by C. L. Bevill
Bubba stood up and slowly turned around looking at the room. It wasn’t a complicated affair. He would have thought that a CEO would be entitled to a fancier room, but maybe that was part of the process of recovery. There were some framed photographs on the nightstand. There was a book by Isaac Asimov. Foundation was the name. Bubba didn’t really care much for science fiction, but he knew the book all the same. A single man works to save humanity from itself.
Bubba thought about irony and put a cork in his thinking. David had just announced to a group of people that he probably had evidence against one of them. He might as well have stuck a target on his forehead and closed his eyes and waited for someone to start shooting. “You told me, David, that Hurley was a second generation oil man. He had family money, right?”
“Lots and lots of family money,” David agreed. “A great bloody pile of it.”
“His wife and daughter visited him. You said you played a game with him.”
“Dominoes,” David confirmed. “He seemed happy. His twenty-one days were almost up. He was doing well in his program. He’d agreed to an Antabuse program for continuing abstinence after his release.”
“Antabuse?”
“It’s a drug that inhibits the metabolism of alcohol,” Dr. Adair explained. “Alcoholics can participate in a ninety-day program to continue their abstinence. If you are taking Antabuse and you imbibe, you become very ill. It establishes both a psychological and physiological mechanism in alcoholics.”
“But instead, he took a bunch of barbiturates,” Bubba said. “Pills that dint come from the hospital.”
“Hurley dint, I mean, didn’t commit suicide, Watson,” David declared. “Clearly, the barbiturates were forced upon him after he was immobilized with duct tape.”
Bubba slowly turned around the room. At this point he didn’t doubt David, but he wasn’t happy with David’s big mouth. He looked at everything he could. There were slippers under a chair, two more Asimov books on the corner desk, a desk calendar, a bag of lollipops, and a soft navy blue robe hanging on a hook behind the door. He looked at the closet and opened it up. The closet was constructed for short stays. One side allowed for clothing to be hung up. The other side possessed a built-in dresser. Bubba pulled out a few of the drawers. He saw socks and underwear. The socks were Champion. The underwear was Fruit of the Loom. For a rich man, Hurley hadn’t taken on airs. Bubba had more than a few Fruit of the Looms himself.
“I’m distinctly uncomfortable with the direction of this search,” Dr. Adair said, eying the tartan plaid boxers neatly folded in the drawer.
“What difference does it make?” Ratchley asked. “If someone is going to kill all of us, then we can look in everyone’s drawers.”
“I bet someone has some more smokes around here,” Tandy said. “For example, I haven’t had a chance to look at the schizophrenic’s room for those Luckies. Those Luckies are screaming for me to discover them.”
Bubba was missing something obvious. He had a reason that had led him to this man’s room. It wasn’t one that most people would have said had substance to it, but it was a reason that made sense. He shut the drawers and closed the closet.
“I’m the murderer,” he said again.
David shrugged and twirled the magnifying glass. “Well, old chap,” he said to Bubba, “let’s go with that.”
“I want to kill someone,” Bubba said.
“I’d like to kill a few people,” Peyton admitted from the door.
“I’d like to kill the person or persons who are keeping us here,” Cybil said. “That murdering Maude.” She hesitated and then added, “Or murdering Maudes.”
“It’s not just because I feel like killing,” Bubba went on. “It’s because I have a reason. What’s my reason?”
“If we knew the answer to that,” Tandy said, “then we wouldn’t be here. Who wants to explore Room 34 for cigs? It’ll be just like a nicotine treasure hunt, except I’ll be the winner.”
Bubba turned around again. “I have something against Hurley Tanner.”
“Is it because using oil is bad for the Earth?” Ratchley asked. “It is finite, you know.”
“Did he do something to you personally?” Peyton asked. “Maybe he hit someone with his car while he was drunk. Is that why he was here, doc?”
“No, there weren’t any DUIs involved,” Dr. Adair said. “It was only an unfortunate episode while he was intoxicated.”
“Hurley and a few friends did a pub crawl in Atlanta,” David said. “They were trying to hit as many bars as they could in one night. I suppose one can only estimate the sheer amount of establishments with alcohol in the large metro area of Atlanta. After the fifth bar, he and his friends found a police car parked outside the bar. Hurley decided he desperately wanted a nightstick, probably because he was that inebriated and could not recall that he could easily purchase a thousand nightsticks if he so desired. They tried to break into the car, which didn’t work very well. The five of them picked up a mailbox and threw it through the windshield of the police cruiser, which was extremely bad for both the mailbox and the cruiser. Then just as the police officers returned, the others ran off while Hurley threw up. The Atlanta Police Department was very unhappy.”
“Did he get the nightstick?” Tandy asked.
“No, he didn’t get the nightstick,” David said. “He ended up paying for the mailbox and the police cruiser. I believe he was somewhat ashamed of himself. He ended up donating funds for five cruisers to the township, and that was after he’d made a plea bargain with the prosecutor. Hurley was turning himself around. He was serious about making this time stick. His brother made a statement about it. Hurley didn’t do pills. He didn’t do illegal drugs. He did bourbon. Lots of bourbon. Kentucky bourbon. Scotch bourbon. There was even mention of a Japanese bourbon. Someone should have remembered that when they staged the suicide. If they had used bourbon with the pills instead of water, I mightn’t have had an initial doubt.”
David had lost the British accent, which was fine with Bubba. Bubba glanced at David and saw the sad look on his friend’s face. He reached out and patted David’s Inverness coat-clad shoulder.
“Ah, Watson,” David said quietly, “whatever would I do without you? It won’t be the same after you marry the beauteous sheriff’s deputy.”
“I don’t remember Dr. Watson marrying a beauteous sheriff’s deputy,” Tandy said, “or an ugly one for that matter.”
“Willodean ain’t ugly,” Bubba protested.
“And she can kick some serious ass,” Tandy agreed. “I’ve never seen someone throw a person over their head like that in real life.” It was true. Willodean had thrown a would-be killer over her head.
“Ain’t she wonderful?” Bubba sighed. “But that’s neither here nor there. We’ve got to figure this thing out.” He straightened his shoulders, adjusted the rapidly melting bag of corn on his head, and looked around the room again. It was picking at the edge of his consciousness; something was yelling at him to notice it.
The desk calendar. Bubba approached the little desk. It was only there for patients to do a little bit of writing and catching up on whatnot. There wasn’t even a laptop, although there was a switch plate on the wall that included Ethernet adapters. “Dint Hurley have a computer?”
“They’re not allowed in the initial drying out period,” David said.
“Did you look at this calendar, David?” Bubba asked.
“It’s Sherlock, Watson, and I gave it a peremptory glance.”
Bubba thumbed to the current date. It was blank. He paged back a few. There wasn’t an entry that said “Due to be murdered by X today,” but there was a notation about his wife and daughter’s visit. A smiley face was drawn next to it.
Bubba frowned. Not a frowny face, but a smiley face. He paged over a week into the future and found where Hurley Tanner had noted his expected date of release. Certainly, to Bubba’s expectations, he had already gone through the roughest part of the recovery program.<
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“Hurley was leaving next week,” Bubba said.
“That’s correct,” Dr. Adair confirmed.
“Don’t seem like a fella who’s about to commit suicide.”
“Perhaps he was focusing on what it would be like without support on the outside walls of this hospital,” Dr. Adair said. “It can be devastating without that kind of support.”
“Not sending happy vibes my way, doc,” Tandy said.
“Your strength is innate, Ms. North,” Dr. Adair said smoothly. “Once you’ve decided on your course, I believe you have a high chance of keeping clean. However, as a physician you should know that I don’t approve of smoking tobacco.”
“That’s noted,” Tandy said. She tapped the patches on both her shoulders. “I think these are wearing off.”
Cybil cleared her throat. “You know, Hurley told me he was excited to get back into the world. He said he was looking forward to seeing it without the alcohol goggles he’d been wearing for the last ten years. That his daughter was getting married. He wanted to walk her down the aisle without tripping and stinking of stale bourbon.”
“Married,” Peyton exclaimed. “No one told me. I need to get a card to the Widow Tanner. Oh, dear, I wish these people would simply announce impending nuptials in the correct venues, and I wouldn’t have to go to these troubles.”
“You said something about the daughter having a boyfriend,” Bubba said to Peyton.
“Lots of people have boyfriends,” Peyton said. “Sometimes it takes them a bit of time to come to the conclusion that they need a fabulous wedding to go along with it.” He snapped his fingers three times when he said fabulous, drawing out the word in long syllables, “fab-u-lous.”
“I’m going to elope to Las Vegas,” Cybil said. “I need a civil servant or maybe a preacher dressed like Elvis to perform the ceremony. As soon as I can convince my boyfriend, the waffling Wally.”
Peyton gasped violently, as if the very notion upset him. “Heathen,” he hissed. “You’ll always regret not having a real wedding.”
“Some more reasons why Hurley dint commit suicide,” Bubba said. “I think there’s more than enough evidence to bring the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department back into it.” Bubba didn’t really want to mention that Steve Simms had been the investigator on the suicide, and consequently it was likely his lack of interest that had this one falling through the cracks. Of course, it wasn’t all Steve’s fault since the doctors at the hospital wanted to rush it through and then pretend it was just a minor hiccough in the universe of sobriety. If one of the doctors had said “But…” it was just as likely that Steve would have backed up and taken another look. Even Doc Goodjoint had rubberstamped it.
However, someone wanted people to know about it. Someone had done the searches on David’s Xoom in preparation for pointing the finger at him. Someone had cut the hospital off from civilization for a few days at an inopportune time. Someone waited until David was alone before people vanished. Someone was probably waiting right then and there. Someone had more reason than ever to wish David wasn’t so inquisitive.
“Are we done in here?” Dr. Adair asked.
Bubba nodded. “Until we catch someone or I think of something else to look at.”
They slowly filed out of the room. Bubba adjusted the dripping bag of corn and then gave up with a long sigh. He threw it in the nearest garbage can.
Tandy was attempting to get Dr. Adair to go to Room 34, saying, “I only want one pack. One. I’ll buy her a case. Besides, she’s a schizophrenic; she’ll think one of her other selves took it.”
“You can’t combine the NicoDerm patches with actual smoking,” Dr. Adair told her. “You’ll overdose on nicotine.”
“And that would be worse how?” Tandy asked.
Bubba dropped back and gestured at David and Peyton to come closer. They both did, leaning their heads in to hear what Bubba might have to say to them. “It’s all about Hurley Tanner,” Bubba said quietly.
“Watson,” David said quietly, “why are you so fixated on Hurley Tanner?”
“Ifin you’re out to kill someone,” Bubba said just as quietly, “then you want to make sure it gets done, am I right? You don’t want to take any long cuts or detours.”
Peyton nodded. David shrugged.
“I mean, a person wants another person dead. He don’t want to get caught before he gets the job done, or get caught at all.”
“Okay,” Peyton said. “What does that have to do with Hurley?”
“Mrs. Ferryjig was coincidental,” Bubba said, “but Hurley was the target. The social worker and the others were cover-ups. So…”
“The motive behind Hurley’s death is the real reason, Watson,” David said, and as if he couldn’t help himself, he added, “How very elementary.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Peyton complained.
“The killer don’t want to go to prison,” Bubba explained. “So if he or she kills the person they want to kill, then people are going to point fingers at him or her as the one with the most motive. Specifically, they decided to kill off a bunch of people who weren’t really connected except to direct the police to the one person they thought might have done it. I’m goin’ to get another headache from all this thinkin’.”
Peyton glanced at David. “That’s why someone did those searches on your tablet?”
“Yes and because I did associate with all of the people, dead and missing alike.”
“But why Hurley? Why not Thelda or Abel?”
“This is all one big crap shoot,” Bubba said. He waved his hands around. “This person, he don’t know how long it’ll be before the po-lice show up. They could have come within a few hours, or they could have come in three days. He don’t know when or where, so his chance, his golden opportunity, was to do it quickly. In fact, he did it first. He dint kill Mrs. Ferryjig, but he took advantage of it.”
“You’re saying he and him,” Peyton said.
“I don’t know for sure,” Bubba said. “It shore don’t sound like something a woman would do, but then the Christmas Killer was a woman.”
“So the real murder, I mean the one that he really wanted to commit, was accomplished before all of this smokescreen?”
“That’s right,” Bubba said. “That’s where all the clues are, on account of the rest is just lagniappe to this fella.”
Peyton frowned. “But it could have been anyone who wanted Hurley Tanner dead. I mean, his wife and daughter probably had the most to gain, in a monetary manner. They’re not here. They’re not patients or hanging out with us, so that kind of eliminates them.” He paused and then added, “What if murdering Hurley and framing David are just the appetizers? What? It needed to be said.”
“They might not be here ifin they had someone helpin’ them,” Bubba said grimly. “David,” he added, looking the former PSS in the face, “where are them photographs you took?”
Chapter 17
Bubba and the Question of Whodunit?
Sunday, April 7th
“Well,” David said slowly. He stopped and waited for Dr. Adair, Tandy, Cybil, and Ratchley to pull ahead of them. Bubba was about to bump into the would-be master detective before he caught himself in time. Peyton steered left, and Precious pranced ahead to sniff a water cooler on the off chance it suddenly began to produce steak bones by the bucketful.
“That type of photography requires a very specialized camera,” David said, resuming walking slowly. “And film. And it needs to be developed in a precise manner. You can’t just take it to the corner photo place.”
“You don’t really have any photographs of fingerprints,” Bubba stated, “much less ones you kin give to the po-lice.”
“No.”
“You never did.”
“I could,” David protested. “I could have them a week from Thursday. That’s when the order for the camera and film comes in from eBay. But there’s this terrible business about decomposition of the corpse and such, which will make t
he fingerprints not photographable, not to mention that by that time the remains will have been returned to Atlanta. Accessibility would be a problem in actually taking the photographs.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I was merely attempting a calculated ruse, of course, Dr. Watson.”
“You’re making yourself bait?” Peyton asked. “How very clever for an individual from an asylum.”
“Don’t be hatin’,” David said and then immediately added, “I wonder where that came from?”
“Just because they’re here don’t mean they’re stupid,” Bubba snapped.
“Why, Bubba,” David said with obvious surprise, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Bubba didn’t miss the fact that David had addressed him by his proper name instead of Dr. Watson.
“So ain’t no photos,” Bubba said just to be certain.
“No. But I surmise that the villain within our group will break away to find them, so we can follow that person,” David said and smiled triumphantly. “You see, someone had to hold Hurley’s jaw open to force pills down it, and people aren’t genuinely aware of the forensic ability to retrieve human fingerprints from flesh. Of course, if one buries one’s victim or throws him into a body of water, that point becomes moot. Future reference for future crime-solving scenarios.”
“So that’s our plan?” Peyton asked. “We wait for someone, one of those four ahead, to go off on their own?”
“We follow the first one,” Bubba said.
“But what if the first one just has to go to the bathroom?” Peyton asked. “I mean, that nurse is drinking and eating everything in sight. She has to pee every five minutes.”
“It’s a calculated gamble,” David proclaimed. “We must take it. It’s like Americans voting for the President of the United States. It doesn’t really count, yet they do it anyway. Fie on the Electoral College.”
“Oh-kay,” Peyton said with clear skepticism.
“We should have a plan,” Bubba said. “Ifin one of them peoples goes off by his or herself, and then another one tries, two of us follows the first one. The other one attempts to distract the second person leaving ifin they can do so safely.”
