep an eye on her until I got back.”

  “You got back … when?”

  “Four-fifteen.” She lowered the handkerchief once more and the bruise was visible again. “First thing I went to Margaret’s. She said she hadn’t seen Dana at all and she’d assumed I met her on the road.”

  “You should have been there,” Jonas said.

  She flared back at him. “You’re the one who wanted to go to the Flexner’s for dinner tonight.”

  They could argue and accuse each other on their own time. “That was forty-five minutes ago. What did you do then?”

  “I called the school. I spoke to the principal, Mr. Garland, I’d hoped … well, there was the chance they’d kept her after class or she’d missed her bus. Mr. Garland said he’d talk to Dana’s teacher, Miss Prince, and call me back. When he called back, I talked to Miss Prince. She said she’d seen Dana get on the bus.”

  Jonas carried his glass into the kitchen. Through the open doorway, Wilt saw him pour a generous shot of Early Times and add an ice cube.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Arlene said. “I waited until Jonas got home.”

  Jonas carried his drink to the sofa and slumped down on it. “It was still light. We walked around the area, just in case she’d gone off to play with one of the other children in the complex.”

  “Then we decided we’d better call you,” Arlene said.

  “Just a few minutes ago the principal called back,” Jonas said. “He said he’d been trying to get in touch with the driver. He’d call us back. That was ten minutes ago.”

  “What are the chances you’ll find her?” Arlene asked.

  Jonas looked at his wife. The drink shook in his hand. The ice rattled against the glass.

  “If anybody can find her, we will.” Wilt said.

  “Alive …?” There. It was out. And the moment Arlene Moore asked the question she probably regretted. it.

  Jonas’ face contorted. He caught himself. “Arlene …”

&
nbsp; “I don’t know,” Wilt said. “I’d be lying if I made promises to you. What we’ve got in our favor is that we’ve got an early start. With some luck …”

  The phone rang. Wilt felt that he’d been saved by the bell. He was running out of assurances. It was hard to lie to parents when the naked fear was on them.

  Jonas Moore answered the phone. After listening for a few seconds, he said, “Mr. Garland, the Sheriff’s here. I think he’d like to talk to you.”

  Wilt took the phone. “Sheriff Drake.”

  “Sheriff, this is terrible. I’m heartsick over what might have happened to little Dana.”

  “All of us are. Look, I’d like to talk to the bus driver.”

  “I’ve talked to him. He said he remembers that Dana left the bus at her usual stop.”

  “I still need to talk to him. I’ve got some other questions for him.”

  “I can assure you we did a thorough check on him before …”

  “It’s not that, Mr. Garland.”

  “I guess I overreacted. I’m sorry. I’ve got his name and address here somewhere. Here, His name is Bobby Turpin. He lives on the Akers place. You know where that is?”

  “I do.”

  “He’s there now. I told him Mr. Moore might want to talk to him.”

  “Do me a favor,” Wilt said. “Call him and tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes. That I want him to wait for me.”

  “I will and I hope you find Dana before … something terrible happens to her. What happened to little Cathy Dobbs …”

  “We’ll try our best.”

  “We’ll be praying for her.”

  Wilt said his goodbye and placed the phone on its base.

  While he’d been on the phone, Arlene Moore had left the room. Now she returned, carrying something cupped in her free hand, the one that didn’t press the handkerchief to her chin. When she was close to him, she opened her hand and he saw that it was a photograph.

  “I thought you might need this. It was taken at the school in September.”

  Wilt thanked her. He looked down at the child’s face. Long straight blonde hair touched her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and innocent. She was smiling, only an instant away from a grin.