The sheriff’s door was open and I rapped with my knuckles on the jamb. He looked up from a pile of papers, a Coke can at his elbow. There was no computer on his desk. Blackie uses one when he has to, but he says he doesn’t want to be chained to it.
“Mornin’, China,” he drawled, and leaned back in his chair. “Sheila get you fixed up last night?”
“No, but she straightened me out,” I said. Before he could speak, I added, “Sheila told me, Blackie. About your quitting.” I raised both eyebrows. “Imagine my surprise.”
“I’ll bet,” he said dryly. “You’re not the only one who’s surprised.”
“I’m sure. Anyway, I passed the word along to McQuaid on the phone last night. He’ll be back today. He said he wanted to talk to you, when you have some time.”
“Yeah, sure.” He ran a hand through his buzz cut, looking rueful. “I told the folks here this morning. Hard to do. Really hard.”
“I’ll bet,” I said sympathetically. Blackie has always been completely dedicated to his job and to his staff, and the people he works with know it. Leaving must feel like he’s letting them down—and letting them in for months of the crazy political chaos that can happen only in Texas, with candidates tossing their Stetsons into the ring and dancing their two-party fandangos. It won’t be a pretty sight.
He threw his pencil down on the desk. “The thing is, Sheila and I know we’d never make it work if both of us stayed in this business. So . . .” He lifted his shoulders and let them fall.
“So you had to make a choice. Either you quit, or she quits.”
“Yeah. That was pretty much it.”
I grinned. “I ain’t never gonna tell how you two decided which was which, Blackie. But personally, I think flipping a coin is pretty cool. Fair, too.”
“Only rational way to do it,” he said, answering my grin. “So what can I do for you this morning, China?”
“You can let me see the crime scene photos that you showed to the intern from the newspaper on Monday. And tell me about your interview with her.”
He tilted his head, his eyes curious. “Oh, yeah? Why?”
“Because nobody knows where she is. I wondered if there was something in those photos or the interview that might have . . .” I shrugged, not wanting to finish the sentence. “I guess maybe I’m clutching at straws. Did Sheila tell you why I called you last night?”
“Yeah. There was a phone call on your answering machine. Got you worried. The girl still hasn’t turned up?”
“No. Her roommate’s out of town. Hark went by her house and it was locked up tight. I phoned there again this morning and got no answer—no answer on her cell, either.”
“And you think this has something to do with this arson-homicide?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that nobody’s heard from her. Okay if I see the photos?”
He gave me a dubious squint. “You sure you want to?”
“No. But I figure if anybody has the right to see them, I do. I was the one who made the 9-1-1 call. I have the scorched eyebrows to prove it.”
“Yeah. But these photos are . . .” He broke off and pushed his chair back. “Well, come on, then. Down the hall.”
The computer was on a table in a small library. He pulled out a chair for me, booted the machine, and brought up a photo of the victim in gruesome color. “I told you so,” he said softly, and stepped back.
Until now, the dead woman had been only a compelling voice, an awful idea. But the photograph gave her an inescapable reality, although the body was so grotesquely burned that I couldn’t have told that it was a woman. The charred corpse lay on a charred sofa in the rubble of a charred room, hands and feet bound, writhing in the throes of an awful death. I looked, looked away, and looked back, forcing myself to confront the almost incomprehensible fact of her pain.
“There’s more,” Blackie said. “Click on the arrow at the bottom.”
I clicked through a series of two dozen photographs of the victim and more of the blistered area around the trailer, most of the photos taken at the eastern end and around back, where the accelerant had apparently been applied. By the time I’d looked at all of them, I was feeling sick.
“Ugly,” Blackie said flatly. “That was the reporter’s word for it. Ugly.”
“Yes,” I said. I’d seen dead bodies before and I had been there when this happened. I had been at least halfway prepared for the awfulness, but still it was hard. It must have been harder still for Jessica, whose sister and parents had died by fire.
I navigated back to the photo of the area where the accelerant had been applied and studied it for a minute. “What did the arsonist use?”
“Coleman camp stove fuel, we think. We found three empty gallon cans not far from the trailer.” He clicked the mouse a couple of times and an image of three cans came up on the screen.
“Camp stove fuel,” I exclaimed. “That’s what I thought I smelled, Blackie, the night of the fire! I think I told the dispatcher. You can probably hear that on the 9-1-1 tape.” I frowned. “Three cans? That would be an unusual purchase, wouldn’t it? I mean, three gallons would keep a Boy Scout camp in business all year. Somebody might remember selling that much.”
“Yeah, but the brand is commonly available. Walmart, Academy, sporting goods stores. Probably not all bought at the same place or the same time, either. A gallon here, a gallon there. We’re checking, but I’m not betting on turning up a lead.”
“Fingerprints on the cans?”
“Several, smudged, nothing usable.” He pointed to a burned patch of ground in the photo. “The arsonist piled up some trash and branches next to the trailer skirting, right here. Then doused the whole place with it and hauled ass. Must’ve finished up just before you got there. Took a risk of being seen. The place isn’t that far off the road.”
“But there’s not that much traffic out that way,” I said. “And the fire could’ve smoldered for a while, until it got going good.” I clicked forward a couple of photos to a print of a shoe, fairly sharp. “Where’d this come from?”
“The area where the accelerant was applied. Looks like the arsonist spilled some, softening the ground, then stepped in it. Lucky for us. Unlucky, though, because while this square-and-diamond pattern is unique to the brand—Converse—the brand is ubiquitous. The shoes have been sold for decades, every shoe with the same pattern. This one looks like a size ten.”
“A man,” I said thoughtfully. “Or a woman with big feet.” I leaned forward, studying the photo. “Did you see this?” I pointed to a barely visible scar that slashed diagonally across the four bars in the heel pattern.
“Yeah. Here’s another view.” He clicked again, and the scar was magnified several times. “The slash is about an eighth of an inch deep. Looks like the wearer stepped on a blade of some sort.” He clicked again, to a higher magnification. “It happened a while ago, too. The edges are worn. See here?” He took a pencil out of his pocket and pointed. “And here.”
“I see.” I looked up at him. “What kinds of questions did Jessica ask you?”
“The standard stuff. Identification of the victim, leads we’re following, that kind of thing. I gave her what we’d already released, more or less, and a couple of quotes. She made some notes and asked to take a photo of me for her story, to which I said no. She said Hark would probably run her article with the photos she’d taken at the scene. And that was that.”
I hadn’t expected much, so I wasn’t disappointed. “Anything new on the victim’s identification?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Did Donna Fletcher tell you that she brought in her sister’s hairbrush for a possible match?” When I nodded, he said, “The DNA will take a while, and the dental’s lost somewhere in the prison system. I didn’t mention that to the reporter. So keep it close, please.”
“How about the gun?” At his inquiring look, I added, “I heard about that from Donna, too. Small-caliber handgun, she said.”
H
e nodded. “There’s nothing new on the gun, but the coroner recovered the bullet from the victim’s body.”
“Donna also said she was shown a bracelet with initials on it. G.G.?”
“Right.” He clicked to another enlargement, the engraved letters faintly visible through a sooty black film. “Of course, there’s no way of knowing whether the initials are the victim’s. Here’s the bracelet. Those initials mean anything to you?”
“No, sorry,” I said regretfully.
“Well, then, that’s the lot. That’s all we’ve got.” He bent over and logged out.
“Thanks.” I got up from the chair. “Oh, there is something,” I said. “I stopped at the trailer earlier this morning to have a look around. While I was there, somebody else stopped. A neighbor, Becky Sanders. She mentioned that she noticed a red Mustang convertible—new—parked at one end of the trailer sometime recently, behind the trees.”
“Oh, yeah?” Blackie frowned. “Sanders? I sent a deputy out there to canvass the neighborhood, but I didn’t see that name in his report.”
“She lives about a mile up the road. Sanders’ Animal Services. It might be worthwhile sending somebody back out there to talk to her. Turns out that she was keeping an eye on the trailer because she was thinking her sister might want to rent it. She said she even talked to Scott Sheridan about its availability. Anyway, she noticed the Mustang because it looked out of place. She might come up with a few more details when she’s had some time to think about it.”
His frown had deepened. Blackie does not like it when his deputies screw up. The guy—or gal—he had assigned to talk to the neighbors had missed Sanders’ Animal Services and would hear about it. Shortly.
“Thanks. I’ll get on it this morning.” He paused. “This reporter, Jessica Nelson—you think something serious has happened to her?”
“I wish I knew, Blackie. Sheila suggested car trouble or a boyfriend problem. I suppose that’s possible, but I somehow don’t think so. Jessica was really hyped about this story—in fact, a little too hyped, it seemed to me. She wants her own byline, and she wants to do a good job, but it goes deeper than that. She’s not just covering the trailer fire, she’s involved in it.”
“Involved?”
“Her twin sister and her parents died in a house fire ten years ago this month. This story has taken on some sort of symbolic significance for her. She wants to find out all she can about the victim. She wants to understand the killer’s motives.”
“Oh, hell,” Blackie said eloquently.
“She had a plan for interviews, for writing the story, but she didn’t make her deadline. And there was that phone call on my answering machine.”
“And you’re thinking her disappearance might be connected to the trailer fire?” He was taking me seriously now.
“It’s possible. I’m going to check out her house, and then I have one more person to talk to—somebody I know she intended to see.” I shrugged. “After that, I guess I’ll file a missing-person report.”
“Well, keep in touch.” He opened the door for me and we left the room.
“You bet.” We walked back down the hall to his office, past open doors where people were working. One or two of them glanced up, then away. Nobody looked very happy. “Are you going to miss this?” I asked, gesturing.
“Some of it,” he said. We were passing a vending machine and he stopped to fish in his pockets for change. “Not the paperwork, that’s for sure. And dickering with the commissioners over the budget—I won’t miss that. I’ll damn sure miss the people, though.” He fed quarters into the machine, punched a button, and waited for the can to rattle down the slot. “The county’s come a long way from the days when my mother used to cook meals for the jail inmates. But the department still runs on people. Whoever gets this job next is going to inherit a great bunch of folks.”
“Any idea who that’s going to be?” It wasn’t an idle question. In rural areas, we depend on the county mounties. I’d hate to see Blackie’s job fall into purely political hands—somebody with friends in high places but little law enforcement experience. And that could happen.
He popped the top of the can. “I’ve got some ideas—not sure I want to think about it, though, since there’s not a helluva lot I can do to affect the outcome.”
“You might be surprised. Plenty of folks respect your opinion. Isn’t there anybody you’d like to see get the job?”
“Not hardly.” His grin was tight. “Anyway, I just announced last night. The names won’t start popping up for a couple more days, I reckon.” He gave me a sideways glance. “So what does McQuaid want to talk to me about?”
“What do you think?” I countered archly.
He regarded me, head to one side. “You’d be okay with that? If McQuaid and I went into business together?” He paused. “Sheila and I have talked about it some. With both of us in enforcement, the big problem is the hours. McQuaid’s business looks pretty flexible, far as the time commitment is concerned.” He grinned briefly. “And nobody’s shot at him yet, so far as I’ve heard.”
“I’d be okay with it,” I said, and stood on my tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Whatever you guys can work out is great with me. I’m just glad that you and Smart Cookie were able to come to terms. Better marry the girl quick—before she changes her mind again.”
“Yeah,” he said. “My thoughts exactly.” He lifted his soda can in salute. “I’m optimistic, though. She’s wearing that ring, and we’ve even got an appointment with a photographer for an engagement photo.”
But as I went out to the car, I couldn’t help wondering. Blackie had been in law enforcement his whole life. Being the sheriff of Adams County was his reason for being. It created a structure for his daily activities, gave him a reason for getting up in the morning.
I had to wonder how he was going to manage without it, especially when Sheila was the one who was bringing home all the latest law enforcement news.
I sighed. Maybe there wasn’t a lot of room for optimism, after all.
Chapter Thirteen
The Christmas vine, Turbina corymbosa or Rivea corymbosa, is a species of morning glory that grows wild from Mexico to Peru. It is a perennial climbing vine with white flowers, often grown as an ornamental. Its flowers produce a great deal of nectar, and the honey the bees make from it is clear and aromatic. Known to natives of Mexico as ololiuqui, its seeds have been used ritually as a psychoactive drug. In 1960, Dr. Albert Hofmann (the creator of LSD, d-lysergic acid diethylamide) described the chemical component of the seeds as ergine (LSA, d-lysergic acid amide), an alkaloid similar in structure to the LSD that came into use during the counterculture decade.
China Bayles
“Mood-Altering Plants”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
Back in the car, I picked up my list and checked off “Get a look at the crime scene photos and talk to Blackie.” I paused for a moment, thinking. What had I learned? That the accelerant the arsonist used was naptha—Coleman camp stove fuel—and that he or she was wearing size ten Converse shoes with a slash across the heel tread. And that the bullet had been recovered from the victim’s body. It wasn’t much, but it was something. With luck, the cops might find the gun and match it to the bullet.
I looked down at the list again. Jessica’s house was next, on Santa Fe Street, and after that, Lucy LaFarge, who lived not far away, on the north side of the campus. I started the car and drove off.
Santa Fe is a street of frame and stucco houses, most of them built in the 1950s and early’60s, when Pecan Springs was creeping up onto the hills and away from the flatland development along the highway between Austin and San Antonio. It wasn’t yet an Interstate in those days, but it was already beginning to spawn real estate developments and strip centers along its route. This is the kind of neighborhood I like, with shaded streets and wide yards and modest houses that fit comfortably into the landscape, rather than towering over it, like baronial castles. A neighborhood of
kids and bikes and vegetable gardens in the front yard and clotheslines and swings in the back.
The address I’d gotten from Hark’s Rolodex was at the end of the street, with another small house on one side and a dense cedar brake on the other. Across the street, more cedars and a large clump of live oaks. For a city neighborhood, this had a country feel.
I turned around at the end of the street, pulled up at the curb, and got out. There were no other vehicles at this end of the street, except for a mean-looking red Harley chained to the porch rail of the house next to Jessica’s. I thought of what she’d said about the neighbor being a jerk and wondered if it was that motorcycle that had bothered her.
As I was thinking this, the front door opened and a man came out, a heavyset, long-haired guy wearing boots, black jeans, and a blue work shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, showing off muscular, hairy arms, heavily tattooed. He looked like one of those wrestlers you see on TV. He slammed the door behind him, locked it, then stood on the porch for a moment, staring at me.
“What’d’ya want?” he demanded.
“I’m looking for Jessica Nelson. Any idea where I can find her?”
“Nah.” He turned away with a sly, half-furtive sideways glance. “Ain’t seen her in a week.” He bent over to unlock his bike. “Both of ’em gone. Ain’t nobody home.”
A week? But on Monday, when Jessica was telling me about this jerk, she’d started to say something about “last night,” as if she’d had a recent run-in with him.
“You’re sure you haven’t seen her in a full week?” I asked. “What about Sunday night? She said—”
“Buzz off, sister,” he said contemptuously. “I ain’t got time. Gotta get to work.”
He was ignoring me now, muscling the Harley down the porch steps, kicking it into raucous life, then roaring off with an earsplitting bellow. He jumped the four-inch concrete curb in a show of Evel Knievel bravado and stood on the pegs as he rode down the street. I stared after him, thinking that the word jerk didn’t exactly do justice to this particular jerk. He definitely wasn’t somebody I’d like to have for a next-door neighbor.
Mourning Gloria Page 16
