A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  Moon turned in the saddle and spoke to his companion. “D’you know that if I had a state-of-the-art controller on my front gate, I could open or close it from here on Pine Knob?”

  Parris admired all kinds of high-tech gadgetry. “What kind of doo-hickey would let you do that?”

  “One that answers a telephone.” Moon watched a dozen or so elk enter a thick stand of willows and aspen saplings along the riverbank. “If I was of a mind to, I could make the call all the way from China, and press two or three buttons on the phone to operate the gate.”

  “Imagine that.” At a sudden gust of wind, the chief of police grabbed the brim of his cherished felt fedora before it took flight for Gunnison or Salida. “What’ll they think of next?”

  “What’s been bothering me is”—the tribal investigator held on to his black Stetson—“what did somebody already think of?”

  Parris eyed his friend warily. “I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  The elk now lost to sight, Moon directed his gaze at the distant Columbine entrance. “If a man can open or close a gate with a telephone call, he could operate any electrical gadget you might care to mention.”

  “Okay, Charlie—who’s the man and what’s the gadget?”

  “Sam Reed’s the man.” As the wind fell off to a gentle breeze, Moon let go of his hat. “The gadget was something that could play back recorded sounds.” Probably a cassette tape player.

  Parris studied the inscrutable Ute’s craggy profile. “Recorded sounds of what?”

  “Wood splintering.” The tribal investigator couldn’t help but admire Samuel Reed’s ingenuity. “Like a burglar would make if he was crow-barring Mrs. Reed’s back door open at about ten o’clock on the evening of June fourth.”

  Parris opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  Moon turned again to look at his friend. “You remember that phone call Reed made from a mobile phone just about the time Perez showed up on his property?”

  Parris strained to recollect. “The one when he checked on cattle prices?”

  The Indian cowboy nodded. “But his call wasn’t about what beef was selling for.” He smiled at the memory of his misunderstanding of Reed’s duplicity. “Sam Reed already knew about the beef market from his computer. Five’ll get you fifty, that call was when our slippery friend activated the break-in sound effects.”

  The chief of police was not about to accept the wager.

  “Reed could’ve placed the burglar-sound-effects call while he was alone in the parlor, but the man’s a born show-off. I expect it made his day to make his final play with you and me as witnesses.” The Ute’s keen eye spotted a tiny jasper arrowhead on the sandy ground. “And there’s other things a clever man like Professor Reed could do with a mobile phone besides making his wife think the dangerous Crowbar Burglar was breaking into her back door.”

  Scott Parris didn’t like the sound of this. “Like what?”

  “Like sending a text message to his wife’s boyfriend and inviting the so-called Chico Perez to come over right away.”

  “But Sam didn’t do that, Charlie—the text message to Perez was forwarded from the tapped mobile phone that he loaned his wife.”

  “That’s right.” The Ute was tempted to dismount and pick up the arrowhead. He decided to leave it for someone to find long after he was gone. “But Reed could have borrowed his phone back from her on June fourth.”

  Charlie can be a real pain in the butt. “Okay. Just for the sake of annoying me, let’s say Sam Reed swiped the borrowed phone back from his wife.” The cop shifted his aching posterior in the saddle. “But having the tapped phone wouldn’t do him any good unless he knew the boyfriend’s mobile-phone number. And even if he’d managed that, how could he send Chico Perez a message that’d pass for one from Mrs. Reed?”

  “That bothered me for a while, pard. But what if Mrs. Reed didn’t misplace her original mobile phone like Sam told you she did—what if he slipped it into his pocket when she wasn’t looking?”

  This suggestion stung like a slap on Parris’s face.

  The descendant of Chief Ouray watched a red-tailed hawk wing her serene way over Pine Knob. Golden drops of sunlight dripped from the tips of her wings. As he enjoyed the spectacle, Moon continued in an easy, conversational tone. “Sam might’ve suspected that his wife had a boyfriend. Having the phone she’d used to communicate with Perez would’ve sure put him in the catbird seat.”

  The tribal investigator’s sinister insinuation percolated through Parris’s thoughts, and left a bitter aftertaste. When I hinted to Reed that he should swipe his wife’s phone so he could give her one that was tapped, the clever bastard told me she’d already lost it. A pair of arteries began to thump in the cop’s temples. Sam Reed liked my notion all right, except he didn’t want me to know he’d already taken her phone.

  Obviously curious about the pair of horses and riders, Miss Red Tail was circling the lightning-scorched ponderosa.

  Time drifts by leisurely on Pine Knob. On occasion, it seems to slow to a dead stop.

  As precious moments of his life stole away into the past, Scott Parris sat astride the Columbine quarter horse without moving a muscle or uttering a word. The harried lawman watched the feathery predator land lightly on the tip of the tall pine. When her inspection of the intruders was complete, Parris watched as the hawk lifted off to soar aloft on a thermal and was filled with a melancholy longing. I wish I could fly away from here to someplace where life was simple and nobody bothered me. He recalled that they were in a makeshift cemetery. After I’m six feet under the sod, maybe then I’ll get some peace. He exhaled a sigh and an admission: “I guess Sam could’ve swiped his wife’s phone and found some messages on it between her and Perez.” He flicked his bridle at a pesky horsefly buzzing busily about his mount’s neck. “And he could’ve borrowed the tapped phone he gave her back long enough to send a phony message to Perez—and received Perez’s reply.” The older cop recalled something that would rip a big hole in Moon’s theory. “But if that’s what happened, how do you account for the fact that I found the tapped phone in Mrs. Reed’s purse right after the shooting?”

  “How long is ‘right after,’ pardner?”

  “Pretty damn quick.” Parris’s shoulders heaved a shrug. “Well…no more’n a few minutes.”

  “Sam Reed would’ve only needed a few seconds to slip the tapped phone back into his dead wife’s purse.”

  “You sure know how to ruin a fellow’s day.” The town cop glared at his Indian friend. “And you look like you’re not done yet.”

  The Ute seemed about to say something. Hesitated.

  “Don’t be bashful, Charlie—spit it out.”

  “Don’t know if I should. It doesn’t actually prove anything.”

  “But I bet it’s a real hair-raiser.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” Moon squinted at the hawk, who was getting smaller and smaller. “D’you remember how, at about the time Chico Perez was making his way to the back door of the Reeds’ home—where Mrs. Irene Reed was waiting with a loaded pistol and probably listening to a recording of a crowbar splintering wood—how Sam Reed started humming a tune?”

  “No, I don’t.” Charlie’s pulling my leg now. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but unless I‘ve missed something in the county ordinances, there ain’t no local law against a man humming.”

  “In an instance like this, maybe there oughta be. I bet you can’t guess which famous composition it was.”

  “A real classic, huh?”

  “You bet. One of the great musical accomplishments of Western Civilization.”

  Parris gave it some serious thought. “‘Cotton-Eye Joe’?”

  “Not even close.”

  “I got it, Charlie—‘Pistol Packin’ Mama’!”

  “No, but I like it.”

  “I’m all guessed out. Gimme a bodacious big hint.”

  “Leadbelly recorded it way back in 1932.” Charlie Moon enjoyed a nostalgi
c memory. But I like Ernest Tubb’s version best.

  “Leadbelly and ’32 don’t ring no silver bell. Tell me the name of the song.”

  “‘Goodnight, Irene.’”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Confirmation

  Charlie Moon received the expected call the following morning. “Hello, pardner.” He took the telephone to his favorite rocking chair, which was waiting patiently by the parlor hearth.

  Scott Parris was out of breath, not unlike a sedentary man who has just sprinted up four flights of stairs—or a keyed-up chief of police who’s found a cassette tape player on a shelf just inside the rear entrance of the Reed residence. A tape player that could have been turned on remotely by the thumb-size telephone controller that was concealed behind it. “Only there wasn’t any cable connecting the controller to the player.” He felt his temples begin to throb. “Or, for that matter, a cassette in the player.” Parris clenched his teeth and waited for the steel fingers to put the squeeze on his aging heart. When the coronary pain did not come calling, the grateful man thanked God.

  Unaware that his friend was a candidate for triple-bypass surgery, Moon pitched a chunk of fragrant piñon onto the smoldering embers. “Sam Reed probably removed the connector cable and break-in-sound-effects cassette while you were checking his wife for a pulse.” And I was tending to her wounded boyfriend.

  “Yeah. And I betcha the rascal tossed ’em both into his fireplace a minute later. But there’s more, Charlie.” Parris inhaled a deep breath that swelled his chest. “A twenty-second call was placed to the controller phone number a couple of minutes before ten P.M. on the night of the double homicide—from the tapped mobile phone Sam loaned to his wife. But we know who placed the call.”

  The Ute nodded at the crackling fire. “And a few minutes before that, Sam Reed used the same ‘borrowed’ phone to send the fake text message from his wife that set up the meeting between Mrs. Reed and her boyfriend.”

  “It all fits. Problem is, there’s no way to prove he made those calls.”

  “Looks like he gets away with it.” Charlie Moon knew he should be angry. But he wasn’t and there was no getting around it.

  Scott Parris was furious enough for both of them. “What really burns me is that you and me are Sam Reed’s alibi. The slicker was with us when he made both phone calls, and when the homicides occurred. The sneaky bastard used us, Charlie!”

  “We let him do it, pard.” The Ute smiled at the picture his mind painted of Scott Parris’s red face. “But what’s done is done, so don’t go busting a blood vessel over us getting outfoxed. There is a bright side.”

  “Please tell me what that might be.”

  Moon settled back into the rocking chair. “The world is lots better off without the likes of Mr. Perez.”

  “True. But Mrs. Reed ended up dead too.”

  “Her husband couldn’t have foreseen that.” But I wonder if he hoped it would happen.

  The line went dead quiet while Parris thought about it. “I guess you’re right. Sam Reed wanted to stir up some trouble, but he had to realize there was a fair chance that Mrs. Reed would recognize her boyfriend when he showed up.”

  The rancher nodded at his distant friend. “And even if Mrs. Reed thought Perez was a burglar and took a shot at him, she might’ve just winged him. I expect that would’ve been more than enough to satisfy her husband.”

  “Still…” Parris’s protest tailed off into a wistful sigh.

  “You’d like to arrest Sam Reed and charge him with something or other.”

  “Yeah.” Parris allowed himself a half smile. “Like making fools of us.”

  “It’s not the first time somebody’s done that.” And not likely to be the last.

  “But Sam Reed lied to us, Charlie—and he set up his wife so she’d make those two break-in calls that’d both look like fraudulent reports.”

  “Not quite. Mrs. Reed was planning to shoot her husband, just like you figured early on. The first emergency call from Mrs. Reed was bogus as a nine-dollar bill.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “The lady made the initial 911 call quite some time before Sam Reed recorded his break-in sound effects.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask you again—how do you figure that?”

  “Well, we know for a fact that Mrs. Reed placed her first break-in call several days before the golf-course jogger was chased by an ape.”

  This statement made Parris’s head ache. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Unless I’m wrong—the ape on the golf course was you-know-who.”

  “Sam Reed?”

  “Sure. The jogger interrupted the professor while he was making a cassette tape recording of the sounds his crowbar made while he pried on the door of the toolshed.” Moon enjoyed a few slow rocks and a smile. “But that’s just a hunch.”

  “Charlie…” Parris sighed into the telephone. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way. But it’d have helped some if you’d told me about this hunch yesterday.”

  Moon stopped rocking long enough to toss another chunk of piñon onto the fire. “Didn’t want to overload you with too many speculations.”

  The chief of police laughed into the tribal investigator’s ear. “Way I see it, you’re a lot like Sam Reed—both of you like to show off.”

  Charlie Moon’s deep voice took on a somber tone. “Here’s the bottom line, pard—this business is over and done with. Nobody will miss Mr. Perez. I’m sorry that Mrs. Reed is dead, but sooner or later, one way or another—Sam Reed will pay for what he’s done.”

  Scott Parris exhaled a long, melancholy sigh. “I sure hope so.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The Assassin’s Payoff

  Daisy Perika was in her bedroom when she heard Charlie Moon’s cowboy boots clunk-clunking down the hallway and into the headquarters parlor. He was walking like a man who had someplace to go and something to do when he got there. She cocked her head in the manner of an inquisitive spaniel. I wonder what he’s up to.

  No, the tribal elder was not more nosy than some other folks we know. She was endowed with an inquiring mind and a fervent desire to keep abreast of current events.

  Charlie just got home for lunch, so it’s not likely he’s going out again. She opened the bedroom door ever so slowly.

  Not that she was sneaky. The door hinges were squeaky, and the thoughtful lady did not wish to disturb her nephew with an annoying noise.

  Miss Manners poked her head into the hallway. He’s opening the west-porch door to somebody. Daisy squinted. Probably just some smelly cow-pie kicker. The practiced spy cocked her good ear. No, that don’t sound like one of Charlie’s half-wit hired hands. Daisy smiled as she recognized the Indian’s clipped speech. Well—I didn’t expect him to show up so soon. But it was a gratifying development. The old geezer must’ve figured out who sent him the stuff and he’s come all the way from Oklahoma to thank me. Which prospect was very pleasing. But I can’t go out there looking like this. Charlie Moon’s aged aunt withdrew into her bedroom’s private bathroom, where she commenced to wash her face and, one by one, brush her remaining peglike teeth. After inspecting her disheveled image in the mirror, Daisy clucked her tongue. I look like the wolf that ate Grandma. She applied a brush to her frazzled hair.

  Charlie Moon invited his unexpected guest to sit in the padded leather armchair by the fireplace, which was one of the highest honors the Columbine had to offer.

  The head man of the Blue Lizard Clan accepted this favor with the self-assurance of a person who expects nothing less than the very best. After seating himself and placing a fringed buckskin briefcase in his lap, Lyle Thoms curled his lip at the embers. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that’s the puniest fire I’ve ever seen.”

  The towering Ute smiled down at the Chickasaw elder’s graying hair. “It is a little past its prime. But you should’ve seen it at breakfast time.”

  “I had my breakfast with Oscar Sweetwater.”
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  “So how’s the tribal chairman getting along?”

  “Ah, you know Oscar. Grumpy old man complains about most everything.” Thoms faked a shiver. “That fire don’t put out enough heat to warm a flea’s knees.”

  Moon picked up an iron poker and made several sharp jabs at the dying fire, which responded with a few feeble pops and anemic sparks. He tossed a handful of cottonwood splinters onto the embers, then a resinous chunk of piñon. The newborn flames licked hungrily at the tasty meal. “We’re about to have lunch, Mr. Thoms—I hope you’ve brought along a healthy appetite.”

  “I could eat a whole he-goat, hoofs, horns, and hide. All I got on my plate at Oscar’s place was a couple of sickly poached eggs and some dry toast.” He frowned at the disgusting gustatory recollection. “Oscar’s getting kinda paunchy, so his woman’s put him on a strict diet.” And I had to starve along with Old Fatty.

  “We’ll see that you don’t go hungry,” Moon assured his guest. “Come lunchtime, you’ll be looking at the finest pound of prime rib you ever put a fork in. And I won’t even mention the baked Idaho spud dripping with hand-churned butter that I buy from a sweet little old lady who keeps some Holstein dairy cows that don’t eat anything except the greenest grass this side of the front range.”

  “That grub sounds like it might be all right.” Thoms’s mouth was watering.

  “In the meantime, how’d you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I guess that wouldn’t do me any harm.” The chilly clan leader held his palms to the fire. “But be sure it’s good’n hot.”

  “I’ll go start us a fresh pot.”

  When Daisy Perika had completed her primping (the Chickasaw was a fine-looking man for one of his years), she emerged from her bedroom and entered the parlor with the feigned nonchalance of a lady who believes she is alone in the house. Her entrance was wasted. The men were seated at the fire, sipping mugs of coffee—with their backs to the aged actress. No matter. When one ploy doesn’t work, Daisy generally has another up her sleeve. “Oh, excuse me, Charlie. I didn’t know you had a visitor.” She turned to depart, but not so quickly as to miss her nephew’s predictable invitation.