Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy

by Rehder, Ben

  “Any word from Lem yet?” Marlin asked.

  Garza checked his watch. “I was just fixing to go see him. Want to join me?”

  John Marlin enjoyed the latitude his position gave him. His primary role was to enforce hunting and fishing laws—and he loved every minute of it. But as a peace officer with the state, he was free to assist the sheriff anytime Garza asked. These investigations added a little extra excitement to the job.

  At the county morgue, Garza parked his cruiser next to Lem Tucker’s ancient Chevy Suburban. The morgue was housed in an old Dairy Queen building, with the windows painted black and the signage removed. But the exterior of the building still featured a perky red-and-white color scheme. The only indication that the building had any official capacity was a small sign on the door that read BLANCO COUNTY CORONER’S OFFICE.

  Both men stepped inside and Garza called out Lem’s name.

  “Back here.”

  The interior of the building hadn’t changed much since its restaurant days, except that the booths had been replaced by desks and filing cabinets. Garza and Marlin found Lem behind the walk-in freezer, in a corner that housed an autopsy table, a hanging scale, and several other stainless-steel tools of Lem’s trade. Lem stood next to the autopsy table, where Oliver Searcy’s body still rested.

  “I’m just about finished,” Lem said. He was a lean man in his late thirties, with sandy hair quickly going gray. All three men had known one another since childhood, though Marlin was a handful of years older than the other two. Nobody shook hands, chiefly because Tucker was still wearing bloody latex gloves.

  “What’s the story?” Garza asked. On the occasions when Marlin had reason to visit the morgue, he noticed there was rarely any small talk.

  “Just to set your curious minds at ease, it definitely wasn’t a chupacabra,” Tucker deadpanned. “I know you gentlemen were hoping for a little X-Files kind of excitement in your lives, but this ain’t it.”

  Marlin and Garza chuckled to be polite.

  Tucker pointed toward the wound on the neck, which was no longer recognizable. It had been deeply splayed open, like a flower in bloom, and Marlin found himself staring at what he assumed were Searcy’s vertebrae. The torso was even worse, the rib cage cracked open, the chest cavity empty. The abdomen was a grotesque mess, the skin ragged, rather than cleanly incised.

  “It was the neck injury that killed him,” Tucker said. “Near as I can tell, the wound was made from a long pointed instrument, more than likely made of steel. Round shaft, about ten millimeters thick. It slammed directly into the spinal column, and he died in seconds, if not instantly. Not a great deal of blood loss, since it missed the carotid. Difficult to determine if he had any other injuries through the torso, because of the damage from scavengers. Most of the organs were gone or pretty mangled. What the hell got after him, anyway? Wild pigs?”

  Garza looked to Marlin.

  “Hard to say. Not pigs, though, because you wouldn’t have this much left to work with.”

  “Lucky me,” Tucker said flatly.

  “Back to the steel instrument,” Garza said. “Any guesses as to what it was?”

  “This’d be speculation, now…”

  “Sure.”

  “I’d say maybe a screwdriver. Driven in all the way to the handle.”

  8

  HARD NEWS TONIGHT was anything but, in Rudi Villarreal’s opinion. Heck, in anyone’s opinion, the show was nothing but fluff. A lot of gossip and speculation and innuendo, plus a healthy dose of titillation. Who’s sleeping with whom? Which Hollywood hunk is allegedly gay but afraid to come out of the closet? Whose boob popped out on the red carpet at the Oscars? Pure pabulum really.

  And Rudi Villarreal was the show’s rising star.

  No, she wasn’t the anchor yet (and it was really a stretch to use the word anchor anyway); she was still a field reporter. But she knew Chad, her boss, had big plans for her—beyond his ongoing plans to get her into bed, that is.

  That wasn’t much consolation.

  Looking back, Rudi sometimes wondered how her career had gotten so pitifully sidetracked. Thirty-six years old, and she was nowhere near the network news position she had always envisioned for herself. And if not one of the major networks, then maybe CNN, MSNBC, or even—God help her—Fox News.

  But Hard News Tonight?

  It was more than depressing; it was enough to make her cry into her pillow at night.

  Amazingly, Rudi’s coworkers appeared to enjoy their jobs, seemed to thrive on dishing out garbage on a nightly basis.

  Well, there was one guy who seemed to share the same lofty ambitions as Rudi. A producer named Barry Grubbman. Kind of a quiet guy. Young. Semicute. Kind of passive, though, and Rudi could never picture him producing a network newscast. Regardless, they had become friends, kindred spirits in a sea of empty souls, as far as Rudi was concerned. They grabbed lunch together about once a week, the occasional drink after work.

  Late Wednesday afternoon, Rudi stopped in Barry’s office doorway on her way to the coffee machine. He was staring intently at his computer screen, so preoccupied he didn’t even notice her standing there.

  “Haven’t I warned you about those porn sites?” Rudi said, causing Barry to jump.

  “Oh man, you startled me. What’s up, Rudi?”

  “Getting some coffee. You want some?”

  “Hey, let me run an idea past you,” Barry said, ignoring her question. “You got a minute?”

  Rudi took a seat in the chair in front of his desk. His office was tiny, not much larger than a closet, and there was hardly room for the chair between the desk and the wall. “Let’s hear it.” Maybe Barry had discovered a way for them both to get hired by 60 Minutes. Yeah, sure.

  “Well, you know how Chad is always talking about fresh concepts?” He glanced at his computer screen again. “I’ve been following a story in Texas. Small newspaper site, not much content, but there’s something kind of interesting. At least I think it is.”

  Rudi stood, about to make her way around his desk.

  Barry put up his hands. “First, though, you gotta promise not to laugh.”

  Rudi promised, and they switched positions, Rudi leaning for a closer look at the screen. She held one hand to her blouse. Yeah, Barry was her friend, but she still caught him trying to sneak a peek now and then.

  She read the first few paragraphs. “A chupacabra?” she said. “Is this for real?”

  Barry nodded.

  “And it supposedly killed a man?”

  Barry started to turn red. “It’s just an idea. Maybe it’s stupid. Just be honest, okay?”

  Rudi scrolled down and read the entire story. Then she read it again as Barry fidgeted.

  Finally, she looked up. “I think it’s got potential.”

  She had never seen Barry grin quite so hard. “You do? You really do?”

  “Yep, and Chad will, too.”

  “Think so?”

  “Uh-huh. Just leave it to me.”

  Holed up in his office, Duke longed for the good old days. It used to be, you could kill just about any kind of exotic animal you wanted to in Texas. Impala and gemsbok. Zebra and kudu. Hell, you could even shoot a giraffe, if that’s what got your rocks off. And, of course, the all-time favorites—the big cats. They were all fair game, and it wasn’t anybody’s damn business who was shooting what.

  But there was always someone who wanted to come along and drop a turd in the punch bowl, and in this case, it was liberal groups like the Humane Society, PETA, and a bunch of other Commies with sticks up their butts. They were always whining that these so-called canned hunts were unsporting and most of the animals were too tame even to know they should run. Well, so what?—that’s what Duke thought. Beef cattle didn’t know to run, either, and those were slaughtered by the thousands every day. Where did those morons think Big Macs came from—wild, free-ranging Black Angus?

  Besides, if some rich guy wanted to shoot a lion, that was between the hun
ter and the lion, just like Mother Nature intended. You didn’t see the lion complaining about it. Exotic hunts were big business, too, pumping millions of dollars into the economy every year. Some guys, that’s the only way they made a living, finding animals and guiding hunts. Just like the pinkos to try to take away a man’s right to earn a decent living.

  Well, they hadn’t completely ruined everything yet. You could still hunt a wide variety of imported animals, and you could hunt them in just about any manner you chose. But the liberals had had one big victory, and it gave Duke a migraine every time he thought about it. The bunny-huggers kept putting pressure on the state, and the Parks and Wildlife Department finally caved in with a new hunting law. It was now illegal to hold various “dangerous” wild animals in captivity and then release them for hunting—including lions, leopards, and cheetahs, wolves and bears, rhinos, and, yes, even hyenas.

  Fortunately, there was still a healthy black market. You could get your hands on any type of animal you wanted if you knew the right people. Luckily, Duke knew several of them. Most of them were licensed animal dealers or legitimate breeders, but they ran some of their business under the table for guys like Duke. They got the majority of their stock from zoos that needed to get rid of surplus animals—out with the old gray lion, for instance, in with the cute new lion cub born last week. Those displaced animals had to go somewhere, and to Duke’s good fortune, they often went to dealers who were willing to pay a fair price.

  Duke picked up the phone and called one of his most reliable contacts. “Hey, Ryan, it’s Duke.”

  “What’s up, man?”

  “Nothing, except I was wondering: How hard would it be for you to get me another hyena?”

  “You serious? You find someone who likes shooting the damn things?”

  “Long fucking story. Need another one, though.”

  “Well, yeah, I can help you out, but it’ll take a couple weeks. Maybe a month.”

  Shit. That geezer Raines might die by then, Duke thought. Duke pushed, but Ryan couldn’t deliver any faster.

  He hung up and made a few more calls. One guy said he was lying low for the moment, trying to renew his license, and he didn’t want to screw anything up. Another said, “Hey, how about a couple of wildebeests and a Thomson’s gazelle instead? I’ll make you a hell of a deal.”

  Duke told him no, it had to be a hyena.

  “Sorry.”

  Duke continued down his list, and struck out on every call. The problem was the time frame. Duke wanted the hyena now, not in a month or two. Who knew how long Raines would be willing to wait. For that matter, who knew how long the fucker would even be able to write a check, much less shoulder a rifle.

  And Duke really needed that twenty grand. Oliver Searcy had been found, the county was buzzing with the news, and Duke needed to be ready if he had to haul ass. Maybe get out of town until this whole mess blew over. Lord knows, Duke’s girlfriend, Sally Ann, wouldn’t give a shit if he was gone. Probably throw a goddamn party. All because she’d heard that Duke was slipping it to a barmaid down in Blanco. Duke denied it, but Sally Ann didn’t want to listen. Of course, it was true, but she didn’t know that for a fact. Just like a woman to believe loose gossip instead of her old man.

  Anyway, Duke figured he and Gus could head up to Alaska and guide caribou hunters for a season or two. A man would be damn hard to find in a state that size—if anybody even came looking. But they damn sure couldn’t make the trip without some cash.

  Duke shuddered when he thought about his feeble-brained brother. He was the weak link in all this, the one who could blow it all and land them both in prison. And since the telephone account at the office was in Gus’s name, the cops would probably go to him first. Just this morning, Duke had sat Gus down and warned him the cops might be nosing around. “They’re gonna try and pin it on me, even though I had nothing to do with it,” Duke said. “So as far as you’re concerned, you never met Oliver Searcy. And for Christ’s sake, don’t tell ’em I took Searcy hunting.”

  Gus had responded with a prolonged giggle—not exactly a confidence builder. So Duke had given him strict instructions: “Just lay low for a while, okay? Hang out at the house—and whatever you do, don’t answer the goddamn phone or doorbell.”

  Rudi stuck her head back into Barry’s office. “Pack your bags, cowboy. We’re going to Texas.”

  Barry’s eyes snapped up from his computer screen. “What? Really? When?”

  “Right now. Tonight. We’ve got a flight in three hours.”

  Barry was standing now, excited. “You’re kidding! Chad liked it?”

  Rudi whispered, “At first, I pitched it like it was my idea—and he loved it! I showed him the Web site, and once he bought in, I said, ‘Oh, by the way, Barry found this.’ It worked like a charm.”

  Barry giggled. “Did he know you played him?”

  “Not a clue. There is one tiny bit of bad news, though. He wants to go with us.”

  Barry groaned. “To Texas? You’re shitting me.”

  “I wish I was. But we’ll have fun anyway. Now go home and get packed.” She tried a drawl: “We gotta skedaddle.”

  Something else Dr. King, the vet, had told Marlin the day after he had found Geist: “You got yourself a pit bull here, you know that?”

  The pup was back on her haunches atop a stainless-steel exam table, staring at Marlin with those large brown eyes. She gave him a somber look that seemed to say, Okay, now you know. Are we still friends?

  Up to then, Marlin had thought of her as a generic puppy. Gangly legs, wet nose, and a tail that wouldn’t stop wagging. He hadn’t put much thought into what breed she was. But a pit bull? No, Marlin hadn’t realized that. “You sure?”

  “No doubt. See the size of her head and how wide her jaw is? And through here, the broad chest. I would say she’s not even a mix. One hundred percent pit is my guess, but there’s no way to know for sure with a stray.”

  Marlin considered that. He’d never had a problem with a pit bull before, but then again, he hadn’t dealt with very many. He wondered if the media hype matched up with reality. Were pit bulls sweet and loyal right up to the minute they chewed your arm off?

  “Don’t look so concerned.” Dr. King laughed.

  “Well, no, I’m not, really.”

  “It’s all in how you raise ’em, John.” The vet tussled Geist’s head, and she immediately wanted to play tug-of-war with his fingers. Suddenly, Marlin became painfully aware of how much play biting the dog seemed to do. He wondered if that much aggression was normal.

  “She’s a sweet one,” Dr. King said.

  “Yeah, yeah, she is, but how big is she going to get?” Marlin asked.

  “Oh, maybe forty, fifty pounds. That’s about average. But some get up to seventy or eighty, sometimes even larger.”

  An eighty-pound pit bull? Marlin began to wonder what he was getting himself into. He’d been thinking about keeping the dog, but now he was having second thoughts. Did he really need these responsibilities right now? He was having a tough time just remembering to feed himself lately.

  There had been a warm and beautiful light named Becky in Marlin’s life until a month ago, but she was gone now, and Marlin was doing his best to cope with it. People are drawn together and pulled apart by all types of forces, and in this case, it was Becky’s career. She was a nurse, and even the promise of a new high-tech county hospital hadn’t been enough to make Blanco County her permanent home.

  “It’s a commitment,” Dr. King said, almost as if he were privy to Marlin’s thoughts. “Any dog is, though. If you decide she’s not for you, no big deal. Just let me know and I’m sure I can find a home for her.”

  Marlin had taken Geist home that day, thinking he’d give it a week or so and then make up his mind. Looking back on it now, watching the dog romp in the backyard, a bittersweet smile crossed Marlin’s face. Geist had made up his mind for him.

  He opened the door and Geist bounded inside. Marlin stepped in
to the kitchen and poured a bowl of kibble. He was preparing his own dinner when Bobby Garza called.

  “You ever hear of Gus Waldrip?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve checked his license once or twice. He lives on Flat Creek Road. I think he guides over at Kyle Dawson’s place now and then.”

  “That’s good to know. Oliver Searcy called a couple of different guides here in the county. Three, actually. We’ve talked to the other two and they check out okay. Searcy called Gus Waldrip on Sunday, but we haven’t been able to track him down.”

  Marlin said, “He has a brother who lives with him, I think. Goes by Dirk, or something like that.”

  “Yeah, the records show his name as Richard, nickname Duke. Do you know if he guides, too?”

  Marlin checked so many hunting camps each season, it was difficult to remember. “You know, I don’t think so. I believe I’ve seen him and Gus hanging around with customers, but I don’t remember him guiding. I could be wrong. I’ve only seen them for the last couple seasons. I think they were born around here but moved away for a while. Then they came back when their mother died.”

  “You know where they were living before?”

  “Let’s see. Up in Burnet County? I think it was just south of Lampasas.”

  “Tell you what: I’m gonna check with the sheriff up there, but would you mind giving the warden a call? See what he has to say about them?”

  “Will do. I’ll give you a ring back.”

  “Okay, pardner, I appreciate it.”

  At nine o’clock, the cops showed up for a third time—and Gus thought it was hilarious. He was peeking through the window, grinning, and could see the sheriff and one of his deputies getting out of a squad car. Gus quickly closed the curtain. It was kind of fun, actually—like a game of hide-and-seek.

  Then Gus thought, Clambake.