Hearts of Stone

by Brad Smith

  She was driving. They were out of the city now, running the country road heading west. It was a clear day, the afternoon autumn sun bright in their eyes. Dunbar flipped down the visor on his side.

  ‘Tell me again how it went down.’

  Pulford repeated the story as she knew it.

  ‘How the hell did he run the plate number?’

  ‘He’s not saying,’ Pulford said. ‘Anyway, he went to the house to have a look, and somehow Murdock spotted him. They did a cat and mouse and ended up in the woods, stuck in the mud. Next thing you know, Burns is dropping Murdock on his head in front of the precinct. Signed, sealed and delivered.’

  Dunbar chuckled. ‘Making us look bad.’

  ‘Well, if he’d given us the license plate number like he should have, we would have accomplished the very same thing. I would hope that we would have done it with a little more finesse. You saw Murdock’s face. We’re going to hear about that when he finally smartens up enough to hire a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m having trouble finding much sympathy for Murdock,’ Dunbar told her. ‘Did you notice his expression when I gave him the bogus amount on the money?’

  ‘I did,’ Pulford replied. ‘He’s not much of a card player.’

  ‘And he’s guilty as sin.’

  The address was a little bungalow hard on the edge of the village. The forensics van was already there. Bill Valder was leaning against the front fender, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Been inside?’ Dunbar asked.

  ‘Waiting on the warrant,’ Valder said.

  Dunbar showed him the paper and Valder nodded.

  ‘What about the truck?’ Pulford asked.

  ‘We gave it a good going over,’ Valder said. ‘Nothing of interest. Found a couple of roaches, some residue, appears to be coke or meth or both. Beer caps. No prints other than Murdock’s though. Kinda strange. You figure there were three of them in the truck that night?’

  ‘They must have wiped it,’ Dunbar said. ‘Cell phone?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Valder and his men knocked the front door in and went inside. The place was a dump, smelling of garbage and unwashed laundry. The bathroom was disgusting. There was no computer and no cell phone and nothing at all that was connected to the robbery at the farmhouse. The television was twenty years old, hooked to an antenna on the roof.

  ‘Not exactly teched up, was he?’ Valder said.

  There was some mail on the kitchen table. Mostly flyers and a hydro bill. Dunbar walked outside and had a look in the shed in the back yard. The building was partly collapsed and was filled with car parts and junk. He asked Valder and his crew to sift through it all on the off chance there might be some of the money stashed there, even though Dunbar thought it unlikely. When he and Pulford left, they headed east toward Talbotville.

  They stopped at the narrow lane where the Dodge pickup had been parked and spent twenty minutes looking around. There was nothing there. They found Carl Burns at the farm, driving a tractor with a hay wagon behind, the wagon loaded with saws and squares and various other tools, as well as an air compressor and electrical generator. As they parked and watched, Burns backed the wagon and tractor into a large machine shed. He shut the noisy engine down and walked over to meet them as they got out of the car. He had a carpenter’s pencil behind one ear, and a makeshift sling holding his left arm. It was growing dark, the temperature dropping.

  ‘I hear you had an eventful Sunday,’ Dunbar said.

  ‘Wasn’t the way I planned it,’ Carl said. ‘Things got out of hand.’

  ‘How’d you run that plate number, Carl?’

  Carl exhaled heavily, taking a moment. ‘Is that important?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Dunbar said after a pause of his own. ‘There is such a thing on the books as a citizen’s arrest. And I don’t feel like asking you a question you’re not about to answer. So let me ask you this one – are you one hundred per cent certain that Murdock was one of the men in the house that night?’

  Carl did not hesitate. ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ Dunbar said. ‘And to be clear – he’s the guy you said was more like the second in command? Not the leader?’

  Carl nodded. ‘The leader was the big guy with the teardrop tattoo.’

  Dunbar nodded. ‘I didn’t figure Murdock to be any kind of a mastermind.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Carl asked.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ Pulford replied.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to understand what he’s in for yet,’ Dunbar said. ‘After the indictments come down and he lawyers up, he might have a better grasp of what’s going on. Maybe then he’ll be willing to talk to us.’

  Hearing that, Carl fell silent for a moment, as if something in the statement bothered him. Pulford watched him closely, waiting.

  ‘Does that mean you’ll offer him a deal?’ Carl asked.

  ‘We need the other two names,’ Pulford said. ‘Sometimes concessions are made.’

  ‘But he’s not going to walk.’

  ‘He’s not going to walk, Carl,’ Dunbar assured him. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘When are the indictments?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  Carl offered them a beer and Dunbar was about to accept when Pulford said she needed to get back to the city. They left Carl Burns standing in the lane beside the burned-out shell of the farmhouse. They drove in silence for a few miles, following the river.

  ‘It would be nice if Frances Rourke woke up,’ Dunbar said.

  ‘Why is that?’ Pulford asked. ‘Aside from the obvious?’

  Dunbar was quiet for a few moments, gathering his thinking. ‘Burns can ID Murdock, and the leader when we find him. But other than that, you know what a defense lawyer is going to say. He didn’t actually see what happened to the two women. He didn’t see anybody start the fire. He was in the basement when that all happened. A defense lawyer is going to say that it’s all speculative, and that he has to confine his testimony to what he saw. And a judge might agree.’

  ‘But he saw the robbery go down,’ Pulford said. ‘He can provide the details on that. And we have the bank to back him up.’

  ‘He didn’t see them take the money. They might say it burned in the fire.’

  ‘Shit, maybe it did,’ Pulford said. ‘That’s why it hasn’t turned up. These guys are such fuck-ups they started a fire and left without the cash.’

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ Dunbar said.

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  Dunbar sighed. ‘It would be nice if Frances Rourke woke up.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Carl arrived at the courthouse shortly before nine the next morning. To get inside he had to bypass a considerable media presence – TV crews, newspaper reporters, radio station remotes. Carl was grateful that they didn’t know who he was – not yet anyway – or of his role in the case. There were more cameras in the corridor outside the main courtroom but none inside, where they were not allowed. Carl slipped past them and went in.

  The indictments were first up on the docket. Carl remained on his feet, standing just inside the rear door to the large courtroom. He spotted both Dunbar and Pulford, sitting on a bench near the empty jurors’ box. A few minutes before the judge arrived, a uniformed officer led Bug in through a back entrance and deposited him in the prisoners’ dock. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when Carl had knocked him unconscious in the pine forest. The judge was announced. He was a fat man in his sixties with curly gray hair and heavy jowls. Carl missed his name.

  Bug sat slumped in a wooden chair and watched the prosecutor as she read off the litany of charges. The judge had called her Mathews. She was a tall blonde, maybe fifty, and she wore black horn-rimmed glasses. She took her time detailing the indictments, nine charges in all.

  Bug glanced around the room as she did, his eyes flicking over Dunbar and Pulford before taking in the people in the gallery. He seemed to be looking for a familiar face, one that he didn’t find. When he spott
ed Carl his expression grew hard and he glared at him before looking away. Carl kept his eyes on him, watching for a reaction to the charges as they were read. There was nothing there. When Mathews was finished, the judge told Bug to stand.

  ‘Do you understand the charges against you, sir?’

  Bug shrugged. ‘Yup. And I’m saying not guilty to the whole lot.’

  ‘You’re not required to enter a plea today,’ the judge told him. ‘These are indictments.’

  ‘I’ll enter it anyway.’

  The judge spoke louder, leaning forward as if in an effort to penetrate the oblivious nature of the man he was addressing. ‘I see you are without representation.’

  ‘What is that?’ Bug asked.

  ‘You don’t have a lawyer.’

  Bug looked around as if expecting to find a lawyer standing beside him. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Get one,’ the judge told him. ‘Or the court will appoint one for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The sarcasm did not escape the judge, who stared at Bug for a long moment before nodding to the uniform to lead the prisoner away.

  ‘Hold on,’ Bug said. Speaking to the judge.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I would like to be released on my own … recognition, or whatever.’

  ‘Your own recognizance,’ the judge corrected. ‘You are charged with first degree murder, arson, robbery and home invasion, among other things. And you would like to be released on your own recognizance?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are a dreamer.’ The judge turned to prosecutor Mathews. ‘Next case.’

  As the officer led Bug to the holding cells, Dunbar and Pulford left by the back entrance. Pearce Walker caught up to them in the parking lot. He was there representing a client on a drunk driving charge and had been in the courtroom for the indictments.

  ‘Ted,’ he called across the lot, causing Dunbar to stop.

  Walker was wearing his standard pinstripe, with the carnation in the lapel. His ‘costume’, as the staff around the courthouse called it.

  ‘What’s the story on the Murdock charges? Didn’t I hear there were three people involved?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dunbar said. He glanced at Pulford, who was watching Walker with interest.

  ‘But just one collar so far,’ Walker said. ‘The other two are still in the wind?’

  ‘So far.’

  Walker made a show of straightening his tie. One of his theatrical courtroom moves. ‘Any discovery yet?’

  ‘The arrest was two days ago,’ Dunbar said. ‘How could we have discovery at this point?’

  Walker smiled. It had been a stupid question. ‘What about the arrest? I’m hearing it was some sort of vigilante deal and Murdock got the shit kicked out of him. By the looks of his face, I believe it.’

  ‘I was up north at the time,’ Dunbar said.

  ‘Right.’ Walker smiled. ‘You don’t know anything about it. But I heard it. I have to say, that’s pretty unorthodox.’

  ‘As opposed to murder and arson?’ Pulford asked.

  ‘Spare me that, detective.’ Walker turned toward the courthouse. ‘But I think I will have a little talk with Mr Murdock. I’m going to assume that the vigilantes neglected to read the man his rights.’

  ‘I read him his rights,’ Pulford said. ‘Sunday morning, on the sidewalk in front of the precinct.’

  ‘Well, whether that is true or not, he’s going to need a lawyer,’ Walker said.

  Pulford was fuming at the suggestion she had lied. Dunbar stepped in.

  ‘Tell him the smart move would be to give us the names of the other two. It can only help him down the road.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Ted,’ Walker said. ‘But I’ve done this before. And I wouldn’t make any such suggestion until I find out if you even have a case against the man.’

  He walked away. Pulford and Dunbar watched and when Walker was inside the building she spoke.

  ‘What does he want with that? He doesn’t think Murdock can afford him?’

  ‘No,’ Dunbar said slowly. ‘But he knows this is going to be a big case, with lots of media. Walker will do it on the court’s dime just to get his face on TV.’

  ‘He’s a pig.’

  ‘Sometimes even pigs get to be famous,’ Dunbar said.

  Carl went from the courthouse to the hospital where he sat with Frances for a half hour. He talked to her about the farm, of how well sales had been leading up to Christmas, and he told her that the sugar shack was coming along. He said that he needed her help with the interior details – tables, chairs, the equipment for making syrup. He decided not to mention what had happened with the license plate number and Murdock, or the arrest afterward. He was concerned it might upset her, even hearing about it. He still trusted she could hear him.

  When he was leaving the hospital he spotted Harkness talking to somebody in the foyer, a woman in a tight skirt and sweater. Harkness was smiling, charming her. She was smiling back. Carl went over and stood off to the side until the woman moved away, heading for the elevators. Harkness was aware of his presence and now turned a cool eye on him. It seemed he would walk away if Carl didn’t call to him.

  ‘Anything new with Frances?’

  Harkness took a moment. ‘I’m not sure how to answer that. The bruising is nearly gone but now we suspect there is fluid on that part of the brain.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Carl asked.

  Harkness shrugged. ‘It might be affecting the situation or it might be nothing. It could gradually dissipate as her condition improves.’

  ‘Is her condition improving?’

  Harkness had misspoken and he didn’t like the question. ‘We’ll continue to monitor it,’ he said after a moment. ‘There is a possibility that we do surgery at some point, to drain the fluid.’

  ‘When would that be?’

  ‘Not now,’ Harkness said. ‘As I mentioned, we’re hoping the fluid disappears on its own. Now I have to finish rounds.’

  ‘Keep me in the loop,’ Carl requested.

  Harkness nodded and walked away without another word. Presumably he was running late, although he hadn’t seemed overly rushed while flirting with the woman in the skirt.

  On the drive home Carl stopped at the lumber yard and picked up the cedar shingles he’d ordered. Frances would get the roof she wanted but when would she be able to see it? It was over two weeks since she’d been injured, since she’d lost consciousness after being hurled down the stairs into the cellar. Carl had been certain she would have awakened by now. He wondered for the first time if she was getting the best medical care. There were other hospitals, other doctors.

  His mind went back to Murdock, standing in court earlier and asking to be set free without bond. Was he that stupid? It seemed likely that he was. Even so, he had refused, so far anyway, to cooperate with the police. Maybe Carl should have tried to get the names of the other two from the man before turning him over to Pulford.

  As he approached the farm he had a thought and slowed down to pull on to the lane where Murdock had parked his truck that night. Carl got out and walked up and down the roadway for a time, looking in the long grass for something, anything, that might be a clue. He was aware that Dunbar and Pulford had been there yesterday yet still he felt compelled to look. It happened in movies all the time, where someone returns to the scene and finds a key piece of evidence everyone else has overlooked. Carl spent the better part of an hour walking the lane and then the road between there and the farm, the route the three men would have taken to get to the house. He found nothing.

  Life wasn’t a movie.

  Chino spent the morning burning the insulation away from two hundred pounds of copper wire he’d bought the night before from Digger Bagley. He was in the yard just past dawn, starting a fire from some half-rotted fence posts and hardwood skids, getting it good and hot before tossing the coils into the flames. Bagley had stolen the wire a couple of nights earlier from a railroad compou
nd along the tracks somewhere up west. The price for scrap copper was high but the yards preferred it to be clean. Not only that, but clean made it impossible to trace. Bagley wasn’t ambitious enough to burn the insulation away so he’d shown up at Chino’s at two in the morning, half bagged, rousting Chino from bed and haggling for twenty minutes before selling the coils for a hundred dollars. Burned clean, it would be worth six or seven times that.

  The insulation was rubber-based and it sent up a thick black plume when burned. Tending the fire, Chino had seen the farmer Vanhizen standing out in his yard staring at the smoke which was drifting his way, billowing black against the blue sky. Even from that distance Chino thought he could see the expression on the farmer’s face. Who was Chino to be fouling his air? Arrogant fucker.

  Shortly before noon, Chino left the smoldering coils and walked out to the mailbox to see if his pension check had arrived. He got four hundred a month from his trucking days, for a back injury he’d invented after falling from a tractor trailer in a yard in Dearborn. The check wasn’t there. He went inside to catch the news at noon from the Rose City affiliate. It had been on his mind all morning.

  Bug made top of the hour. There was no footage of the little bastard, but the reporter standing outside the courtroom described him and his reactions as the indictments had come down. There were nine in all, and they were pretty much what Chino had expected. The reporter ended the piece by saying that two suspects were still at large. She did not know at this time whether or not Mr Murdock was cooperating with the police. Which meant that the cops weren’t telling the reporters anything.

  Chino clicked the set off. Mr Murdock had better fucking not be cooperating with the police. Since hearing of the arrest early Monday, Chino had been back and forth on that. He was pretty sure that Bug was too scared of Chino to talk. He was glad now that Bug’s cell phone server had cut off his account months ago for non-payment. If that hadn’t happened, the cops would already have connected him to Chino. They would have been knocking on Chino’s door Monday morning.

  But they were working on it, Chino knew. They’d be telling Bug all sorts of shit to get him to roll over. What they were going to do for him if he did, and what it meant for him if he didn’t. Chino had no idea if Bug had the guts to hang in. He didn’t have the brains of a mouse. If the cops promised him a truck load of ice cream he might tell them he was Jesse James.