by Scott Blade
He said, “Well. Looks like suicide. Did you touch anything?”
“No,” Lewis said.
“I’m talking to Reacher.”
I stayed quiet. He waited until the silence was awkward and then he asked, “Well? Did you touch anything?”
I said, “No. But I did have a look.”
“And?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you know dick-all about crime scene investigation.”
“How do you mean?”
“I was never in law enforcement as an employee, but my mother was a sheriff. So, I’ve seen some things. And there is a clue that stands out. Don’t you see it? It’s obvious.”
Grady took a final puff of his cigarette and then tossed it onto the concrete.
He asked, “What’s that exactly?”
I said, “You’re going to kill yourself. How would you do it?”
“Gun, I guess.”
I said, “That’s the most common form of suicide among men Matlind’s age.”
He said, “So?”
I said, “I’m asking.”
He said, “I don’t know.”
I said, “Do you know how many people killed themselves last year?”
He said, “I have no idea. 10,000?”
I said, “Try 22,175.”
He asked, “How do you know that?”
I ignored his question.
I said, “Do you know how many people died from automobile deaths?”
He said, “I don’t know.”
I said, “18,000. That’s less people died in this country last year in automobile deaths than suicides. Do you know how many suicides were men?”
He said, “The majority.”
I nodded. I said, “More than 16,000. That’s 72%.
“So, 72% of Americans who took their own lives last year were men.”
He nodded.
I asked, “Know how many were from guns?”
He said, “Most?”
I said, “50% were from self-inflicted gunshot wounds. The rest were suffocation and poisoning.”
He nodded.
“Do you know how many doctors killed themselves from gunshot wounds?”
He shook his head.
I said, “Not many. About 400 doctors commit suicide every year and guns are the method used least often. Generally they overdose. Doctors self-medicate. It’s the ideal choice. Write yourself a prescription for a painless and deadly drug. Overdose. Easy as anything.”
He shrugged.
Then I asked, “What else?”
“What else what?”
“What else do you see?”
The sheriff looked back over the crime scene.
“Look, the guy’s wife left him on their honeymoon. She ran out. So he got depressed. And he shot himself. End of story. I see nothing else here.”
“Look at the gun,” I said.
He looked and paused over it.
I said, “You don’t have an investigation unit here, right?”
He shook his head and said, “No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if you pick it up if no one else is coming to inspect it.”
Grady said, “I do all of the homicide investigations in this town. I know how to conduct a crime scene.”
I nodded like I was apologizing.
He said, “We don’t get a lot of murders here. At least not before you got here.”
Grady reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old bandanna. It was red with black tribal symbols dotted all over it.
He wrapped it around his hand like a glove. He picked up the gun and smelled it.
“It smells like it has been fired recently. Safety is off. The ballistics would probably match the bullet in his head. There’s gun powder residue on the area around his left hand.”
I stayed quiet.
“So what am I missing?”
I paused and said, “Why was I arrested?”
“Assault on those boys.”
“Three guys to be precise.”
“So?”
“Three tough rednecks. Grown men.”
“So?”
“So not a challenge for me. Obviously.”
“What’s your point? That you’re tougher than three idiot rednecks?”
“Tougher than three full-grown rednecks, apparently. Tougher than a short, wiry doctor from the Gulf Coast, definitely.”
Grady said, “What the hell are you getting at?”
“The gun. Does it work?”
The sheriff nodded and then he asked, “So?”
“It works. You just said that it’s a working firearm. It looks pristine, well kept. And it works. It fired a bullet tonight and killed Chris Matlind.”
“Yes. Yes. I can see that. So he killed himself.”
I said, “No. He didn’t.”
“Just say what you are getting at.”
“Why was I arrested?”
“Assault!”
“Those rednecks were here to attack Chris. They wanted to drag him out of his room and abduct him against his will. They made that fairly obvious.”
“So?”
“Chris was afraid for his life. Terrified. I saw it.”
Grady shrugged.
“First, a man who wants to die is not afraid of three men. Second, a man who has a perfect firing gun isn’t afraid of three men. Certainly, he didn’t need my help if he had a gun in his room.”
Grady nodded. He seemed to understand.
“Chris Matlind didn’t have a gun eight hours ago. I’m willing to bet that Chris Matlind had never fired a gun in his life. He certainly had never fired a Beretta Px4. Look closer at his hands. There’s no initial powder on them, only some residue. He didn’t fire that gun. Not point blank. And putting the gun into the back of his throat was as point blank as you can get.
“Plus, one thing that struck me about this motel when I saw the rooms was that they have tile, not carpet. I’ve never heard of a motel with tile instead of carpet. I’m just starting this traveling thing. But that seems unusual to me.”
Grady asked, “What does that tell you?”
“The casing from a Beretta Px4 ejects from the top right-hand side of the gun. The Beretta Px4 Storm spits it out of the top fast. It’s so fast that if you blink you’ll miss it.”
“Okay?”
“This type of casing doesn’t just fall to the floor directly after being ejected. It would’ve landed farther away and then rolled because of the tile. This casing is lying directly beneath his feet and to the right-hand side.”
“The bullet was fired point blank and from inside of his mouth. But he didn’t fire it. Someone else stood over him and forced it down his throat. I think that whoever murdered him grabbed a tuft of his hair and jerked his head back. The killer shoved the gun down his throat and fired. That’s why the brain and skull patterns are spread across the wall and not the ceiling.
“You put the gun in your mouth and fire upward, traditionally the exit remains will spray across the ceiling, not the wall.
“I’m also willing to bet that if a medical exam is conducted on him. it would find that one or several of his fingers are broken.”
“And you don’t think that we would’ve looked that far into it? We have Dr. Eckhart. I’m sure that she would’ve found such a thing.”
“I’m sure that she would have. She certainly is competent enough. I don’t think that the man who murdered Chris cared about that. It would’ve been after the fact. I don’t think he planned on staying in town.
“He just wanted this to pass for a suicide for a couple of days at the most. He’s buying himself time. He’s passing through.”
“You’re the only stranger here,” Grady said.
I said, “Not true. There’s another stranger here.”
“Who’s that?”
“The dead guy in your jail.”
Chapter 37
We left the motel. Deputy Lewis had been told to stay alert in the parking lot all n
ight. He was to guard the crime scene.
Grady told him to set up crime scene tape around the last two rooms.
Grady hadn’t handcuffed me. No one had read my Miranda Rights to me. As far as I could tell I was not under arrest. I was free, but Grady made it fairly clear that he didn’t want me out of his sight.
We drove in the Tahoe. The wheels rocked and bounced as he took tight turns around corners.
The same traffic light from earlier had turned red for us as well, but Grady ran it.
He said, “Since you aren’t safe anywhere and I don’t trust you, you and I are partners in this thing.”
I said, “What do you propose?”
He said, “I disagree with your assessment about Matlind. I say his wife left him and he killed himself. End of story. She might even be shacked up here with a local or a tourist. The lake is full of young businessmen on vacations far away from their wives.
“Just because you have a couple of interesting observations doesn’t mean shit.”
I asked, “So how do you explain the Mexican?”
He shrugged and said, “He followed you here. You brought some kind of trouble to my town. Whatever.”
I stayed quiet and just thought about the kind of idiots that can be found in small Southern towns. I thought how they’re the ones that give the rest of us a bad name.
“So why are we back here?” I asked.
We had pulled back into the Public Safety Building’s parking lot.
“We’re going to have a better look at your Mexican friend. You say that he tried to kill you and that he killed Matlind. I don’t see any connection between the two. But let’s see that mind of yours prove me wrong.”
He parked the Tahoe, killed the motor, and stepped out. The driver’s seat squeaked as he got out, like it had probably done a million times.
He opened the back door and let me out.
We walked into the building, past the reception area, past the bullpen, and down some steps to the door to the hallway with the holding cells.
Grady flipped a couple of switches and the holding cells lit up bright.
Lying against the wall was the tangled mess of limbs that made up the corpse of the man who had tried to kill me. His neck was still broken.
Grady went over to the body, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out his wallet.
I said, “I already checked his IDs. Phony. They’re good, but fake. That’s the biggest clue that he’s a professional. IDs like that must’ve cost good money.”
Grady asked, “So, who is he?”
“Some kind of Mexican hit man. Like I told you.”
“How do you know that he’s Mexican?”
“Was Mexican. And I don’t. Not for sure. Just a hunch.”
Grady said, “Share your theory?”
I shook my head and then said, “Not yet. I need more first.”
Grady nodded and searched through the dead guy’s other pockets. He found a back-up pair of surgical gloves besides the ones that the dead guy wore. They were white and bunched up into a ball of loose fingers.
“I bet that if you send the gun in Matlind’s motel and those gloves off to a crime lab, you’ll find fibers from the glove on the gun.”
“Gloves aren’t uncommon. It doesn’t prove anything.”
“This guy killed Matlind. Case closed. You know it. You just don’t want outsiders poking around. If I’m right, you have to call the state police. Probably the FBI too. I know that you small-town types don’t like the Feds, but this is out of control now. It’s time to call in the outsiders that you so desperately hate before this gets any worse.”
Grady stayed quiet. He frowned and stared at the gloves.
I said, “Faye could still be out there and alive. This is big, too big for you to handle on your own. You need to call the Feds. And call them now.”
“Who is Faye?”
“Are you listening? Faye Matlind is the missing wife. She’s still missing. Whoever this guy was, he’s connected to Faye. He wanted to shut us up. Had to be. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. He probably killed Matlind and tried to kill me.”
Grady stayed quiet. At first he nodded like he agreed.
Then he shook his head and said, “No. I never saw Matlind with any woman. No one else in town saw her either. I’ve been sheriff here for 15 years. These people are good, quiet folk. They aren’t hiding some big conspiracy about a missing woman.
“Matlind came into town and started trouble at the local diner one day. That has been my only exchange with him. There is no wife.
“I know these people. I know those rednecks. They bring barbeque in for the tourists to buy every Sunday. They’re good, quiet people. The whole town is. We don’t need some outsiders here poking around in our business.”
I shrugged and gave up. It was like trying to convince a brick wall.
He went on, just repeating himself. He said, “Mr. Matlind’s death is tragic, but there’s no wife! This is a small town. No one remembers her being here. Don’t you think that someone would’ve remembered her? A black woman! In case you haven’t noticed Black Rock only has rural white people living in it. Someone would’ve seen a black woman.
“Hell! She would’ve been the talk of the town.
“And no one saw her!”
I breathed in and breathed out. He was heated. I could see that, but what good would come from arguing with a backwoods sheriff?
Then he said, “I think that we’ve had enough of you.”
He tossed the gloves back onto the corpse. They landed on his stomach. I caught a glimpse of the hit man’s face. Even in death, he grinned at me.
Grady wiped his hands together like he was done with the investigation.
He said, “As unfortunate as this day is for Mr. Matlind, you’ve caught a break.”
I asked, “What do you mean?”
He said, “Our jail is a crime scene like you said. We’ve got two deaths. I don’t see any reason to hold you on an assault charge being that we have nowhere to hold you. So you’re free to go. And I suggest that is what you do. Lewis will take you back to the motel to pick up your belongings and then he’ll drive you out to the highway.”
I said, “I don’t have any belongings.”
“No baggage?”
“Nothing.”
Grady got on his radio and hailed Lewis. He gave him instructions to return to base.
There was a crackle from the radio and Lewis gave an affirmative response.
Grady looked up at me and said, “Then the highway is your next destination.”
He paused a beat and said. “Don’t ever come back.”
Chapter 38
Deputy Lewis escorted me in his police cruiser out of town. We drove in silence.
The wind rushed around the cruiser as we picked up speed, blowing a hot marshy odor off the lake.
The sky had been calm most of the night, but now it was waking. Huge storm clouds crawled slowly toward Black Rock from the north.
They looked like wispy, dark creatures swarming across the sky. Lethargic, but steadily creeping in over the town.
Lightning cackled in the far distance.
Lewis drove across the land bridge. I gazed out over the lake for what I thought would be the last time. Dark shapes appeared across the surface as my eyes adjusted to the blackness. Night fishermen, most likely. Most of them began cranking their motors to escape the moving storm clouds. They headed back to their boat launches.
We drove past the land bridge and onto the two-lane dusty road that headed into town.
I saw the last part of the jogging track that I had met Sheldon on. A feeling of disappointment rolled over me that I would never see her again. I turned in my seat and stared out the back window until the jogging track was lost to sight. Then I turned around and faced front.
The police cruiser slowed as we came to the fork in the road. We stopped on the northwest side of the fork. I gazed over to the left at the north side.
I saw through the tall pine trees the huge Confederate flag. It flapped violently on the pole.
I said, “Your friends had better take down their flag or it’ll get rained on. Probably ruined.”
Lewis looked at me in his rearview and first grinned, then gave me a hawk-like scowl. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. Instead, a kind of low snarl came from his mouth and he turned his sights back to the road and headed south.
I looked to the east and thought about Hank and his dog. I wondered if they were still there.
I hoped that he had gotten his fill of fishing. The old guy had to deal with two storms in three nights.
I remembered that he had said that he used to be a pilot in the Navy. He had probably flown missions in Vietnam. He could handle a little rain.
It struck me that he was crazy enough to go out there and fish during the storm.
I turned and looked out the west side, out of my own window. The land moved in front of me. Trees turned into thicker trees and then back to thinner ones.
After 15 minutes we hit Highway 35.
Lewis skidded the car onto it and headed west. He picked up speed.
The highway was barren. We saw a passing car here and there, but not much else in the way of nighttime travelers.
Lewis gunned the motor and the car got up to 90 miles per hour.
After about 20 minutes we were nearing Interstate 55.
Lewis turned the light bars on. The red and blue lights flashed. We passed a couple of trucks that took up both lanes until we got right behind them. They saw Lewis’s police lights and pulled over to opposite shoulders.
Lewis floored past them, turned onto the loop for Interstate 55, and headed south.
I could hear the wind howling even though my window was rolled all the way up. It whistled and hissed like it wasn’t sealed properly.
We drove for a couple of minutes. Then Lewis slowed the cruiser and pulled over to the shoulder.
Another interstate cloverleaf lay in front of us.
He left the light bar on and the engine running. He got out of the car, walked around the hood, and came over to my door. He opened it and stepped back. He gave himself a wide berth from me, out of my reach.
I got out of the car and stretched my legs and my arms.
He rested his hand on the hilt of his holstered Glock, a move that I had gotten used to at this point. Then he said, “From here ya can head in any direction that ya want. Ya can get on the 278 and hitch a ride east er west. Ya can stay on 55 and head north er south. It’s up to you. But don’t come back to Black Rock.”
