by Leroy Clark
“Before you did.”
“Yeah. I think my father knew too. He knew I was different. I think he knew I wasn’t going to be a chip off the old block, and that’s why he didn’t like me.”
“You don’t think he liked you.”
“Hell no. I think he was mad as hell I wasn’t just like him.
He may not have been conscious of it, but deep down that’s what I think he felt.”
“So now you’re coming to terms with all this?”
“Yeah, I am. When I was younger, I wanted to be straight. I didn’t know there was anyone else like me. I wanted to be normal. Now I just wanna be me—whoever that is. I guess you hear this kind of thing all the time. People coming out of the closet.”
“Sometimes.”
“But I never admitted it even to myself. Once I got away from my uncle I was attracted to men sometimes, but I refused to face it. I just shut off my feelings.”
“And what made you change?”
“The divorce. That was the biggest thing. The soul searching afterwards. And now a guy named George.”
“Tell me about George.”
“Jesus, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“You’ve come this far, what’s stopping you now?
“It’s still so new to me,” Slate gave a half laugh, “Hell I’m still surprising myself. I’m—” He stopped, unable to speak his thoughts.
“Still afraid?”
“Yeah—to some extent. I’m concerned how my children will react, the people I work with.”
“You don’t have to get on a soap box and tell everyone in the world you know. Take your time.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Wally gave him a reassuring smile. “From what you’ve said, you’re going through a major change. It’s like a divorce or a new job or a new child in the family. It’s stressful. You gotta figure out all the new dynamics. You don’t need to rush.”
Slate nodded, feeling relieved. “George is another cop, a little younger than I am. He’s nice.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
Slate laughed. “We met at the murder. He was on the scene when I got there.”
“That’s original. Certainly not something you’ll forget.”
“He was good. He did all the right things. I mean—he handled the crime scene just right.” Slate couldn’t help grinning. When he thought of George, it made him happy.
Wally picked up on that. His eyes lit up and he chuckled, patting Slate on the shoulder. “I’m glad. Next time let’s talk more about him and your relationship.”
Slate was glad that Wally seemed pleased for him. He really liked the man. He felt that Wally had made it possible for him to open up and face this new world.
Slate made it to the station at two minutes after nine. Having already filled in the chief on their plans to visit Lightfoot’s family, Jerry was waiting for him in the parking lot. Slate estimated the trip to Blackwell, Oklahoma, would take about two hours. It was almost eleven when they pulled into a space in front of the Blackwell Police Department.
CHAPTER 24
A VISIT TO THE RESERVATION
Detective John Lawson turned out to be at least sixty, red-faced and badly overweight, but he was friendly and welcomed them cordially. They all sat and had a cup of coffee while Slate and Jerry filled him in on the case.
“Yeah, I know them Lightfoots. Slippery as fish. Had a few run-ins with ‘em. The sister—what’s her name—Joanna—now she’s fine. She works for the bureau of Native American Affairs. No trouble with her. But her brothers—they’re a different story—especially Woody.”
“Woody? I thought his name was Jeffrey.”
“Well, it is, but he’s got a cousin they call Jeffrey. His middle name’s Linwood. He’s always been called Woody,” Lawson said as he lit a cigarette. He must smoke at least a pack or more a day, Slate figured after seeing the ashtray on his desk.
Lawson saw him glance at it, and said, “Yeah, I know. It’s not good for my lungs and I’m not supposed to smoke in my office. And I don’t give a fuck.”
“Hey, it’s none of my business,” Slate grinned.
“I can retire anytime I want. So if they want me to work here, they shut up and let me do my job my way.”
“I like your philosophy,” Slate added.
“So you think Robin may be the one stole the car and ditched it here?
“It’s a possibility. The car isn’t our problem. We just want to find Robin.”
Lawson stood up. “Come on, I’ll take you out to see Joanna.”
They got into his big old Cadillac. Slate rode up front while Jerry squeezed into the back. Because of his huge girth, Lawson had the seat as far back as it would go.
During the ride he continued his description of Woody. “He looks like an Indian—excuse me, Native American. Hell he looks like Geronimo. He’s twenty-five at least, maybe close to thirty. Still has a smooth face and doesn’t need to shave. His black hair’s long, hanging below his shoulders. He has thick eyebrows, dark eyes, and full lips. One of his front teeth has a slight chip. What’s most striking about Woody though is his face—his fucking face is like a mask—immobile. Woody don’t look at yeah; he stares. He never smiles. He never says “hi” to anyone. I’ve seen ‘im you know in a store or something. I say hi. He looks at me like I don’t exist. His face is always a blank. No one really knows him—well, maybe his sister. Inside, he’s got a lot of anger. In fact, he’s the angriest cuss I ever met.”
“And what about his brother Robin?”
“Just like ‘im.”
Slate anticipated the meeting with Joanna Lightfoot with a terrible feeling of dread. He knew it was because of the pressure of solving the case. Like most cops, he wanted the answers to be simple. Robin Lightfoot seemed the most likely suspect. Everything pointed in his direction. Slate also knew that if Robin turned out to be innocent, he was back at square one. He wanted Lightfoot to be guilty.
Detective Lawson drove like a New York cab driver. He didn’t slow down for the bumps. He flew through intersections and around corners. Slate turned to glance at Jerry. He was holding on for dear life. Slate was glad to see him get a taste of his own back. Finally Lawson pulled up in front of a small white house made out of cement blocks. A wooden porch had been built across the front of it with a railing made out of two by fours. Lawson eased his body out of the car and walked slowly to the front door.
Slate and Jerry were right behind him.
The detective’s knock was answered by a slim, striking woman in her early thirties. She was wearing tight black jeans with a bright red jersey top.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she greeted him.
“Hi, Joanna,” the detective said. “Came to see you.”
“Whadayah want?”
“I have some friends here from Wichita who’d like to talk to you about Robin. All right if we come in?”
“Do I have a choice?” She moved back into the house. Slate could see that her long black hair was cut straight across the middle of her back. Lawson ushered Slate and Jerry in first and brought up the rear, closing the door behind him. Slate watched as Joanna picked up a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and lit it. She took a deep drag and blew the smoke out. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her back straight. “Is Robin in some kind of trouble?”
Her voice was low. Slate was struck by her beauty. Her large brown eyes and her direct manner made it very clear that she was a very intelligent woman. There was also something about her that indicated a sadness behind the sharp and controlled exterior.
“He’s missing,” Slate acknowledged. “We’re trying to find him.”
“Do you think something’s happened to him?” She said, alarm flashing across her face.
Slate tried to reassure her. “We just want to ask him some questions.”
Slate could see her stiffen slightly. “Questions about what?” she said warily. She took another d
rag on her cigarette. Slate noticed her beautiful hands with their long slender fingers with bright red nails.
“We’re investigating a murder of another student at Wichita State, someone Robin knew.”
“I read about that in the paper. He was in the theatre.” She said matter of factly.
Jerry took a seat in the chair nearest to her. “Have you heard from him or seen him lately?”
“Not since spring break,” she said. “That was the end of March. He stayed here that week.”
“He hasn’t called or written since?” Jerry asked.
“No, he’s not much of a letter writer, and he doesn’t call much because of the money.” The woman seemed evasive, not completely forthcoming.
“So you haven’t seen him?” Jerry asked again.
“No. I told you that already.”
“Do you know if he’s staying with a friend or a relative?” Jerry continued.
“Look, I haven’t heard from him at all. Okay? Jesus!” She obviously was not thrilled by Jerry’s line of questioning.
“There was a threat on his answering machine. Someone left a message that said, “I know where you live. I can get to you.” Just hearing those words again made Slate’s body tense up. He immediately thought of his daughter and wished he were home. He also felt pissed that Jerry had mentioned it. Cops were supposed to get information, not give it.
Slate snapped back to the present situation as Joanna replied hotly, “Well, Jesus Christ, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Do you know any of his friends?” Slate asked.
“No. I met a few people when I was up there, but I don’t remember—“
“You met his neighbor?”
“Yeah, nosy bitch. Unbelievable! She could talk the ears off a jackass.”
“Did you meet some of the students?”
“A couple. I don’t remember their names.”
Slate kept pushing. “Did he mention anyone in a letter?”
“Not that I remember.”
“The police found a stolen car near here—abandoned. The owner identified Robin’s picture,” Jerry said impatiently. “And you haven’t seen him?”
“No, I haven’t goddamnit. I told you—“
“That’s grand theft auto, and not the first time.” Jerry stood up.
“I don’t think so. Not Robin. I mean—sure—he did some stupid things as a kid, but there’s no way he’d steal a car now. Besides, he has a car.”
Jerry moved a step closer. “What kind? Do you know the make, model, year—anything?”
“It’s a piece of shit. A Subaru. Blue. I don’t know what year. He bought it second hand.” Joanna Lightfoot was not intimidated, but she was getting angry. Slate could tell from the pitch and intensity of her voice as well as the flashing eyes. She took a long, final drag on the cigarette and mashed it out in the ashtray. “How long has he been missing?”
“Over a week and a half—ever since the murder.” Jerry answered.
“Robin is not the kind of kid who goes off and disappears. That’s what I’m saying. He’s serious about school. He turned his life around. There’s no way he’d do anything that would take him back.” Joanna began pacing back and forth across the room.
“What about Woody?” Slate asked, after a pause. “Do you think he might know where Robin is?”
“That bastard,” she snapped. “He and I are not on speaking terms at the moment.”
“And why is that?”
“None of your damn business.”
“Now, Joanna that attitude isn’t going to help them find Robin,” Lawson interjected in his peacemaking voice.
“I haven’t seen Woody in a month,” she said. “The less I see of him, the better.”
“What I’m hearing,” Slate said kindly, “is that you have a good relationship with Robin but not so good with Woody.”
“Woody is a troublemaker. Last time he was here, he got in a fight with my boyfriend. Practically beat him unconscious. I haven’t seen either one of them since. Good fucking riddance.”
“If Robin was in trouble, who would he go to, you or Woody?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t know.” Joanna sat back down on the sofa with a deep sigh. “He’s not here so he may be with Woody. I hope not, but—“She trailed off without finishing the thought.
“Any other place he might go?” Slate asked. Joanna thought for a moment. Slate could tell she was running a list of people through her mind. She shook her head, “No,” but Slate couldn’t read her to know if she was telling the truth.
“Do you have a photo of Robin and Woody? Anything recent?” Slate asked.
Joanna went into the kitchen and came back with a packet of pictures.
“We took these when he and Robin were here during spring break. A month ago. We had a party.” She handed them to Slate.
As Slate looked at the photos, he could easily pick out Joanna from the three or four women, but there were as many men as well, and Slate couldn’t tell who was Robin and who was Woody. “Can you tell me who’s who?”
Joanna stood beside him and began pointing at the different faces in the photo. “That’s Woody. That’s Robin.”
Slate shuffled the photos, stopping at one which included the two brothers with her. “That’s the three of you?” Slate pointed to the man with short hair.
“That’s Robin.”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s Woody?” He pointed to the man with long hair.
“Right.”
Slate pulled out the photo, which he had picked up at the theatre office.
“This is Robin, right.”
“Yeah, but he has new head shots now. Professionally done. They’re much better than that old thing.”
“So Robin has short hair now?” Slate began to have strong doubts that the woman whose car had been stolen had actually seen Robin.
“Yeah, he’s been wearing it short for the past year.”
“They look alike except for the hair.”
“Maybe to you they do. Not to me.” Joanna walked away. “Woody is a mean asshole.”
“How mean?” Jerry asked.
Joanna whirled to face him. “When we were kids, we had a cat named Fluffy. She had a litter of kittens. Woody buried them out in the yard up to their necks. Then he ran over ‘em with the lawnmower.”
“Sick fuck!” Jerry whistled.
“A very sick fuck!”
“Where’s Woody living now?” Lawson asked. He lit a cigarette and moved to the coffee table so he could use the ashtray.
“Last I knew he was staying at my uncle’s place on the reservation, but he doesn’t stay any place very long. Kinda wears out his welcome.” She smiled.
Lawson flicked his cigarette over the ashtray. “Is he working?” He glanced up to look Joanna in the eyes.
“Not unless he has to,” she said glibly. “Hell, I don’t know. He was working at that Amoco station out on Cotter Road last I knew.” She addressed both Slate and Jerry. “He’s a good mechanic as long’s he ain’t drinking. Knows everything about cars. Trouble is he’ll work good for a couple of months, but suddenly he don’t show up for two or three days. Gets drunk and says to hell with it. After a while bosses get sick of it. He gets fired at least once or twice a year.”
Slate handed her his card. “If he shows up here, would you give me a call?”
Joanna looked at him with a cold stare. “What do you think?” “Let me put it this way,” Slate smiled. “If Robin shows up here and is innocent and you think he needs some help, give me a call. If someone else is threatening him and he’s in trouble, I’d like to know about it.”
Joanna said nothing, but she sort of twisted her head and closed her eyes for a moment. Slate guessed that her response was a “maybe”.
Lawson broke the silence. “Well, we won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks, Joanna.” He went to the door and opened it. Slate and Jerry filed through it and went to the car.
“What’
s next?” Jerry said with a sigh.
“How about the Amoco station?” Slate answered.
They got back into the car and watched as Lawson and Joanna exchanged goodbyes. Inside the car, they couldn’t hear the conversation, but Joanna was obviously angry. She finally yelled at Lawson, “Go fuck yourself,” loud enough for them to hear and slammed the door in his face. He ambled back to the car. “Well, sorry, boys,” he said as he slowly stuffed himself behind the wheel.
“Hey, now we know Robin has short hair,” Slate smiled. “Every little bit helps.”
“Somewhere else I can take you?” Lawson said, starting the Cadillac.
Jerry mentioned the Amoco station, and off they went like a bat out of hell.
CHAPTER 25
WOODY LIGHTFOOT AND JERRY’S WIFE
The Amoco station was an old one that had seen better days. There were two garage bays, both with cars being worked on. The parking lot on the side was full. Lawson pulled in front of the open garage doors and got out. Slate and Jerry followed. Lawson greeted one of the mechanics. “Howdy, Nicky.”
The man looked wary, but smiled. “Whatsup?”
“You got a mechanic named Woody working here?”
“Yeah. He in trouble?”
“Nah, we just trying to find his brother.”
The man named Nicky yelled toward the back. “Hey, Woody, you got a visitor.”
A moment later a tall man with long hair pulled back in a pony tail stuck his heard out from beneath the hood of a Plymouth Acclaim. He took one look at Lawson, and ran out the back door. The look in that moment reminded Slate of a deer in the middle of the road caught in his headlights.
Jerry ran after him. Slate and Lawson made it to the door just in time to see a car spraying gravel and leaving Jerry in a cloud of dust. They ran back to the Cadillac. In spite of his bulk Lawson was faster than Slate thought he would be. He slammed his fat body into the front seat and started off before Slate had shut the door. They pulled on seat belts and held on as Lawson aimed the Cadillac at the rusted Ford in front of him. Lawson drove with one hand, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it with the other. After getting his nicotine fix, he pulled a blue light from the front seat, stuck it on the roof and settled into the chase. The Ford turned off the highway on to a dirt road. The cloud of dust made it invisible. Lawson ignored it and stepped on the gas.
