by Bill Crider
“I’ve got to take that thing over to Ballinger’s,” he told Hack. “Any trouble while I was out?”
“Miz Thurman called,” Hack said.
Rhodes waited. Hack told things at his own rate and in his own way. There was no need to rush him. He worked for the county practically free, and he did a fine job. Rhodes was willing to put up with his approach to reporting on calls.
“Said she was goin’ blind again,” Hack finally said.
“Who’d you send to change the bulb?” Rhodes asked. Mrs. Thurman was nearly ninety and lived alone. Every now and then a light bulb burned out in her kitchen or her living room. When it happened, she called the sheriff’s office and said that she was going blind, that everything was getting dark. After the first call, Rhodes had begun sending over someone with a bulb.
“Sent the new deputy,” Hack said. The new deputy was a sore point with Hack.
“You know,” Rhodes said, “I think that new Wal-Mart is having a sale on those long-life bulbs. I ought to buy a few and keep them in reserve for Mrs. Thurman.”
“You ask me, you spoil that old woman,” a new voice put in. It was the jailer, Lawton, coming in from the cell block.
“Who you callin’ old?” Hack asked. “Miz Thurman’s not much older’n you, you old buzzard.”
Lawton was seventy, but he didn’t look it. In fact, if Hack Jensen resembled Bud Abbott, Lawton looked a lot like Lou Costello, his face still almost baby-smooth, round, and chubby. “Maybe so,” he said, “but she ain’t got so much on you, either.” Then he happened to look over at Rhodes’s desk. “Godamighty,” he said. “What’s that?”
“Just what you think it is,” Rhodes said. “That’s all I know, though.”
“What’s the county comin’ to, I wonder?” Lawton said. “I ain’t never seen anything like that on a sheriff’s desk before.”
“There’s more where that came from,” Hack said. “Ain’t that right, sheriff?”
“That’s right,” Rhodes replied. “But that’s something you’ll have to keep to yourselves.”
“I guess we know how to do that,” Hack said.
“I’m going to take that thing over to Ballinger’s,” Rhodes said. “Send the new deputy”—now he was doing it, he thought—”Send the new deputy over there with a fingerprint kit. I don’t expect we’ll find anything, but we’ve got to give it a try.” He carefully picked up the arm and carried it out to the car.
He drove toward Ballinger’s, thinking about the new deputy. He thought she was working out fine, but Hack and Lawton didn’t approve. The idea of a woman deputy was almost too much for them, and they couldn’t even bring themselves to call her by her name, which happened to be Ruth Grady.
Rhodes had been surprised when she applied for the job, but she was certainly qualified for it. She’d been to a community college near Houston and gotten an associate degree in law enforcement, which required her to work for a local law enforcement agency twenty hours a week for two semesters. Then she’d worked for a little police department in South Texas for a couple of years. The climate had been too humid and disagreeable for her, however, and she’d moved to Clearview to live with her bedridden father. Her father had died a few weeks before the episode that had involved Rhodes’s former deputy, Johnny Sherman. When she found out about the vacancy on Rhodes’s staff, she had applied.
Rhodes himself had been skeptical at first, but she was qualified for the job, certainly more qualified than anyone else who had applied, and he had hired her. Hack and Lawton were not pleased.
Rhodes left the arm at the funeral home with the others, told Clyde that Ruth Grady would be the one coming to do the fingerprinting, and drove home. Saturday afternoon was generally a slow time for the forces of law and order in Blacklin County. The business people were hard at work trying to earn a few dollars, and those who had the day off were at home relaxing and having a beer or taking a nap—maybe watching a little television. Saturday night was a different story, but for the time being things were quiet.
Rhodes pulled up in his driveway and called Hack on the radio to let him know where he’d be. “Have the new . . . have Ruth call me if she finds anything at Ballinger’s,” he said.
“I’ll do it,” Hack said. “She took care of Miz Thurman, and she’ll be over to Ballinger’s pretty soon.”
Rhodes got out of the car. Thanks to the August heat and the lack of rain, his yard was covered with brown, dry grass. He figured that he’d let nature take its course; if it rained, the yard got water. Otherwise, it didn’t. The grass would have to fend for itself. Rhodes hated yard work. Besides, if the grass died, that meant he didn’t have to mow it. The appearance of the yard had gone downhill considerably since his daughter, Kathy, had taken a teaching job in Richardson. She had left three weeks before to find an apartment and get settled, and the yard missed her already.
For that matter, Rhodes missed her, too. Since his wife, Claire, had died, Kathy had more or less taken care of him, not that he wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. But her involvement with Johnny Sherman and his own involvement—if that’s what it was, he thought—with Ivy Daniel had combined to make her decide that it was time to leave. Rhodes was glad, in a way, because she had a lot to offer the teaching profession. Still, the old house was empty without her.
He wandered into the living room and turned on the television set. John Wayne was just returning Natalie Wood to her family, after having searched relentlessly for her for years. Everyone in the family embraced and went inside their cabin, leaving John Wayne to stand alone on the porch outside. Rhodes knew how he felt. Then his mind drifted to the catch-phrase that the Duke had spoken throughout the movie: “That’ll be the day.” He thought about the Buddy Holly song that phrase had inspired and immediately felt better. One of these days he was going to dig out all his old 45 rpm records and play them for Ivy Daniel.
He thought about Ivy for a minute and wondered if she was old enough to remember Buddy Holly. He thought she probably was, but her age was something they’d never discussed. He decided not to bring it up when he played the records.
He remembered that the records were in the back of the hall closet in a cardboard box. He was moving coats and sweaters out of the way when the telephone rang.
It was Ruth Grady. “I’m over at Ballinger’s, Sheriff,” she said. “I think you’d better come over here if you can.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Rhodes said. The records could wait.
Ruth Grady was short and compact. “Chunky” was the word that Hack had used, though not in her hearing. She had short, brown hair and wore a Western-style straw hat. There was a short-barreled .38 in a holster at her waist, and she looked every inch a law officer, even if she was only sixty-four inches tall.
“I found it when I opened the second box,” she said, showing Rhodes a yellow tag. Written on the tag was a man’s name, Frank Royster.
“Somebody identifying the victims?” Rhodes said. “That’s a new one.”
They were standing in one of Ballinger’s back rooms, the boxes open in front of them.
“Not exactly,” Ruth said. “That tag is for identification, all right, but it wasn’t put there by any crazed axe murderer or anything like that. It’s the kind of tag they use to identify amputated limbs.”
Rhodes hadn’t been to the same school that Ruth had attended, but he caught on quickly. “I had a feeling all along that this wasn’t a murder case,” he said. “It’s just a little too bizarre for Blacklin County.”
“I guess you’re right,” Ruth said, “but we still have a lot of arms and legs here. They have to be disposed of somehow.”
“Ballinger may be able to take care of that for us,” Rhodes said. “That still leaves us with a case of illegal dumping, though. I thought hospitals were supposed to dispose of things like that.”
Ruth hitched up her gun. “They are. I think we better talk to Mr. Ballinger.”
Clyde Ballinger was obviously disa
ppointed. “I thought we had a really good case going here,” he said. “Well, who knows. Maybe something will turn up.”
“I hope not,” Rhodes said.
“Yeah. Well, I’d like to help you get rid of those things, but I can’t,” Ballinger said.
“You can’t?” Ruth asked.
“Don’t know if it’d be legal. Don’t know what the owners, so to speak, might think about it. It’s customary in some cases to bury the amputated part in the grave where the owner’s going to have his eternal rest; that is, it’s customary if he’s reserved a plot somewhere.” Ballinger was beginning to sound more like a funeral director.
“I thought hospitals burned them,” Rhodes said.
“Oh, they do, in lots of cases. I can’t figure why these turned up here,” Ballinger said.
“I think we’d better get in touch with the owners of that land,” Rhodes said. “I’m still not sure all this is on the up and up.”
“You might be able to get somebody on a health violation,” Ballinger said, “but I’m not sure there’s any state law about dumping body parts on private property.”
“He’s probably right,” Ruth said. “I think there’s a law about public dumping grounds, though.”
“This is ridiculous,” Rhodes said. “Ruth, go on back to the jail and see if you can get in touch with Bert Ramsey. Get the phone number of the people who own that land where he found these things. If he doesn’t have the number, go on over to the courthouse and find out the full name and get the number from information. I’m going to see what Dr. White has to say about all this.”
“All right,” Ruth said. “Will you be checking with me later?”
“As soon as I talk to Dr. White,” Rhodes said. They left Ballinger’s office and headed for their separate cars.
Dr. Sam White was the county health officer, a job he did more or less for free since he was seldom required to do anything. The rest of the time he took care of his herd of registered Longhorn cattle, having retired from his medical practice a few years previously.
Rhodes located White in the pasture not far from his rambling brick home. He was sitting in his pickup looking over his herd when Rhodes drove up behind him.
“They look pretty good to me, Doctor,” Rhodes said. The cattle were of all colors, but mostly red. Their horns weren’t really long, at least not as long as one might expect from the name. They were all slick and well-fed.
“Yes, they surely do,” Dr. White said. “What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”
Rhodes told him.
“Well, it doesn’t take an expert to tell you that such things are a definite health hazard,” the doctor said. “They should certainly be disposed of as quickly as possible.”
Rhodes told him why there would be a delay.
“I can see the legal problems, of course. No death certificates. Still, one would think . . .”
“No use in thinking,” Rhodes said. “Ballinger won’t do it.”
“Then I suggest that you call the state Health Department,” Dr. White said. “I have to admit that I’ve never heard of anything exactly like this before.”
Rhodes shook his head. “Me neither,” he said. “Me neither.”
Back at the jail, Lawton was nowhere in sight, which was usually the case when “the new deputy” was in the office. Hack was sticking close to his radio and not talking. Rhodes asked Ruth Grady what she’d learned.
“Not much,” she told him. “The property is owned by a man named Charles Dalton Adams, and he lives at 6616 Springalong in Houston. But I can’t get him on the telephone.”
“Great,” Rhodes said. “And I can just imagine trying to get in touch with the state Health Department on a Saturday afternoon.”
“Dr. White can’t do anything?” Ruth asked.
“He would if he could, I think,” Rhodes said. “He’s just as mixed up by all this as we are.”
At this point Hack could not resist talking. “If Bert Ramsey’d just burned those boxes like he ought, there wouldn’t be any trouble,” he said.
Rhodes had to admit that Hack had a point. “I’ll talk to Ballinger again tomorrow,” he said. “I’m afraid this is going to be a real mess.”
“Listen,” said Hack, “it’s Saturday night comin’ up. If this is the worst mess you have, you can count yourself lucky.”
That was two points for Hack, Rhodes decided, but he hoped nothing really bad came up. He was hoping to see Ivy.
“I’m going on home,” he said. “You call me if anything bad happens. Otherwise, well . . .”
“I know, I know,” Hack said. “Otherwise, leave you the hell alone. Pardon my French, ma’am.” He looked at Ruth for the first time.
She smiled at him. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m going home, too. Shift is nearly over. I’ll try to get in touch with that Adams fella again tomorrow. I ought to be able to catch him home on Sunday.”
“Good idea,” Rhodes said. He left, hoping for a quiet evening at home.
He got it. He even got to play his Buddy Holly records for Ivy Daniel. All in all it was as relaxing an evening as he’d spent for several months.
He wouldn’t have enjoyed it so much, however, if he’d known that at approximately ten o’clock somebody was blowing Bert Ramsey apart with a shotgun.
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A Preview of DEAD ON THE ISLAND
Book One of the Truman Smith Mystery Series
Chapter 1
There was no one on the seawall except for me and the rat.
I was there to run; I don’t know why the rat was there. Maybe he just didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or maybe he was looking for a handout. If he was, he’d come to the wrong place. Even the few forlorn gulls that were floating around above us knew better.
In the summer it would have been different. The seawall is crowded then, and it’s no good for running, though some people still try. The tourists are out in force, walking, riding their rented bikes and pedicycles, dragging their recalcitrant offspring, cruising along on skateboards, and in general making the seawall a place to avoid.
Unless you’re a seagull, that is. Or a rat.
In the summer, the seawall is rat paradise. The remains of hotdogs with mustard, corn chips, potato chips, jelly sandwiches, half-eaten candy bars, parts of pickles, the leavings of a thousand picnics--it’s all there for the taking.
And if you can get your snout into the opening of an aluminum can, there’s the dregs of a beer or a diet Coke to top off the meal. Then you can slip into a crack in the wall or into a crevice among the boulders at its base and watch the world go by.
Tanned skin and pasty white; burned and peeling; oiled and leathery--all cinched up in whatever manner of suit that might happen to catch your fancy, from a string bikini to a Mack Sennett Bathing Beauty model from the early days of Hollywood.
But it wasn’t summer. It was the last week in February, and a cold norther had managed to push its way down from the Panhandle all the way to the coast, dropping the temperature into the lower forties and turning the sky the color of lead. The wind pushed back at the Gulf and moved the heavy clouds along. A frosty mist hung in the air. There were still plenty of beer cans down in among the boulders, but they had long since been emptied of anything a rat might want to drink.
Traffic was sparse on the boulevard to my left. Today qualified for the depths of winter on the Texas Gulf Coast. It was a day to stay home and read a good book or watch Jeopardy on TV.
I wasn’t worried about the weather, though. I had on a pair of Nike Air Spans, fleece-lined running shorts, and a black and gray sweatshirt that I’d bought at K-Mart. The north wind cut right through the sweatshirt, but I knew I’d get plenty warm once I started the run.
The rat was wearing dark brown fur, a leathery tail, and a quizzical look. I wondered if the wind were bothering him, but before I could ask he disappeared over the side of the seawall. It would be a lot warmer down among
the boulders, out of the wind. I hoped maybe he could find an old can of bean dip that might still have a dried brown rim of beans left for him to eat.
I started into the run, going slow at first, not that I ever got up too much speed. I was at the west end of the seawall, running east. I figured to go for a mile or two or three and then turn back, depending on how well my knee held up.
After half a mile I was warming up, and the knee was feeling all right. As long as I held myself to about eight-and-a-half minute miles it would probably be fine. It was only when I pressed myself that I found myself listing to the right. Even then I could usually keep from falling if I stopped in time, but I told myself there was no need to worry about that. Eight-and-a-half minute miles were perfectly acceptable.
After about two miles I saw someone coming from the opposite direction. I wasn’t surprised, since it was more likely that there would be people in that direction, even in February. It was about time for me to turn around, anyway.
I was about to make my turn when I recognized the other runner, even though he was a good way off. You can do that, recognize runners from their gait. Me, for instance. I have a sort of modified version of the Ali Shuffle, except that it’s all forward motion. My feet don’t ever get too far from the ground. Can’t afford to jar the knee.
The runner up ahead wasn’t like me in the least. He was getting his knees up and moving right along, smooth and steady. Probably hitting the miles in seven minutes or a little less. I’d’ve bet a dollar it was Raymond Jackson.
So I didn’t turn around, after all. Later, I wished that I had, but he would just have caught up with me. There was a time when . . . . But that was quite a while ago.
When we met, Raymond turned and slowed to my pace. “What’s happenin’, Tru?” he said
“Nothing much, Ray,” I said. Ray’s a black man, late thirties or thereabout. My age. He’s about the size of a good NFL defensive back, but he looks to be in better shape than most of them. “How’s it with you?”
