The Last Death of Jack Harbin

by Terry Shames

  “That’s okay. But we’d better call Rodell now and get the wheels turning.” Neither of us makes a move to the phone.

  “You got a cell phone with a camera on it?”

  “Samuel, what would I be doing with something like that?”

  “I just know some people have them. Not me.” There’s probably a camera around here somewhere, but I don’t want to go poking around looking for it.

  Jack’s bedroom is small and not particularly tidy. There’s an overflowing ashtray on the bedside stand. “I’m surprised that Jack didn’t die from starting a fire in his bed.” I’m searching for something to say.

  “That smoke is awful. He wouldn’t let me open a window in here. I don’t see why a man with all his health problems wanted to make it worse. But I’ve seen that before.”

  Nudie magazines, veteran’s affairs publications, and paperbacks are scattered around the bed, and some have spilled onto the floor in the struggle. His taste in books runs to detective novels with lurid covers, depicting buxom women and guns. Then it strikes me, once again, that Jack couldn’t have seen any of these books and magazines.

  “Did people read to him?”

  “Yes, he liked to be read to.”

  “And these?” I point to a copy of Hustler.

  “His friends got great pleasure out of describing the women to him.” Her voice borders on the disapproving, but she keeps her expression neutral. Dottie is a devout churchgoer, and she’s taken to heart the adage not to cast stones.

  The bedside stand is crowded with plastic medicine bottles. I crouch down so I can read the labels without touching them.

  “I don’t know why he didn’t cry out. I’m a light sleeper. I would have heard him.”

  “Darvocet. Did he take that all the time?”

  “Only when he was in pain. But I think he needed a lot of it.”

  “If he took one of those, he might have been too sound asleep to know anybody was in the room. And by the time he woke up enough, it was too late to cry out.” I’m wondering how the killer could see in the dark. The light is on, and Dottie said she didn’t touch anything. But it seems strange that someone would risk turning on the light. “Did Jack sleep with a light on?”

  “Always. He told me it was so Bob wouldn’t have to stumble around in the dark. And I kept it up for the same reason.” Dottie gazes at Jack with deep pity. “I don’t know how somebody could have been mean enough to do this. What harm could he do anyone?” Her voice breaks and she swipes at her eyes. “He was in a good mood when I put him to bed. We joked. I told him some funny stories about my grandson and he was laughing. Seems like I would have heard something with all this mayhem.”

  I lay a hand on her arm. “This is not your fault, Dottie. It may have been good that you didn’t hear anything, because whoever murdered Jack might have killed you, too.”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I go into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, and while it drips through, I call down to the police station and rouse James Harley Krueger. He tells me he’ll call Rodell and the coroner’s office in Bobtail and then he’ll come right over.

  “No need for the siren,” I say, wanting to spare the neighbors. James Harley uses the siren liberally.

  When I get off the phone, Dottie has put on a sweater, smoothed her hair into its usual bun, and applied some lipstick, although her face is still deadly pale. I tell her I’ve called the police, but that I’ll wait a couple of hours to call Curtis. “Nothing he can do right now anyway,” I say.

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate not being bothered,” she says. From the sarcasm in her voice, I can tell she shares my opinion of Curtis.

  Marybeth should be told what happened, too. But this time I’d better go tell her in person.

  I wander into the living room and see that the back door is open an inch. “That’s how he got in,” I say.

  Dottie stares at the door, frowning. “I know I closed that door.”

  “But was it locked?”

  “No, not locked. Jack said he hadn’t bothered to lock the doors since his daddy died. I guess for a few days his friend Walter was camping in the backyard and that door was left unlocked in case he wanted to come inside for anything in the night, and Jack didn’t get back in the habit of locking up. But I know I closed it.”

  I turn on the back patio light and step outside. Leaves are skittering across the yard, and I feel a few scattered drops of rain. If there are footprints, the rain will soon obliterate them. And besides, with all the activity here in the last few days, there must be hundreds of footprints.

  Dottie and I sit down in the living room to wait for James Harley. I feel both restless and useless, and the change in weather is making my knee throb. In the back of my mind, I’m trying to make some sense out of Jack’s death. “Do you know if Jack has had a bad run-in with anybody recently?”

  Dottie considers. “I get here at ten o’clock every night, and the other night when I arrived he and his friend Walter were hollering at each other. But by the time he left, they were laughing.”

  “You know what they were fighting about?”

  She sighs, thinks, and then shakes her head. “Something silly. Probably football. That’s what usually gets everybody riled up. I remember thinking at the time it was just an excuse to butt up against each other, to keep from getting bored.”

  “Anything else unusual? Anything that struck you as odd?”

  “No more than usual. I always thought Jack was odd. He could have done more for himself, but he seemed more than happy to be taken care of.”

  “He had bad injuries.”

  “I’ve seen worse in my years as a nurse. People who could barely move managed to make a life for themselves. People who wanted to be independent.”

  “I imagine his was a hard combination. Even if he could get around on crutches, he couldn’t see where he was going.”

  “I’m just saying there are those who wouldn’t have taken advantage the way he did.”

  Even though we are expecting James Harley, his sharp rap on the front door startles us. The first thing I see when I open the door is the barrel of a gun.

  “James Harley, put the gun away,” I snap.

  James Harley is plastered up against the front of the house, to the right of the door. He peeks his head around the side. “Everything okay here?”

  “We’re not fixing to shoot you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Dottie says under her breath to me. “That’s why I called you.”

  James Harley edges into the living room, sticking his gun back in his holster. He’s Rodell Skinner’s favorite lieutenant, being not too bright and inclined to go along with Rodell in most things. He yawns and scratches his considerable belly that seems to get bigger every time I see him. “Chief Craddock, I’ll take it from here. I called the ambulance and they should be along after a while. They’ll take the body to Bobtail. Then it’s T. J.’s problem.”

  T. J. Sutter is the justice of the peace charged with the duties of the medical examiner. In the instance of a murder, the JP usually calls in an ME from Houston or San Antonio to do the autopsy. But it isn’t T. J.’s job to investigate the crime. “Why would it be T. J.’s problem?”

  “I just mean he’ll have information for us.” James Harley speaks in a lofty tone to dismiss my impertinent questions. “Jack back there?” He points toward the hallway. I tell him the body is in the bedroom on the right. James Harley saunters into the bedroom, and I don’t hear any movement. When he comes out his expression hasn’t changed, as if observing a grisly murder is all in a day’s work.

  “You going to call in somebody to get forensic evidence?” I ask.

  James Harley glares at me. As former chief of police, I know how all this works. And I also know he never would have thought to get evidence if I hadn’t mentioned it. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he says. “We’re on it.”

  “Where i
s Rodell?” I ask. “Is he on his way?”

  “He’ll be along.”

  Somewhere along the line, talking to James Harley always makes me feel testy, and I’ve just about reached that point. “Well did you talk to him?”

  “I said he’ll be along. And you two need to vacate the premises.” He waves Dottie Gant and me toward the door. “We’ve got a crime scene here.”

  I’m reluctant to leave. I’m pretty sure James Harley hasn’t reached Rodell. Big surprise. And no telling what James Harley will do left to his own devices. Probably lie down on the couch and sleep until the ambulance arrives, and never bother to call the highway patrol.

  “Listen here.” I step up toe to toe with him to make my point. “Jack Harbin has been murdered. It’s got to be taken seriously. Somebody needs to take pictures and collect evidence.”

  His face is flushed—he’s not happy with my interference. But he goes into the kitchen to contact the Texas Highway Patrol so they can send somebody to help out. When he gets off the phone, things are quiet in the kitchen. Then I hear him dialing the phone again. “This is Deputy James Harley Krueger from the Jarrett Creek Police Department. I just called for an ambulance on a homicide, and, uh, we need to hold off on that. THP will call when they’re ready for you.”

  When I get home, dawn is still a long way off, but the sky is pale gray, light enough to see. I walk down to the pasture and find that the cows are spooked, feeling the change in the weather. There’s one who always gets upset at any little thing. She bucks a couple of times when she sees me, to let me know things aren’t right. I talk quietly while I feed and water them, but it doesn’t help much, with the wind picking up and the scent of rain in the air. It’s going to be a long day.

  The whole while, I’m thinking, who would stand to gain by killing Jack? Was there an old score that needed settling? That tends in Woody’s direction. It’s hard to imagine Jack being a threat to anybody, but threats come in all varieties. And something else is bothering me. Bob was barely cold in his grave before Jack was murdered. Is there some connection between Bob’s and Jack’s deaths? Why did Benadryl show up in Bob’s system? Maybe Jack was right and Bob didn’t knowingly take it. Maybe somebody slipped it to him to knock him out. Who would be served by having them both out of the way? Curtis comes to mind. Marybeth will probably inherit half of Jack’s money, too, but between the two of them, I’d bet on Curtis.

  I take a shower to get rid of the smell of death I imagine clinging to me. When I’m dressed, dawn is just tinting the sky. This morning it’s a purple and pink sunrise, reflecting off the tower of clouds to the west. While I drink my coffee, I stand in front of a painting that I bought a few months ago. The artist is a young man, a boy really, who loves the land as much as I do, and who captures the deceptive softness of a storm approaching over a sparse field. I have come to appreciate it even more than when I first saw it, and it seems to fit with the storm I know is coming.

  Worried that James Harley will leave important things undone, I return to Jack’s place to find James Harley out on the sidewalk with a scattering of law enforcement personnel. There’s a highway patrol duo and a tall hulk of a man, dressed in khaki pants and shirt with a wide belt and a cowboy hat, with his back to me.

  They all turn toward at me as I hobble up. The big man steps forward. “Well, I don’t believe my eyes. Samuel Craddock, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you’d retired.”

  “I might ask you the same thing, Luke.” I’m happy to shake hands with Luke Schoppe. The “wheel” badge on his shirt tells me he’s still with the Texas Rangers. If he’s been brought in to investigate this crime, he’ll make short work of it.

  Schoppe turns to the patrol duo. “If Samuel is on this, we might as well go home. He’ll have it cleared it up in no time.”

  “Oh, no. Not me. You’re right. I retired from law enforcement a long time ago. This is up to you fellows.”

  Schoppe points to the highway patrolmen. “We’re not really assigned to this case. Me and these THP officers have been out since midnight on a big wreck out near Dimebox. We got diverted over here on our way back home.” He jerks a thumb in James Harley’s direction. “This deputy here says his chief should arrive before too long.”

  James Harley has his hands on his hips and his legs spread wide, like he’s trying to look bigger than he is. His hat is tipped back on his head. “Yeah, Chief Skinner should be coming along any minute now.”

  The highway patrol contingent looks frazzled. Schoppe throws a worried look my way, and I can see that he’s read James Harley Krueger’s shortcomings. “I was just telling Deputy Krueger that we’ve got a big problem. We’ll be glad to go in there and take evidence, get photos and what not, but it’ll be a while before we can sort out our findings. These budget cuts are killing us. So it might be better if your police officers take the lead.”

  Getting wind of where this is headed, James Harley says. “Well, I’m going to have to leave you boys to get on with it. I’ve got some things to see about. Rodell will sort it out with you.”

  Schoppe straightens even taller and gives James Harley the once-over. He’s not a lawman who would think of leaving a crime scene until he was sure it was properly secured. I can see he’s about to ask James Harley what’s so all-fired important that he has to drop a murder investigation for, when I butt in.

  “I’ll tell you what, James Harley. I’ll stay here until somebody from the department gets here. I promise I won’t interfere with your job.” I have no intention of waiting around for Rodell or any of his men to show up, but I’m afraid if Schoppe says anything to James Harley, he’ll stick around and get in the way.

  “I guess that would be all right,” he says.

  The four of us watch him scurry to his car. Just then a bolt of lightning scatters across the sky and we pause, startled, and wait for the thunder. It takes several seconds, which means the storm is still some distance away. The wind whips up in a flurry and the smell of rain is strong, although it’s no more than a promise, and could come to nothing.

  “If that doesn’t beat everything,” Schoppe says as James Harley drives away. “Just leaving us to it.”

  “I don’t want to say too much, but you’re not losing a whole lot with him gone,” I say.

  “No surprise there.” Schoppe turns to the highway patrol pair. “Let’s get our gear and collect the evidence so we can head on home.”

  Investigation of capital crimes in small towns in Texas is convoluted. Not that we have all that many murders, but when we do, state authorities have jurisdiction. That can be highway patrol, but more likely Texas Rangers, working with the county sheriff’s office.

  The medical examiner in the nearest big city also gets involved with the examination of the victim. And sometimes even the FBI gets called on certain cases. But it’s not unusual for a good bit of time to pass before much investigation gets done. That is unless it’s a serial crime, a mass murder, or some kind of political thing.

  I help Schoppe carry in the forensic gear. “How’d you happen by here anyway?” he says.

  I tell him how my morning unfolded. “I came back because I had a feeling James Harley wasn’t going to take care of business.”

  “Where’s the chief?”

  “Likely on a bender.”

  “Like that, huh?”

  In Jack’s room Schoppe gets out his fingerprint ID kit. One of the patrolmen begins taking photos, lots of them. Schoppe points to Jack’s body, which by now has gone rigid. “You know anything about how this poor boy lost his leg?”

  I give Schoppe a sketch of Jack’s background, including the fact that not only did he lose a leg, but was also blinded.

  “Jesus H. Christ! Who would have done something like this to a busted up war vet?”

  They work swiftly. I go in and make a pot of coffee, which they’re grateful for. After about ten minutes, we hear doors slamming outside. I look out and see that the ambulance has arrived. I bring the drivers
inside and they wait with me in the kitchen until the investigative crew has finished up.

  Schoppe hangs back after everybody leaves, and we catch up a little on each other’s lives. We’re oddly embarrassed to find that we’ve both lost our wives recently, as if somehow we were careless. But he’s got two kids and reports that they’re doing well, and he’s a grandpa.

  Before long he’s yawning and gets up to go. “I don’t envy those patrolmen. They had a rough night. A four-car pile-up with two teenagers dead and an old boy who’s probably not going to make it. He was torn up pretty bad. Crushed. People in the other cars had broken bones and scrapes.”

  I’d forgotten that Schoppe has a little of the ghoul in him. He relishes going over the worst details of car accidents and crimes. I guess it’s his way of dealing with the demons that come with seeing the terrible things people do to themselves and others.

  At the door, we shake hands and promise to be in touch, though I doubt we will. “I notice you didn’t put up crime scene tape,” I say.

  “We’ve got everything we need. I don’t know what officer this will be assigned to, or when. Shame, when you consider his sacrifice.”

  All this has taken a lot less time than it seemed to. It’s barely eight o’clock when I call Walter Dunn. Fifteen minutes later I hear his motorcycle pull into the driveway. He tromps into the house and heads straight for Jack’s bedroom.

  He stays in the room for a long time, and when he comes out his eyes are red. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He looks around, distracted. I know how he feels. “I guess his suffering is over now,” he says. Then he smacks the flat of his hand on the wall. “What kind of coward attacks a man who can’t fight back?”

  “He put up a pretty good fight. Whoever did it not only stabbed him, but strangled him so he’d keep quiet.”

  “Lord, have mercy.” Dunn hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  I fetch him a cup of coffee. He grabs it with a beefy paw, like it’s a lifeline.