The stopped car pulled back into the right lane and accelerated with a roar that was audible even at this distance in the frosty air. Before it had gone a quarter of a mile, Auburn was following it just closely enough for him to keep the distinctive pattern of the taillights in sight. Stifling the impulse to call in the car's registration number to headquarters for identification, he committed it to memory along with the make and model.
Even while clambering back into his own car and setting off in pursuit, Auburn had scanned the area where the tennis balls had landed without seeing a vehicle on the park road, much less anyone on foot. And that was exactly what he might have expected to see if this was a trap laid for him. But instead of waiting at the delivery point, as Lewis had done, Auburn had gone off after the man who made the delivery. Had they perhaps foreseen that he would do exactly that?
The car he was following was in the far left lane now, crowding seventy-five as it approached town. The traffic was a bit heavier here in spite of the hour, and Auburn drew in closer. Without any slackening of speed, his quarry shot past all the downtown interchanges. Auburn fell back again slightly when he noted, with quiet satisfaction, that the car had swung into the right lane as it approached the Arcadia Boulevard exit just west of town. This strengthened his conviction that the man in the car ahead was Milo Zerbat. According to the phone book, Zerbat lived about a mile north of here on Canfield Court in a suburban residential development partly owned by Mendel Petownik.
But after getting off the interstate, the car went south on Arcadia instead of heading for Canfield Court. Here Auburn proceeded with much greater caution. Since the city streets were virtually deserted, close pursuit for more than a few blocks would be only too evident to the pursued. Maybe that was exactly the idea. But instead of taking a circuitous route as if to foil or expose a follower, the car proceeded straight to a corner gas station, closed at this hour, and stopped opposite a public phone.
Auburn rolled by without slowing, made three quick right turns, and pulled into the gas station just as a man wearing a chin beard and a camouflage hunting jacket stepped up to the pay phone. Auburn parked so as to block the other car and was halfway out of his own car before Zerbat became fully aware of his presence.
"Hold it right there, Mr. Zerbat,” he said. “Police officer. Please put your hands on top of your head."
Undoubtedly it was rash behavior for an unarmed man without official standing. But exasperation over his prolonged and wholly undeserved suspension had made Auburn reckless. Zerbat jumped like a frightened rabbit, started to obey Auburn's order, and then stared at him more sharply in the unearthly glare shed by a mercury vapor streetlight half a block a way.
After the fiasco at the Teutonia, Auburn's self respect had begun to reassert itself: He had shaved that morning. “I know you,” said Zerbat with a sneer, lowering his hands again. “You aren't any police officer. Not anymore. You got canned. Man, you are hot chocolate."
Auburn stepped in closer, trapping Zerbat between his car and the phone booth, watching his hands closely—hands trained to do tricks. “You're under arrest,” he said. “Put your hands on top of your head."
Zerbat put his hands on his hips. “So show me a badge."
"I don't need a badge to make a citizen's arrest.” Auburn had now backed Zerbat tightly into a corner, crowding his movements. “Your lawyer will explain all that to you."
"What's the charge?"
"The murder of Malabar Lewis."
Zerbat's air of bravado started to crumble. “The paper said he died in a car accident."
"But you know better, don't you? Get those hands up and turn around to face the car.” Zerbat could see for himself that, if it came to a scuffle, Auburn had three inches and thirty pounds on him. And maybe rage and frustration had lent Auburn's voice a dangerous edge.
Zerbat complied. “You planning to knock me around like you did that guy at the fish fry the other week?"
Auburn patted him down with practiced hands. “I didn't knock anybody around,” he said. “I put my hand on his chest because he was disturbing the peace and endangering another citizen. If it's any of your business. Okay, you can turn around again. Keep your hands up."
"Hey. I'm not going down for any murder. What makes you think—"
"Keep them up, remember? Your lawyer will have access to all the evidence before you come to trial."
"How about we cut a deal right here and now?"
"I can't make any deals."
"But you can tell the city prosecutor that I cooperated.” Zerbat seemed to be regaining his self confidence. Unable to gesture with his hands, he jabbed his chin beard forward arrogantly.
Auburn, still not sure he hadn't fallen into a trap, glanced anxiously up and down the dark streets. “I haven't seen much cooperation so far,” he said.
"Well, then, how about this? I finger the guy that killed Lewis, you let me walk."
"I'm listening. But no promises."
"It was my uncle. He killed Lewis—he faked the wreck."
"With how much help from you?"
"I'm not saying anything about that."
"So who's your uncle?"
"Mendel Petownik. He owns a pet store—"
"And also your House of Magic. And a chunk of Tunbridge Mall. And a chunk of your house. Who tossed that tennis ball to Lewis?"
"I did. Okay, I admit that. I threw the ball. But my uncle was waiting for him down on Route 21, and—"
"Keep the hands up there, remember? Are you sure it wasn't the other way around? Like maybe Uncle Mendel threw the ball, and you did the shooting? After hanging around the black bar up the highway for a couple hours, getting up your courage with bourbon?"
Zerbat fell silent, seemingly wondering whether he should say more or whether he had already said too much.
"Lewis just got pebbles,” said Auburn. “What was in those balls you tossed tonight, out by the park road?"
Was it the eerie lighting here, or was Zerbat's complexion looking more and more all the time like the filling of a key lime pie? “Okay, that's it,” he said. “I'm not talking any more till I see my lawyer."
Auburn took out a quarter. “You can call him from right here, just as soon as I phone in for some backup. I'll even let you use my quarter, because I'm going to get it back.” He dropped the quarter in the slot and punched buttons.
"A cop calls 911 for backup?"
"A suspended cop does, when he's dealing with somebody as dangerous as you."
"You're flipping right I'm dangerous.” Zerbat's whole frame twitched with sudden energy as he made his move. Ducking sideways, he reached back into the hood of his jacket with his right hand.
"Looking for this?” asked Auburn.
He held a handgun under Zerbat's nose, a .22 caliber target pistol with an eight-round swing-out cylinder and grips of cheap plastic that looked like congealed marmalade in the garish half light. Most of the long barrel had been sawed off, leaving a stump about two inches long to spew out slugs. That ruined it for target practice and even made it pretty unreliable as a homicidal weapon except at point-blank range. But, on the other hand, it fit quite easily into a pants pocket—or the hood of a hunting jacket.
"Maybe you better stick to pulling rabbits out of hats,” said Auburn. “Ma Mammy didn’ raise no stupit pickaninnies."
Zerbat clenched his teeth and let loose a violent string of profanity as Auburn, pistol in one hand and phone receiver in the other, identified himself to the emergency dispatcher and outlined the situation.
"For the last time,” he said, after hanging up, “will you get your hands back on top of your head? I'm cold, I'm tired, and I'm already up to my neck in trouble downtown. Don't give me any more reasons to get careless with this thing."
* * * *
The next afternoon Auburn, still under suspension, kept an appointment with the city prosecutor to give a sworn deposition in the case against Milo Zerbat. Zerbat, now behind bars and thoroughly alarmed, had been si
nging his head off. He had already spilled most of the beans the night before, when he thought the pistol was still in his possession and that before sunrise Auburn would be as dead as Malabar Lewis.
Insisting that his uncle had been the driving force and he himself only an unwilling tool, he told all about Petownik's drug business—how Petownik imported heroin concealed in packaging material with tropical fish that came in from Thailand. How he distributed it to a team of local pushers, including Lewis, by tossing it from a car on the interstate at any of twenty distribution points. How deliveries were made in tennis balls weighted with pebbles, the time and place being broadcast, by means of the playing card cipher, on the witching hour news and weather spot. And how Lewis had fallen foul of Petownik by double-dealing and been marked down for murder.
Zerbat steadfastly maintained that his Uncle Mendel had shot Lewis. But it was Zerbat, and not Petownik, who had had the murder weapon in his possession and whose right hand still bore traces of powder residue almost a week after the murder.
As he left the prosecutor's office Auburn ran into Kaneesha, minus the tomato juice-colored wig. She was there to make a deposition regarding Zerbat's presence at the Teutonia Grotto just before the murder of Lewis, and also regarding the slip of paper with the cipher message. Auburn had handed over the paper to Sergeant Moffat, who was in charge of the homicide investigation, and she in turn had passed it on to Kestrel in the lab. Kaneesha complained about having had to be fingerprinted by Kestrel.
"I ain’ neva had that done before,” she said as she wiped a few remaining traces of ink from her fingers with a facial tissue. “And that man got cold hands. You got cold hands?"
"You tell me.” He switched his briefcase to his left hand and offered his right for testing.
"Why, honey, you ain’ nuffin’ but a walkin’ first-aid kit. What you been doin', stringin’ bob-wire?"
"Tryin’ to finish my basement."
"You a carpenter too?"
"It better than layin’ up in the bed watchin’ reruns of The Jeffersons, but it ain’ my favorite thing."
"And what your favorite thing?"
Auburn thought for only a moment before answering, “Prob'ly gals who ask questions like that."
Copyright (c) 2008 John H. Dirckx
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: MIND GAME by Ben Rehder
Tim Foley
* * * *
Danny Ray Watts came to see me late on a Friday afternoon, and his clothes were covered with grease and sweat, so I figured he must've come straight from the auto shop where he works. Now, Danny Ray is a big old boy, and we've had some trouble with him since he got back home—mostly drunk and disorderly—so some of the deputies looked a tad tense when he made his way back to my office. First time he'd ever shown up here of his own volition.
He stopped in my open doorway and said, “Word with you, Sheriff?"
I waved him in. He sat in one of the two chairs in front of my desk, and I was wondering if it might break into kindling under him. He had a crew cut and his head was nearly as big as a bowling ball. “What can I do for you?"
"Got a question. About the law."
I studied him, but Danny Ray didn't look angry or upset or anything at all. His face was blank as a stone. “Let's hear it."
He said, “I been wondering about something. What's the difference between attempted murder and just plain old assault? How do y'all decide which one to charge somebody with?"
Right from the start, considering recent events, I didn't like where this was headed. I'd hate to see a boy his age throw his life away. “This a joke, son?"
"No, sir. Just an honest question."
"You got something planned, Danny Ray?"
"Oh no, sir. Not at all. Nothing like that. I'm just curious, is all. ‘Cause it's confusing, you know? Like, if one man went after another man with a tire tool, but he only hit him in the legs, would you be able to charge him with attempted murder? I mean, if all he did was bust this guy's knees up real good, maybe put him in the hospital for a few months until he could walk again, but there wasn't no chance of the guy dying, they couldn't call that attempted murder, could they?"
I leaned forward slowly and put both elbows on my desk. “I'm only gonna say this once. You stay the hell away from Frank Landrum. You got me?"
Danny Ray's expression didn't change one iota. He didn't utter a word.
"You got me?"
Billy Donovan, one of my deputies, was watching closely from out in the bullpen.
"I got you, Sheriff. But you didn't answer my question."
"You just stay away from Frank Landrum. That way, ain't nobody has to be charged with nothing."
* * * *
Of course, after that, I was obligated to drive out to Frank Landrum's house and talk to him about the situation. Landrum owns one of the biggest homes in Blanco County, sitting on some nice acreage with a creek running through it and a herd of Hereford cattle resting in the sun. How a man got set up like that selling mobile homes I'll never know. Guess there's a difference between selling the homes and owning the entire outfit.
When I pulled up, the sun was just starting to sink behind the hills and he was sitting on his front porch drinking a cold one. No sign of Carol Ann, which would make this discussion a lot more comfortable.
I got out of my cruiser and Landrum said, “Hey there, Bobby. What brings you out?"
He still calls me Bobby, rather than Sheriff, because we've known each other since grade school. Not that we're close, because we're not.
I walked up to the porch and put both hands on the rail. “Danny Ray came by my office a while ago."
I watched his face get tight. “Oh yeah? What'd he want?"
I didn't see any sense in dragging things out, so I just related the entire conversation to him. Tire tool, busted knees, the whole thing.
When I was done, Landrum said, “That's a damn threat, that's what that is. Plain as day. What you gonna do about it?"
"Ain't much I can do, Frank. All he did was ask a hypothetical question. Never said he was intending to do anything. Never even mentioned your name."
"Well, that's just great."
"I figured I ought to tell you, though."
"That's just great."
"A man like Danny Ray, you can never tell."
Landrum stood up, and now he was pacing the porch. “Jesus, don't I got any rights? He comes and practically tells you he's gonna break my legs, and you can't do nothing?"
"Not ‘less he acts on it."
He threw his beer bottle past me into the yard, where it shattered against a rock. “This is about Carol Ann. Stubborn sumbitch can't let her go."
I stood quietly. Carol Ann Simmons had been the root of some serious trouble in Blanco County ever since she came of age, looking the way she does. And acting the way she does.
"Hell, she made the choice on her own,” Landrum said. “Better man won, and that's all there is to it."
I didn't point out that it wasn't exactly a fair fight, since Landrum had been cheating with Carol Ann while Danny Ray was serving his country in Iraq. Wasn't my place to offer an opinion on that. I also didn't mention that I wouldn't blame Danny Ray if he broke Landrum over his thigh like a rotten two-by-four.
Now Landrum turned and pointed a finger at me, as if he'd just remembered something. “I got the right to defend myself. That's the law. If that young punk comes after me, I'll do what I gotta do. I'm telling you that right now."
I knew that Landrum, like most of the folks in this county, owned his fair share of guns. I didn't say anything for a few seconds, and Landrum finally dropped his finger. Then I said, “If he shows up out here, it'd be best if you'd just lock the doors and call it in. Let us handle it."
Landrum snorted. “Like you've handled it so far?"
* * * *
Two weeks passed, and we never did get a call. No sign of Landrum either. He usually came into town almost every night to eat dinner, or on th
e weekends to go honky-tonking with Carol Ann because she loves her nightlife. But we didn't see his face for a good while. Word was he was holed up, and I figured that was pretty smart.
On the way to the department each morning, I'd drive by the auto shop, and more often than not, Danny Ray would smile and wave at me through the open bay door.
Finally, into the third week, I saw Frank Landrum's truck outside the diner during the noon hour. Later I heard that Carol Ann had walked over from the real estate office where she works to meet him for lunch.
Coincidence or not, Danny Ray showed up at my office again late that afternoon.
"Got another question for you,” he said. He was sitting in the same chair. Maybe even wearing the same clothes.
"Don't think I want to hear it."
That didn't stop him. “This might be out of your field of expertise, Sheriff, but I'm wondering how they tell the difference between a fire that was set and one that was accidental. Let's say a man's house burns plumb to the ground—how do they know what caused it? Can they sort through all the ashes and figure it out?"
"Danny Ray,” I said, “you're about to get yourself into a world of trouble."
He looked puzzled, or maybe even a little hurt. “I'm just asking a question. That's all."
I tried to glare at him, but I don't think it put much fear in him. “Any man that gets convicted of arson is gonna go away for a long while, that's for sure. Hard time. Especially if it was a revenge type situation. We clear on that?"
"We're clear, Sheriff. But I think you misunderstood."
* * * *
This time I spoke to our county prosecutor just to be certain, and he said there still wasn't anything we could do. Danny Ray was dancing around the issue, staying just this side of the law. You can't arrest a man for asking questions.
So it was back out to Landrum's place because, as the prosecutor told me, I'd be exposing the county to a potential lawsuit if I didn't tell Landrum about Danny Ray's second visit.
AHMM, July-August 2008 Page 18
