Bullet Beth

by James Patrick Hunt

  “Maybe he was all those things. But maybe he was a con artist too. Did you ever think that?”

  “Conning us out of what?”

  “Of money, to begin with. He charged for those photo shoots, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he charged money. And maybe he borrowed some money from some women too. But they wanted to give it to him. You know, supporting the starving artist and all that.”

  “You don’t think he was exploiting these women?”

  “He was doing what they wanted him to do. No one complained, George. No one I know of. It seems to me you don’t think very much of him.”

  “I’m not sure I do,” Hastings said. “But that doesn’t really matter.”

  “You mean it doesn’t matter to you if you think he was murdered,” Terry said. “Do you think he was?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  Terry looked at him for a while. He wondered if she was angry with him, not showing much sympathy for the victim. For her, someone she was fond of and cared about. For him, a challenging case and an opportunity to take his mind off things. He wondered if his friendship with her, casual though it was, was in danger. Then her expression changed.

  She said, “I do want you to know I’m grateful to you for this. I’m sorry if seem a little defensive. You’ve done more than anyone else has.”

  “I haven’t done much.”

  Terry studied him for a moment. She said, “Is something else bothering you?”

  It was the lawsuit that was bothering him. He repressed a sudden urge to tell her about it. She wasn’t his wife and she needn’t be burdened with it.

  “No,” Hastings said. “I better be getting home.”

  He walked to his house, pondering the status of his relations with Terry. Something may have changed between them tonight. He had questioned her about something that had nothing to do with their kids basketball practice or the weather or school starting or local sports. She had revealed something about her marriage and herself. Maybe he had tricked her into doing it. Now he thought he should have left her alone. But she had been the one who came to him and asked him to look into the death of her friend.

  When he got home he turned on the television. The ten o’clock news was beginning. Hastings switched the channel to ESPN.

  “Standby! And in five, four, three, two, one.”

  The light went on and Beth Tanner said good evening and read the lead story for KLOR, Channel 23 News at Ten.

  Violence at a South County school. A boy getting off the bus and taking three bullets from suspects in a gold colored Chevy Suburban with custom wheels. Beth made a grim face as they went to footage from a county detective summarizing the event, the beginning of the first news package. Cut to an interview of the school superintendent reacting to the death. He expressed concern and said that gang activity was likely a factor. The news reporter added a comment, which had been taped before the newscast, and then the screen went back to Beth who thanked him for the story as if the reporter had been speaking to her live. That package off, the next one on. Beth went to the next story: a city police officer had shot and killed a dog in the South Broadway neighborhood. The crawl at the top of the screen said it was a KLOR 23 exclusive. The screen flashed a banner that read “Reaction to Dog Shot.” Followed by footage of a little white boy of ten describing how the police officer came to their door after a neighbor complained and the boy told the cop the dog had a shock collar and was not rabid and then the policeman shot the dog dead. The boy held his hand to his face and said, “It was this close to me.” The boy’s mother was interviewed next, the mom telling the reporter her boy had trouble sleeping at night now. Cut to a story about swine flu vaccines. Then the closing of a local health club. The city council accepting a COPS grant. A soldier from Florissant killed in Afghanistan.

  Beth performed as the camera cut from her to reporters, Beth sometimes still broadcasting while footage played. Timing was essential. It was choreographed by the news director — calling out cues, prepared by the producer, blocking it out like a play, the technical director, and the Chiron operator, rapidly typing out the names that ran across the bottom of the television. A melding of technical assistance and television production and camera shots and blue and red and white graphics, showing the viewer the news, putting on the show — for that’s what it was -- the logo ever present in the corner, above the time and temperature. But always at the center, Beth Tanner. The anchor. The ringleader, the talent, the star. The desk belonged to her. Six and ten, the premier slots.

  She was beautiful.

  Perfect cheekbones, creamy skin, thick chestnut hair and a delicious overbite. Her smile was a tool. She knew when and how to smile. Knew when and how to frown. How to move her head and how to hold a posture. She knew what to do with her hands. She knew how to modulate her tones to suit the theme of the story. She never sang her sentences, a common fault in broadcasting. Depending on what was required, her expression could be dramatic or comic or wry. She knew how to stretch a sentence when the producer whispered in her internal feedback (IFB) earpiece that they were running light. And she knew how to speed one up if they were running out of time. She was now thirty-six years old and as attractive as she ever had been. Other women in local broadcast news actually studied her movements. She was one of the best in the business. People said that when you met her in person, she really was that beautiful. Broadcast professional beautiful, which isn’t as easy to find as one might think.

  The half hour passed quickly as usual. She retreated to her office to begin stripping off her war paint. Some lines had crept into her face in the last few years. Her producer, a man five years her junior, said she was more attractive than when he had started working with her. He was actually being truthful. Still, she worried that she was becoming hard looking or, worse, weathered.

  The news director, Harry, came to her doorway.

  “Hi, Harry.”

  “Hi, Beth.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “We had a Chiron issue. He hit the wrong key. Apart from that, no problems.”

  “How did Armand’s package go?”

  “Okay.” Armand Hicks had a slight speech impediment. You had to know him for a while before you noticed it. Most of the viewers had no idea. Armand was young and handsome and black and he filmed well. He would likely move on to a bigger market if not a major network. Armand Hicks had an agent. Beth Tanner used to.

  The news director believed that Beth liked Armand. He did not know that Beth was hoping to hear that Armand had made a gaffe.

  Beth drove her Mercedes convertible home. She lived in a ranch house in Clayton. Four bedrooms and a heated pool in the backyard. The house was surrounded by an iron fence and a security gate blocked access to the driveway. Security was essential for her. She had been stalked many times, by men and women.

  She was now divorced. She had been married twice. Her second marriage had ended six months ago. Part of the problem with the last marriage had been that she made more money than her husband. She told herself she would not make that mistake again. She had never had children. She had discussed adopting a child from China with her last husband, but it hadn’t panned out.

  After she undressed and took a shower, she did a quick examination of herself in the mirror. Her breasts had some sag. Maybe it was time to fix that. But her face still looked good. She wondered what she would look like with a Chinese daughter, how she would dress the little girl and how they would photograph together.

  She pulled on a kimono and poured herself a glass of wine. She watched a rival news broadcast. A female broadcaster with a tight sweater and wire framed glasses. On balance, Beth thought the glasses were a mistake. She watched a female reporter on that same newscast. A black woman who was attractive and certainly had presence. But she wore too much green.

  When the broadcast was over she went to her bedroom closet and pulled out the laptop computer that belonged to Johnny Rodgers. She had found the video he had made for
her. It was still on the computer. The dummy hadn’t brought it to the lake, like he said he would. She wondered if he had kept any other copies. Probably he hadn’t. But then…the boy had been such a talker. He gossiped so much. Had he told anyone about her?

  She knew she should get rid of his computer now that it was done. But she liked having it. She liked looking at all the photos he had kept. She felt she had not seen them all yet. All the women he had photographed, most of them looking ridiculous in the poses he put them in. She enjoyed looking at them, sometimes laughing aloud. And there were so many of them. Maybe he had photographed one of these pitiful creatures from another station. Who knew? Certainly it was possible. Well, there was time to check. After that, she would throw the computer out.

  Hastings arrived in Kirksville around ten o’clock in the morning. He drove to an auto parts store at the north part of town. A young man at the counter asked him if he could help. Hastings told him he needed to speak to the owner.

  William Rodgers was a stocky man of about sixty. He had even teeth that made an unpleasant smile. He brought Hastings back to his office.

  Rodgers said, “Do you mind making this quick? I’ve got a business to run.”

  “I understand that, sir, and I won’t try to take up too much of your time. When was the last time you saw your son?”

  “Thanksgiving three years ago. He came up here with Miranda and the grandkids.”

  “They were still married then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you hadn’t seen him since .—since he announced he was…”

  “A pervert? No. I’ve prayed for him, though.”

  “After he made that announcement, did you write him off?”

  “Write him off…you mean, what, disown him?”

  “Yes.”

  “We stopped speaking to each other. It was as much his doing as mine.”

  “How did his mother feel about it?”

  “His mother died eight years ago. She never had to learn about it.”

  “Did you remarry?”

  “Yes. Two years ago.”

  “How did your wife feel about it?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I never told her.”

  “She knew your son was divorced, though, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  Hastings regarded this man. He did not seem like a nice person, but it was hard to see raw hatred in him. Hastings hadn’t come up here to lecture or scold him.

  Hastings said, “What did you tell her the reason for the divorce was?”

  “I said they had problems. I think that’s all she needs to know.”

  “Are you embarrassed by it?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “I don’t have a son.”

  “Well then it’s not something you can really understand then, is it?”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Mr. Rodgers nodded. Like, get on with it.

  Hastings said, “You said the estrangement was as much his doing as it was yours. What did you mean by that?”

  “I raised him Baptist. He lost his way. You think I hated him for it. I didn’t. As I stand here today, I don’t think he would have done what he did if he hadn’t gotten wrapped up in drugs and alcohol.”

  “He drank?”

  “He did when he left home. In my opinion, that’s when the problems started. He chose to live in a way that was not scriptural.”

  “Do you believe he chose to be gay?”

  “Yes.”

  Hastings paused. Then he said, “Probably he was just born that way. If he was, it would be nothing you or his mother did wrong. It’s not caused by bad parenting.”

  “It’s a choice.”

  Hastings was trying to gain the man’s sympathy. He realized he was wasting his time. Hastings asked, “How did you learn about his death?”

  “The police chief called my daughter. She called me.”

  “And then you both went down there to identify him?”

  “Yes.”

  Hastings studied him. His grief seemed genuine. Hastings said, “Where were you when the chief called?”

  “At home with my wife.”

  “And your daughter?”

  “She was working.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “At the Kettle Steak House. And no, I didn’t kill my own son.”

  Hastings said, “No one’s saying that.”

  “Then why did you come up here?”

  To eliminate him as a suspect. But he wouldn’t tell him that. Hastings said, “How well did you know Johnny?”

  “Sir, I regret to say I hardly knew him at all. Years ago he left home to go to college and he came back a stranger. And then he just quit coming. I’m sure he thought his mother and I were hicks. Small town, narrow minded bigots. I prayed for him and for my grandchildren. I prayed that he would come to his senses and go back to his family and that I could welcome him back like the prodigal son. It never happened. He died a stranger.”

  “Yet you brought him back here.”

  “Yes.”

  “And gave him a Christian burial?”

  William Rodgers couldn’t quite meet his eye. Maybe he felt ashamed.

  “…yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hastings said.

  Rodgers wouldn’t look at him. They were both quiet for a moment.

  Then in a strained voice, Rodgers said, “Why would somebody kill him? He wouldn’t hurt anyone. He was a good boy.”

  “I don’t know,” Hastings said. “There’s some evidence that he was mixed up in something, maybe mixed up with some bad people. If that’s the case, we have to find out about it and try to bring that person or people to justice.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Rodgers said. “All my life I’ve tried to do what’s right. I’ve lost a son. I’ve been hoping he did kill himself. Can you believe that? I hoped that he committed suicide. You must think I’m terrible.”

  “No.”

  Now Rodgers was crying. “He didn’t deserve that,” he said. “No one deserves that.”

  “You’re right,” Hastings said. “He didn’t.”

  • • •

  “You got a court order?”

  “No,” Hastings said.

  “You don’t have a court order, I don’t have to let you search the car. I know the law.”

  “How about if I ask you nice?” Hastings said.

  Tudi Rodgers was a short heavy woman with bad skin. She was on break now from the Kettle Steak House. There were stains on her apron. She emanated a vibe of anger and resentment and shitty disposition. She reminded Hastings of his hometown. He felt sorry for her.

  “That car belongs to us now,” Tudi Rodgers said. “I have the right to sell it.”

  “The car belonged to your brother,” Hastings said. “Do you have a copy of his will?”

  “He didn’t leave one. By state law, his property goes to his family. And that’s us.”

  “That’s his children. He had two. By law, this car belongs to them.”

  Tudi Rodgers blinked a couple of times and didn’t say anything.

  Hastings said, “And that means you had no business taking it.”

  “I ain’t no thief,” she said.

  “I’m sure you’re not,” Hastings said. “I’m sure you just misunderstood. Right?”

  “I would have given them the money. It ain’t worth much anyway.”

  Hastings looked at the car. A ten year old Ford Explorer with faded paint and a shoddy interior. Hastings said, “Give me the keys.”

  She hesitated, looking back to the restaurant, wondering if it could help her with this one.

  Hastings said, “You can give me the keys or I can call the District Attorney and report you.”

  She handed him the keys.

  Hastings pulled on latex gloves and went through the car. Fortunately, Tudi Rodgers had been too lazy to clean it. In the glove compartment he found
a box of toothpicks and a pack of cigarettes and a map of Chicago. He went through the side pockets of the driver’s and passenger doors. In the driver’s side he found an expired insurance verification and a photograph of Johnny Rodgers with his two children. He put that in a little evidence bag. He went through the back seats and the cargo area and didn’t find anything. Then he lifted up the floor mats and didn’t see anything. He looked under the driver’s seat and found a scrap of paper. He took this out and unfolded it.

  On the piece of paper was written, “B.B. at lake — 8.”

  He didn’t find anything else.

  He asked Tudi who B.B. was.

  Tudi Rodgers shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know who that is. Look, I haven’t seen Johnny in years. I don’t know who his friends are.”

  B.B. could have meant bed and breakfast. But that wouldn’t have made sense. Rodgers hadn’t been found at a bed and breakfast.

  Hastings said, “Does this look like his handwriting?”

  “I think so.”

  And Hastings thought, he wrote this note to himself but didn’t write an address down. B.B. at lake, maybe at eight in the evening. But no address. Had he memorized the address or had he been there before? Who or what was B.B.?

  Hastings said, “How did you get the keys to this vehicle?”

  “The police gave them to us.”

  “Chief Dobbs?”

  “Yes. He didn’t see anything wrong with it.”

  “There was a key to his apartment. Do you have it?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever?”

  “No. I had to call his landlord to get into his apartment.”

  “Why did you want to go there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you take anything from there? Don’t lie to me now.”