Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery

by Fanning, Diane

  I pitied Bobby back then. But as I became an adult, I grew to appreciate the simple dignity he possessed in the face of ridicule and the gentle nature he displayed under pressure. With every passing minute, he fidgeted more and more at the words that flew from Mike’s mouth. I moved a step or two in their direction but decided it would not be wise to interfere in their discussion. Not here. Not now. I’d catch up with Bobby later.

  *

  I was off-duty the next day and putzed around the house, cleaning up little pockets of debris. I had a horrible habit of forming little nesting areas whenever I sat anywhere for more than a minute. Scraps of paper, pencils, magazines, newspapers piled up by every chair. I put things away and dusted tabletops. Leaving the house was not going to be an option for me today.

  It seemed everyone had heard I was at Solms Halle the night before and everyone wanted a firsthand account.

  I allowed my answering machine to serve as my gatekeeper as one whispered message after another spooled on to the tape.

  “Molly, Molly, call me right away.”

  “Molly, I heard you were working at Solms Halle last night, call me.”

  “Molly, how many people were killed in the shootout last night?”

  “Molly, is it true Trenton Wolfe is under arrest?”

  The truth was weaving into a web of deceit faster than a spider could wrap a fly.

  Chapter Three

  Monday, I went in early to file my report and snoop around for the latest news about the investigation before my shift started. I sat down at a desk, pulled out a form and got busy.

  Lisa Garcia, a nineteen-year-old administrative aide, sidled up beside me and peered over my shoulder without saying a word. “Yes, Lisa?” I said without looking up from my work.

  “Did you hear about the arrest?”

  “Arrest?” Now I was interested.

  “Yes, arrest for murder.” The last word stretched out of her mouth as if it were a hundred letters long.

  “Rodney Faver’s murder?”

  “Yes.” Her brown eyes twinkled as she held on to her moment of superior knowledge. She leaned her small rump against the desk, using one brown arm to keep her balance. With the other hand, she covered her mouth. She was the most enthusiastic—yet most coy—gossip in the whole department.

  She wanted me to beg. So I obliged. “Come on, Lisa. Tell me. Who was arrested?”

  “You will not believe this.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Bobby Wiggins.”

  “Bobby Wiggins?” I said as I dropped my pen and jumped to my feet. I looked at Lisa’s bobbing head and stared into her dark, twinkling eyes. Was she excited that she got to break the news? Or was she just jerking my chain? “Lisa, if this is your idea of a joke, I am not amused.”

  A wide-eyed look of indignation swept across her face like fire over a dry prairie. She popped off my desk and stood as straight and tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow. She pivoted on her heel, and I laid my hand on her forearm before she could escape. She shrugged it off, tossed her head and blurped out a sound of disgust.

  I hate these girly games but I had no choice. “I’m sorry, Lisa. Of course I believe you. I was just shocked. Please forgive me.”

  My pleading paid off. She spun back around, beaming. Leaning forward she confided, “Mama says it’s ridiculous—grade-A ridiculous.”

  “Your mama is right.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about Mama.” She shook her head slowly. “She’s had this thing about the police department ever since they picked up Uncle Jesus and questioned him about that bank robbery . . .”

  I tuned her out and put my head in automatic-nod mode. I’d heard the story about Uncle Jesus at least a dozen times this year already. I’d have to wait until she finished before I could get any more information about Bobby’s arrest. It made no sense. Every member of the band had more potential motive than Bobby. Did the investigators back off because of their celebrity? There had to be a lot of other possible suspects, too. Trenton Wolfe’s meteoric rise had to have spawned some enemies. Someone had to hate Faver more than Bobby was capable of hating anyone.

  I zoned back in as Lisa wrapped up her soliloquy. “So, I’m not so sure about Mama. I told her that in my experience with the police, I’ve learned that almost anybody can do almost anything for almost no reason at all.”

  “What makes them think it’s Bobby, Lisa?”

  “He confessed.”

  “Confessed?”

  “Yep. Lieutenant Hawkins says he’s got him dead to rights—dead to rights is exactly what he said—he got him dead to rights and it’s all on tape, too.”

  “He taped it?” Damn, a written statement would have been better. It would be so easy to argue that Bobby didn’t understand what he was reading. Whoa. Alien thought. Where did that come from? I’m a cop, not a defense attorney.

  My mental darting must have danced across my face like a crazed tango. Lisa gave a sideways glare through slitted eyes as if she feared my head might make a full circuit and spew pea soup at any second.

  “Lieutenant Hawkins, you said?”

  “Yep. Yep. Lieutenant Hawkins. You okay, Officer Mullet?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I patted Lisa’s shoulder, hoping to reassure her as I walked out of the room. I felt her eyes on my back as I left and wondered if she was going to call Hawkins and warn him that a lunatic was on the way.

  *

  I peered around a cubicle wall and spotted Hawkins at his desk. His short bristle cut made his incipient baldness difficult to detect at first glance. His jowls and gut seemed to sag a little more every time I saw him. The smell of fast food wrapper and discarded banana peel wafting from his overfull trash can filled the air with a greasy sweetness that churned my stomach. “Lieutenant Hawkins?”

  “Hey, Mullet!” He grinned. “You heard the word? Go ahead,” he said, thrusting a shoulder in my direction. “Pat me on the back.”

  I kept my distance and wiped any emotion from my face. “I heard that you think you solved the Faver homicide.”

  “Think? Think, my ass, Mullet. I solved it and bagged the perp before the blood was dry. With a little luck, the DA will throw away the key.”

  “Bobby Wiggins, Lieutenant?” It was taking a lot of effort not to raise my voice or clench my teeth.

  “Yeah. Ain’t human nature a kick in the butt? You think you know somebody and, bam, they go do something you never expected.”

  “Maybe you didn’t expect it because he didn’t do it?”

  “Mullet, Mullet, Mullet,” he said, shaking his head in broad swings. “How long you been on the force?”

  Oh, I hate this. Someone was always reminding me that they had more seniority—and more experience—than I did. “I’ve known Bobby Wiggins all my life, sir.”

  “Oh, cut the ‘sir’ crap, Mullet. You’ve known me most of your life, too.” He looked down at his watch. “You got some time before shift. C’mon, have a seat.”

  He hooked his foot under the rung of the metal chair and dragged it around to the business side of his desk in front of the VCR-TV combo perched on the makeshift credenza by the wall. “C’mon. I’ll show you the tape. Sit. Sit. I’ve got it cued up a couple hours into the good part.”

  I wanted to see the tape. But I didn’t want to see Bobby say he did it. I was afraid I would believe him and I didn’t want to. I slumped into the chair.

  “Wipe off that long face, girl. Here’s your chance to learn something about being a cop—a real cop.”

  The video camera shot down from an angle above, giving a perspective that made the room look a bit larger than it really was. It was a plain, ugly room with scarred beige walls and stained, white-speckled floor tile. No one went all out for furniture either. There was one of those old metal tables with that strange spongy gray surface composed of a substance no one still living could identify. The metal chairs had thin built-in back and seat cushions of cheap green vinyl—the kind you can repair with a piece of
color-coordinated electrical tape.

  Bobby’s head hung over the table. His shaggy hair blocked his eyes. The fingers of each hand worried each other—picking, scraping, rubbing. Tim Hawkins’ back was to the camera as he leaned toward Bobby. Both his palms rested flat on the desktop and supported the weight of his upper body.

  The wall cuff hung loose on the wall. At least Hawkins hadn’t restrained him. But Bobby’s body language spoke of such a pervasive misery, I wasn’t sure it even mattered.

  “Hey, Bobby,” Hawkins said on the tape, “didn’t your mama ever tell you that she can forgive you for anything s’ long as you don’t lie to her?”

  Bobby raised his head, his eyes wide. There was a look of wonder on his face as Bobby tried to figure out how Hawkins knew that. He nodded his head.

  “All right, then, Bobby. It’s the same with me. Why don’t you just tell me what you did, Bobby, so as I can forgive you?”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  “And then, Bobby,” Hawkins continued, “We can let you see your mama. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  Bobby’s head fell forward. A large wet tear plopped on the desktop. Hawkins leaned forward further. His lips were nearly on Bobby’s ear. He whispered, “You do want to see your mama, dontcha?”

  Bobby raised his wet eyes to the officer. His lower lip quivered. He nodded his head.

  “Then tell me what happened in that closet, Bobby.”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “What did that bad man do to make you so mad?”

  “He didn’t . . .”

  “C’mon, Bobby. Your mama’s worrying about you now. What did the man in the closet do to make you so mad?”

  “He, he, he . . .”

  “Yeah, Bobby?”

  “He, he was messin’ in my closet. I don’t like nobody messin’ in my closet. I keep it all neat. There’s a place for everything and a thing for every place and I keep everything in its place.” Bobby looked up begging for approval.

  “You do a good job, Bobby. What happened in the closet?”

  “I keep everything in its place then I can find what I need when I need it.”

  “That’s right, Bobby. Then what happened?”

  “Um, I asked him iffen I could help him. On accounta if there was a mess to clean up, that was my job.”

  “What did he say, Bobby?”

  “He, he, he . . . He didn’t say nothin’. Nothin’. He acted like I wasn’t there.”

  “Did that make you mad, Bobby?”

  “Mad?” Bobby’s head tilted sideways and a frown furrowed his brow.

  “Yes, Bobby, he ignored you. Didn’t that make you mad?”

  Bobby’s eyes darted back and forth as he sought the right answer. “Mad? Yeah. Yeah. That made me mad all right.”

  I sat and watched without comment. I tried not to telegraph my thoughts by folding my arms across my chest, but they kept going there of their own accord. Next to me, Tim Hawkins fought a smug grin that sought to conquer his face. Tim liked to say he was in homicide but this small town did not have enough murder in a year to keep him busy for a week. In fact, Tim’s position was major crimes and even that was not enough to keep him from the occasional drunk and disorderly arrest or juvenile bike theft.

  On the tape, the manipulation continued. “After you wrapped the guitar string around his neck, what did you do, Bobby?”

  “Held on?” Bobby looked at the Lieutenant whose head gave a slight nod. “Yeah. I held on.”

  “And what did he do, Bobby? What did he look like?” Hawkins pushed.

  Bobby’s eyes had a faraway look as if an old Bugs Bunny–Elmer Fudd cartoon rolled scenes of comic violence through his head. “His eyes—his eyes bugged out. And his feet danced. Yes. His feet danced.”

  “Then what did you do, Bobby?”

  “Uh, I closed and locked the door and went back to work.” Bobby’s eyebrows raised and he nodded his head. The look of a puppy desperate to please romped across his simple face.

  Hawkins turned and faced the camera. He was all smug satisfaction as he drew an index finger across his neck. The screen went black.

  A big sigh hissed unbidden through my clenched teeth as Hawkins rose and turned off the VCR.

  “What?” Tim’s arms, sleeves rolled to his elbows, folded across his chest so tight that they forced his oversized paunch a little further over his belt buckle.

  I stood, shook my head and took a step away from his desk.

  “What, Mullet? No comment?”

  I knew I should just keep on walking away and not say a word. But keeping my mouth shut was never one of my strong points. I spun around. “You call that a confession?”

  “Yeah. And a damned good one at that.”

  I headed back for the door. I had to get out of there before I said anything else.

  “Hey, Mullet, what’s your problem?”

  “You are my problem, Lieutenant.” I needed to shut up.

  “You coppin’ a ’tude with me, Mullet?”

  Oh, yeah, that made this scene complete: a middle-aged, balding, overweight white guy spouting ghetto slang at me. Heaven save me from that midlife urge to be hipper than my age allowed. “You could say that, sir. I do not like coerced confessions. I do not like the crass manipulation of someone with limited mental capabilities. I do not like how you’re railroading Bobby Wiggins when there are so many other real suspects out there.”

  “You’ll never be a real cop, girl. You just don’t think like one. You sound like a defense attorney looking for any lame question you can use to create reasonable doubt. What are you doing in that uniform?”

  I turned and left then. I had nothing more to say. Quite frankly, I was no longer sure I knew the answer to his question.

  Chapter Four

  The shift that evening was routine and dull—a few drunk and disorderlies and a couple of domestic violence calls. Fortunately for all concerned, the domestic complaints were tame—heavy on broken crockery and light on physical assault.

  My finesse was at an all-time low. There were too many questions squealing their tires through my head tonight. Questions about Bobby Wiggins. Questions about Tim Hawkins. Questions about myself.

  I didn’t realize my mind had strayed from the job until I noticed my left hand rubbing on the outside of my right arm. Seeing that, my mind jogged down a rabbit trail of regret.

  It was the summer of my junior year in high school. The college girls were back home for their annual break. A small pack of them adopted me as their pet nerd. I was in awe of their worldliness and sophistication.

  One muggy night in July, they invited me to tag along with them to explore the excitement on Sixth Street in Austin. I felt honored. I lied to my mother and joined the merry band of revelers.

  The seven blocks running from Interstate 35 to Congress Avenue were a lively blend of bars and other live entertainment venues along with a diverse offering of restaurants, art galleries, tattoo parlors and funky shops.

  On weekend nights, Sixth Street throbbed to the beat of every rhythm from hip-hop to country. The people walking the streets were just as eclectic—crowds bobbed with cowboy hats, corners flashed with transvestites and purple hair was so common only the tourists bothered to stare.

  We bounced from club to club up and down the street. Waiters always brought a soft drink to the table for me but the more potent beverages ordered by the older girls were within easy reach.

  The conversation turned to tattoos. By the glow of a tiny keychain flashlight, they displayed their body decorations to one another in a dark corner of the club. A heart on the swell of a breast. A dragon in the small of one back. A ring of ivy encircling an upper arm. But the one that most intrigued me was on the basketball star. On her arm, just below her shoulder, a basketball swished through a hoop.

  I wanted a tat, too. I wanted a unique one that spoke of my passion. I wanted a lab beaker of bubbling liquid emitting chemical fumes. The vision was so clear in my mind. And so cool.r />
  At first they tried to discourage me. Then one girl mentioned a friend who had an older brother doing tattoos just a few blocks from here. By the time we arrived at his seedy unlicensed studio, we were too intoxicated to care when she added that he learned his craft in prison. By the time he got to work, none of us was sober enough to focus on his work.

  It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized my frothing fluid-filled beaker looked more like a fresh, steaming cow-pie than anything ever seen in a chemistry lab. I should have had it removed long ago but I feared it would hurt more coming off than it did going on. Instead, I never wore a sleeveless blouse again.

  Every time I tried to force my mind off of that unfortunate memory, my thoughts traveled the circuit again. Bobby, Tim. My life. My tattoo. It was hopeless. If I encountered a serious situation, I would not have been much help to anyone.

  The next morning I left home early again. This time, however, I didn’t go straight to the station. I paid a visit to Thelma Wiggins. I turned into the street where I grew up and memories rolled in like fog. I never knew Mr. Wiggins, but I did remember what the older kids said about him. Their graphic descriptions of his demise were designed to gross me out as well as keep their own demons at bay.

  Mr. Wiggins, it was said, went into the shed in the backyard with a revolver and blew his brains out all over the lawnmower. More than once, I was goaded into peering through the fence looking for pieces of Mr. Wiggins on the mower while Bobby pushed it around the yard. Looking back, it was, in all likelihood, not the same mower, but when kids were in a ghoulish frame of mind, there was no room for logic.

  All my life, I knew a dour Mrs. Wiggins who never smiled. She was never mean or ugly to me—often gave me cookies and milk and other treats. But she looked and acted as if she’d escaped from the American Gothic canvas and wanted nothing more than to return to that unchangeable two-dimensional world.

  My mom told me that she was different years ago. Before Bobby was born. Before Mr. Wiggins died. Before living beat the life out of her. At one time, Thelma Wiggins was a lively, vivacious young woman with a ready smile and a bellowing laugh. All that was left was the shell of that woman—a shadow who seldom peered over the wall she built around her heart.