by Sylvia Nobel
I watched her drive away and then strolled around behind the house, threading my way past a muddy white pickup with a camper shell, assorted piles of junk and rusting car parts until I came to a chain-link fence intertwined with overgrown shrubbery. Through openings in the thick foliage I spotted the unfinished second floor on the top of the garage and heard the ear-piercing screech of a power saw. I paused at the gate to read a crudely lettered cardboard sign. DOG HIDING IN BUSHES. HE KNOWS YOU’RE HERE. ACT CALM.
Original. Funny. Also a bit disconcerting. Nudging the gate open, I looked around cautiously, half expecting to see a Doberman or some other type of ferocious dog bound out of the brush. Nothing. Just the sound of the wind rustling the foliage. The clouds massed above the distant mountains had darkened precipitously. Calculating that I didn’t have much time before another storm hit, I proceeded through the gate into a clearing and immediately smelled the burning odor of freshly sawed lumber. The continuous whine of his DeWalt Sawzall muffled the sound of my arrival, affording me the opportunity to observe Randy Moorehouse for a few seconds, unseen. Apparently black was his favorite color as evidenced by his coal black jeans, shirt, boots and leather jacket. His pockmarked face was set in total concentration as he examined the board he’d just cut. Okay. No question that he knew how to wield a power saw.
Like his sister, Randy had been bequeathed an interesting genetic legacy. His formidable size, combined with his perpetual scowl, created a palpable aura of menace. With the red bandana tied around his forehead and the long gray ponytail, he looked like a modern-day pirate, which I’m sure is what he had in mind. The shiny black and chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycle behind him completed the image of the bad-assed biker.
I flinched violently at the sensation of something warm and wet on my cold right hand. Turning, I stared down at the strangest looking dog I’d ever seen, licking my fingers. It had a pig-like pink nose, gigantic head, wild hairy eyebrows, one brown eye and one very expressive blue one. Kinky gray and white fur covered the front half of his body while the hind end and wagging tail appeared almost hairless.
“Well, hello there,” I murmured, scratching the matted, thorn-speckled fur on the dog’s neck. He needed a good brushing. And a bath.
“Who the hell are you?”
I jerked my attention back to Randy, involuntarily tensing as he advanced towards me with purposeful strides, still holding the saw like a weapon. His close-set eyes, a penetrating color of pale blue and looking cold as ice, completed the intimidating picture.
“Some watchdog you are,” he roared at the alien-looking creature, its tongue lolling comically from one corner of its mouth. “Get lost, Hoopchuck!” He kicked the animal in the ribs with the toe of his boot and it yelped in pain.
Hoopchuck? Tail tucked between its legs, head hung in disgrace, the dog low-crawled into the garage. Anger burned my throat. I was poised to give him a piece of my mind, to tell him that only a coward would mistreat an animal, but for once I said nothing. This was not a guy to antagonize. And if I did, it would most likely kill any hope I had of extracting information from him. I doubted that he’d appreciate my standpoint on animal cruelty anyway. Tally had said he was a mean and aggressive kid. It didn’t appear that he’d changed one bit.
He fastened a withering stare at me. “Okay, lady, I’m gonna ask you again what you’re doing here?”
Undeterred by his belligerence, I maintained eye contact while extending my card to him. “My name is Kendall O’Dell. I’m a reporter for the—”
“Reporter! I got nuthin’ to say to you.”
“Castle Valley Sun,” I persisted. “Your sister told me you’d be here and I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Gibbons case.”
“I don’t give a flyin’ shit where you’re from,” he thundered, a firestorm of fury erupting in his eyes. “All you goddamned people want to do is harass me an’ my family. If I read one more lie printed by one of you so-called journalists, I’m gonna puke my guts out!”
Jeez. Now I really was starting to get a complex. I stood my ground. “Look, I don’t work for a sleazy tabloid. It’s not my style to sensationalize stories to sell papers, Mr. Moorehouse. I verify and report only the facts. I know you’ve been questioned by the authorities and I should think you’d want to take the opportunity to tell your side of the story to our readers.”
“You’re either real brave or real stupid.”
“I’ve been accused of both.”
He fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and had a little trouble lighting it in the brisk wind. When a whiff of the acrid smoke blew past my face, I was heartened to note that his glacial expression had thawed just a tad. “Why should I trust you?” he grumbled, fixing me with a callous stare. “And what difference does it make what I say? You think anyone is gonna believe me?” He wheeled around, stomped back to the sawhorse and picked up another board.
I trotted after him. “It’s my understanding that you’ve only been back in Castle Valley for a couple of weeks. Did you know that Judge Gibbons owned Hidden Springs before you went out there to deliver flowers?”
He positioned the board on the sawhorse, his chin jutting outward. “Yeah, Ru told me.”
“Considering how your family feels, I’m surprised she’d do business with him.”
His guttural laugh sounded downright evil. “She was happy to charge him double what everybody else was paying.”
Nice. “I understand you can account for all your time the day his body was found.”
“You bet your sweet ass I can. Those shit-for-brains sheriffs’ detectives have dragged me in twice already tryin’ to trip me up, tryin’ to get me to change my story. Don’t they think I know the ropes? Don’t they think I know they’re gonna keep after me until they trump up a case against me just like before?” Teeth bared, his expression livid, his voice grew ragged. “You got any idea what it’s like to be accused of something you never did? Lose everything you ever worked for? You got clue one as to what my life’s been like the past ten years? What it’s like to sit on Death Row day after day, just existing, watching your life waste away, waiting, wondering and praying that some kind of a miracle would happen? Shitfire, there was days I wished I could just die and get it over with.” His eyes were dark and haunted.
I murmured, “I can imagine.”
“No,” he said roughly, “you can’t.” He switched on the power saw. As I watched the blade screech into the board, I tried not to think of those sharp teeth sawing into Riley Gibbons’s neck, but my insides shrank with horror when the chunk of wood thumped to the ground. “Tell this to your readers,” he advised, slapping away the sawdust, “I had ten years, ten long years to build up a full head of steaming god-awful hate for the good judge. There ain’t no way I’m ever going to forget that egotistical asshole sitting up there in his black robe, spouting a bunch of stupid proverbs and lecturing me on how I was the worst kind of scum that ever walked the earth!” He brandished the saw. “If I’d wanted to I could’ve chopped his friggin’ head off, but I didn’t, even though he deserved that and worse.”
Whew! For someone who supposedly had nothing to say, he was doing a pretty good job of spilling his guts.
“How many times did you deliver flowers to Hidden Springs?”
“Look, I already told the sheriff and the detectives all this stuff a hundred times in a hundred different ways.”
“I’m hoping there might be a piece of information you may have omitted or forgotten about,” I pressed.
“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t write anything that will make me look bad, Missy.” He jabbed his forefinger in my face. “I’d rather kick the bucket than ever go back to that place.” The tip of the cigarette glowed red as he sucked hard, dropped it and squashed the butt beneath the heel of his boot.
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Moorehouse?”
“Nawwww. Just call it a strong…suggestion.”
I absorbed his veiled warning, keeping my face
impassive and thinking how foolhardy I was to be interviewing this hot-tempered man alone. But it was comforting to know that I was within shouting distance of his sister’s house. Determined, I repeated my question.
He scrunched his massive shoulders. “I dunno how many trips I made out there before that day.”
“Do you know a guy named Winston Pendahl?”
“Sure. He’s one of my drinkin’ buddies.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so.”
“Did you see him at Hidden Springs that particular day?”
“I don’t remember. I do know we wuz both over at the Hitching Post for a couple of hours. We played some pool, drank a couple of beers. He can vouch for my whereabouts and I can vouch for his. So if you think you got something cookin’, you don’t.”
He could have easily been lying. Was it possible they’d worked together to dispatch the judge? Each man held a major grudge, each possessed a strong motive and each had the means and opportunity. “Did you see anyone else while you were at Hidden Springs?”
He pounded another cigarette from the pack, his brow furrowed in thought. “Well, I saw Mrs. Gibbons. She told me to take the flowers to the other little gal over at the hotel.”
“Marissa?”
“I guess that’s her name.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
His eyes fogged over for a few seconds. “Well, there wuz a couple of snot-nosed kids running around, a Mexican lady and some other tall, skinny broad in the lobby.”
I’d have to check the guest register for that day. “Did you see the judge during any of your visits?”
“Nope.”
His lips stretched in a wicked smile, revealing several irregular teeth. “Sorry I can’t tell you what you wanna hear.” He fingered the saw blade, closely watching my reaction to see if I’d cut and run. “Ex-con confesses to revenge killing, right? That’s the headline everybody’s waitin’ to see.”
A sudden blast of freezing wind whipped my hair around and a couple of snowflakes grazed my cheeks. I looked up, startled to see jet-black clouds almost overhead. Randy noticed them too. “I’m outta time,” he said abruptly, tossing the unlighted cigarette and hurrying towards his Harley. “Gotta get my baby inside.” He toed the kickstand and pushed the motorcycle towards the garage. Poor, dumb Hoopchuck stood in the doorway, his tongue still hanging out, wagging his tail in welcome, all forgiven.
“Thank you for your time.” I walked a few steps towards the gate then whirled around. “Just one more question. I don’t suppose you and your biker buddies took a ride to the Flagstaff area any time during the past couple of weeks, did you?”
He hesitated and when he turned around, I noticed his jaw muscles working overtime. “Maybe we did. What of it?”
16
Dillydally. An old-fashioned word often uttered by my grandmother when she suspected I was guilty of procrastinating. Fully cognizant that I was doing just that after leaving Rulinda’s house, I ran several errands and stopped at the grocery store before driving back to my place. Why face Ruth’s wrath any sooner than I had to? And why not take advantage of the few hours I had left to track this fascinating story?
Borne by a powerful northeasterly wind, snowflakes blew horizontally at the windshield as I bounced along Lost Canyon Road. It made for tricky visibility. Again I marveled at the transformation of the dry, oven-like desert now masquerading as a Christmas card scene. I stopped and snapped a few pictures of the fluffy white makeover. Stunning! Unfortunately, by the time I reached my driveway, the snow had changed to sleet. I got good and soaked carrying the groceries inside. After dropping the bags on the countertop, I hurried to the bedroom with Marmalade trotting behind me mewing loudly, giving me the business for leaving her alone all day.
“Sorry, little one,” I murmured, picking her up and stroking her soft fur, “I’ll make it up to you. How about a kitty treat?”
I turned up the heat, peeled off my damp clothes and changed into dry jeans and a flannel shirt before checking to see if Tally had called. Disappointment surged through me when I found no messages waiting. Had he been forced to stop again because of the bad weather? Why hadn’t he called?
I spent a little more time schmoozing with Marmalade and she purred up a storm. I wished I didn’t have to go back outside and was thinking how nice a nap would be, but decided to check my e-mail instead. No question. I was definitely dillydallying. I e-mailed the party information to my mother and zapped most of the incoming messages, until I got to the one from Brian outlining some of the noteworthy cases that had come before Judge Gibbons during the past several years. As I read through them, the graphic details of the heinous crimes made my stomach turn cartwheels. Husbands murdering and dismembering wives, wives dispatching husbands with every method imaginable, including one disturbing case where a woman injected her live-in boyfriend with antifreeze. In another case that literally made my skin crawl, one sorry excuse for a human being had set his two-year-old stepdaughter on fire. There was a sad story of a couple’s only daughter mowed down in a crosswalk by a drunk driver. I scrolled down further, realizing the magnitude of the job ahead of me. It seemed the judge had an endless list of potential enemies.
Another report described the sickening tale of a couple who’d plotted the death of the woman’s six-year-old son. Her boyfriend had dressed up as Santa Claus, lured the unsuspecting child into the desert and then murdered him for a paltry twenty-thousand dollar life insurance policy. God! My heart shrank when I read the story of a nineteen-year-old who’d shaken her four-month-old triplets so hard they’d suffered permanent brain damage. The prosecutor’s office had recommended the death penalty and it was enlightening to read that the woman’s husband had been so outraged when Judge Gibbons sentenced her to only life in prison without parole that he’d rushed the bench and had to be restrained. I replied to Brian’s e-mail thanking him for his time-consuming research and then asked him to dig a little further into the particulars of each case to see if he could find out any more pertinent details. Then I answered and deleted several more messages before dialing Walter’s number. “Hey, it’s Kendall. Sorry to bother you at home on a Sunday afternoon.”
“That’s okay. Hey, how about this weather? Man, we’re really socked in.”
I glanced out the window at the gray gloom giving birth to an early twilight. “Yeah, it looks pretty nasty.”
“Guess there’s more comin’. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’d made any progress researching Judge Gibbons’s past cases.”
“Oh yeah. Readin’ about all these whacked-out people and all the sick things that they’ve done is really grossing me out,” he replied bluntly.
“I hear you.”
“Kendall, this is going to be like finding a rusty old needle in a haystack the size of Castle Rock. I’ve already been through about twenty cases of convictions, mistrials, hung juries, dismissals and plea-bargained reductions of charges for some of these monsters. It leads me to believe that any one of either the victim’s relatives, or relatives of those sitting on Death Row who think the convictions were faulty due to legal technicalities, or what ever else, could have had reason to go after the judge.”
“Give me some specific cases.”
“Let me pull a couple of ’em up on my computer.” I could hear keys clacking. “Okay, how’s this for starters. A woman pimped out her eleven-year old daughter, then used the money to buy drugs. One of the johns murdered the girl. Apparently the father of this girl was in another state and he raised quite a media stink when Judge Gibbons handed down a sentence of only fifteen years.”
“Oh my. That doesn’t sound right.”
“Well, before you ahem…pass judgment on the judge, you have to read the fine print to realize all the shenanigans these defense attorneys pull to get their clients a lesser sentence. Sometimes it’s as simple as a lab error, misplaced evidence or a key witness not showing up. In a lot of cases, judge
s have to stay within sentencing guidelines when I’m sure that personally they’d like to hang some of these creeps out to dry.”
“That’s got to be frustrating. What else have you got?”
“Let’s see.” He paused a few seconds before saying, “Try this one on for size. How about the charming couple who kept their two kids in animal cages, starved ‘em to death, then wrapped the bodies in garbage bags and left them behind a restaurant in the dumpster. You want me to go on?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. “This one’s pretty recent. Some lowlife murdered his girlfriend and her two kids and buried their bodies in shallow graves west of Phoenix. There’s another case of some psycho stalking college coeds in Tempe and slashing the throat of three of ’em….” Another hesitation, more key tapping, and then, “Now this one is interesting. Here’s one where a guy picked up this woman named Shayla Cunningham in a west Phoenix bar and a week later they found her headless body floating in the canal.”
“Really? I’d like to see the particulars on that one.”
“Says here because of lack of any physical evidence, the guy was convicted purely on circumstantial evidence.” Tap. Tap. He hummed to himself while scrolling down the page. “Here’s the rest of it. Apparently, the victim’s brother, Robert, had lobbied hard for the death penalty and was so infuriated after Judge Gibbons’s sentence of life in prison without parole that he went berserk. He was ejected, stormed back into the courtroom, threatened to kill the judge and was finally arrested.”
“So, where’s this Robert fellow now?”
“Don’t know.”
“Might be interesting to find out.”
“Yeah, but I got a lot more cases.” His voice sounded tired.
“Anything else jump out at you?”
