“Well, then, it wasn’t him that hit me.”
“My thought exactly, unless he turned right around after I left and got off the train again.”
I thought about it. “Where did you go next?”
“After I saw you heading for the front of the train, I figured you were just going to check out the locomotive, so I got back on. That’s when I saw Marv headed through the dining car and took off after him.”
“And?”
“We had a conversation about current goings-on, and then I went back to our cabin.”
I nodded, then held the .38 up between us. “Well, that explains everything except for how your gun got fired.”
He looked at it, and then his eyes met mine. “Damned if I know.”
8
“Fancy digs.”
I glanced around the grounds of the Wyoming Historic Governor’s Mansion and especially the sunroom. “Yep, it is, but they don’t live here.”
Vic raised an eyebrow. “They don’t?”
“Nope. The official residence is the Wyoming Governor’s Mansion—note the lack of the term ‘historic’—which was built back in 1976.”
“Why do that?”
“This original building is on the National Register of Historic Places, which means you can’t change anything without getting permission, so I’m betting the state built the one in 1976 because the governor and his family had, among other things, an affection for modern plumbing.” We’d situated ourselves along the back wall of the heavily windowed room as the newspaper, television, and radio station journalists arranged themselves around the empty wicker divan in the center of the crowded room. “How come when I’m around these media folks I always feel like I hear locusts in the background?”
The Cheyenne Nation stood beside me and smiled but said nothing.
A bushy-haired man with a handlebar mustache approached. “Walt Longmire, I didn’t think we’d see you here.”
I folded my arms.
“Mike Barr of the Casper Star-Tribune; I left a message on your daughter’s machine.”
“I don’t know how to operate that thing.”
A pencil hovered over his pad. “I was just hoping to get a few words about the compassionate release issue we are discussing here.”
“No comment.”
“None at all?”
I nodded toward the small wicker sofa, which the TV folks were now light testing. “I’m pretty sure the first lady is going to be making some comments. I’m just here to listen.”
The pencil was still over the pad, ready to strike. “Walt, everybody knows you’re personally involved with this case, and I’m sure they’d like to hear your side of things.”
Vic interrupted. “Is that a pencil?”
“What?”
She glanced at us and then back to him. “Do you see that? I haven’t seen a fucking pencil in years.”
The newspaperman sighed. “Walt . . .”
“Where do you get that thing sharpened, anyway?” She reached for it, but he closed the notepad and stuck it behind his ear. “Is that a Ticonderoga?” She leaned forward, examining him. “Do you have a little card that says ‘Press’ that you stick in the hatband of your fedora, too?”
Barr shook his head and moved away. “You three are a bunch of assholes.”
I raised my voice so he could hear me as he disappeared into the crowd. “Say, you’re not going to lead the story with that, are you? I mean, the Star-Tribune is a family paper and all.”
Wyoming’s first lady entered the room, accompanied by two individuals whom I recognized. Flashbulbs went off and the general thrum of excitement swelled as she smiled and shook hands with members of the fourth estate.
Henry gestured toward Bob Delude and Robert Hall, aka the Bobs, who were the legendary drivers and bodyguards of the governor and his family as well as other high-placed government officials. “I bet they are really pleased to be here.”
Despite being a traditional beauty, blond with blue eyes, Carol Fisk was not your usual, decorative politician’s wife; she was directly involved in setting policy. A graduate of Bowling Green with a postgraduate degree from Cambridge and a law degree to boot, she was a United States district judge, the first woman in the Equality State to hold the post. As first lady, Carol worked on behalf of a number of causes, including equal pay for women, sorely needed in a state where men with a high-school education earn more than women with college degrees. A big proponent of public education and libraries, she was also a champion of literacy—and I found it very difficult not to admire her, present circumstances notwithstanding.
Her husband, Wally, the gov, was a likable, tough individual with an aviation background who’d made his fortune building cranes and whose greatest skill was getting the fractious facets of state government to work together, sometimes even getting them to think it was their idea.
“Hi, how is everybody?” Ms. Fisk looked around the room. “It’s wonderful to see all of you, and I appreciate your coming here to talk about one of my many, many causes.”
There was a collective smattering of laughter.
“As most of you know, one of the concerns making me think about the way we implement the compassionate release of inmates in the state is that spending has ballooned and overcrowding in the prison system has become a burden.”
One of the TV talking heads interrupted. “So, this is being done primarily for economic reasons?”
She smiled at him. “I’ll be taking questions later in the press conference, so if you could please hold your questions until then, I’d appreciate it.” She resettled herself and glanced our way, and I was pretty sure we’d just been found out.
“It’s difficult to implement overarching legislation concerning compassionate release in that the individual cases vary to a great degree, and because the implementation relies on the criteria of a medical petition where a great deal of inconsistency hinders the process.”
One of the Bobs, Robert, spotted us in the back and made a face and a few of the press folks laughed.
“Things have gotten a bit better for prisoners suffering from terminal illnesses thanks to the new prison hospice program, but that cannot replace the comfort of dying with dignity among family and friends.” She glanced at the reporter who had interrupted, figuring the smattering of laughter must’ve had to do with him. “Not to mention the cost to the state.” The first lady glanced around, a little bit confused but plowing ahead nonetheless. “And then, obviously, there are the cases where there is no proper medical care available in a prison setting.”
Now Bob was looking at Robert, and of course the man couldn’t resist fooling around, but this time the governor’s wife happened to be looking in his direction. “Is there something wrong with you, Robert?”
He straightened up and cleared his throat, looking like a teenager who’d been caught passing notes. “No, ma’am, sorry.”
She looked at the other Bob to see if he was up to something and then faced forward again, looking directly at me. “As I was saying . . . with lots of aging inmates in the system and the poor health of that population in comparison with the general public, compassionate release can go a long way toward alleviating costs. Nevertheless, each case still has to be judged on an individual basis. Which brings me to the one at hand.”
I ducked my head and pretended to brush an imaginary piece of lint from my shirtfront, then listened quietly to the rest of the press conference while studiously avoiding eye contact with either of the Bobs.
After the first lady finished her prepared remarks, there was a flurry of questions, which she answered gracefully before exiting through the double doors that led to the mansion proper.
After a moment, the Bobs were standing in front of me. “You got us in trouble.”
“You got yourselves in trouble, and you got me in trouble, too.”
> Robert shook hands with Vic and Henry and then glanced around. “Sounds like your man is going to walk.”
“Maybe.”
Bob leaned in. “We can always go into the hospital and take him for the proverbial ride, but I don’t think he’d make it to the curb.”
At that moment, another man approached, smaller and not wearing a uniform or a gun. “Sheriff Longmire?”
“Yep.”
“I’m Mark Rivera, the press secretary to First Lady Fisk. She’d like to speak with you in the library.”
Vic smirked. “You’re in trouble.”
I nodded to the functionary. “Okay.”
He gestured toward the door. “Now, please.”
I glanced at Vic, Henry, and then the Bobs. “You bet.”
—
The sun was just creeping over the high plains at the rimmed cliffs as I finished my report to Joe Holland in the borrowed railroad office in the tower overlooking the Rock Springs rail yard. “I appreciate this, Deputy. Especially after the rough treatment I’ve given you recently.”
I delicately touched my head and put my hat back on at an angle so that it didn’t press directly on the wound. “That’s all right, I’ve been hit harder—earlier tonight, as a matter of fact.” I sipped the wretched coffee from the cracked Union Pacific mug he’d provided and then rested it back on the metal desk between us. “What are you planning on doing?”
“We’ve got an APB out on McKay, but nothing so far. I agree with you that the last place I’d be would be on this train if I’d killed somebody. He must’ve jumped ship back in Medicine Bow if he’s the one that hit you, but I can’t imagine how, or exactly when. I mean, we were all standing outside the train, and I can’t help but think that somebody would’ve seen him get back on—and never mind that from there, where the hell do you go?”
“So, if they found Leeland’s body at Fort Fred Steele, and if it is McKay who killed Marv, why hit me? Wouldn’t you do the deed and bolt?”
He shook his head. “Damned if I know.”
I shrugged. “Anybody else missing?”
“Nope, everybody else on the manifest is still aboard and will stay that way till we get back to Cheyenne.”
“House arrest?”
“Train arrest.” He frowned at all the paperwork splayed in front of him. “I’ve got to tell you that I’m not real thrilled with all this.”
“Well, I can understand—”
He waved a hand, dismissing my statement. “Aside from what appears to be a probable murder, I’ve got a whole train full of sheriffs, law-enforcement professionals, who, instead of helping, are second-guessing every move I make.”
I stood and walked over to the window that faced the tracks, wiped some of the dust away, and gazed into the flat, yellow morning light. An arched neon-red sign announced HOME OF ROCK SPRINGS COAL, WELCOME.
“Oh, I wouldn’t take those sheriffs personally; I think they’d do the same thing to each other.”
“Some of them still think you did it.”
“Well, they’re welcome to prove it in a court of law.”
There was a silence. “You mind if I ask you a question?”
“As long as I don’t have to incriminate myself.”
“You’re the man on this train with the least seniority, but you’re very good at investigating.” He stood and placed his hands in his pockets. “What, exactly, did you do in the service?”
I looked at him and then, just as I turned back toward the window, I could’ve sworn I saw out of the corner of my eye a ’59 Thunderbird convertible make a turn and disappear. Maybe I just wanted to see one. “Marine Corps investigator.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Any ideas as to why McKay would’ve done it?”
I hedged. “None whatsoever—I mean, he’s a hothead, but I think that’s only because he thought something was going on between me and the blonde he’s traveling with. Have you spoken to her?”
He looked at a list lying on the surface of the borrowed desk. “Next.”
“Anybody else on that list?”
“Your boss.”
“I don’t think he did it.”
“You second-guessing me, too?”
I turned back to the railroad bull. “No, but I can pretty much vouch for his whereabouts till Medicine Bow and after Wamsutter.”
He stared back at me. “Curiously enough, all the excitement happened in the period when you weren’t on the train.”
“You check my story?”
“Sure did. We can’t find the people on the bus you described, but everybody at the Shiloh Saloon says you were there and not in the best of shape.” He walked over and looked out the gritty glass with me. “That still doesn’t get your boss off the hook, though.”
“Give me a motive, and I’ll think about it.”
I’d been thinking long and hard about whether to share the information that the dead man had relayed to me, but I didn’t see any other way of advancing the investigation. “Sheriff Leeland thought he was on to something. Over the past few years, there have been a number of unaccounted-for murders in the state of individuals who have evaded justice. Leeland had a suspicion that it was someone in the sheriffs’ association, maybe even a group, what he called a cabal, who have taken the law in their own hands. He suspected they were exchanging murders in each other’s counties so that they wouldn’t get caught doing it.”
Holland stood there, staring at me. “Well, that certainly opens up the motivational aspect of the investigation.”
“If there’s anything to it, you’re going to need to find out which sheriffs have been in office for the last three years, where they’ve been in the state, and whether that coincides with the people who have been killed.” I pulled the piece of paper from my shirt pocket and handed it to him. “Mr. Leeland gave me this list of sheriffs he was suspicious of. You’ll notice that Lucian isn’t on the list.”
He took the paper and studied it. “My God, it’s half the sheriffs in Wyoming.”
“I know. I think he was hoping to narrow the possibilities on this trip, but it looks as if someone got wind of Leeland’s investigation and took things into his own hands.”
“Sheriff Leeland shared this with you?”
“Me, and Lucian, and I don’t know how many others.”
“Neither you nor Lucian is on here.” He looked down the list of names. “McKay isn’t on here either.”
I thought about the fact that my boss’s sidearm had been fired, but until I had more to go on, I felt no need to share that information. “No.”
He leaned an elbow on the window frame. “You know, it’s possible McKay’s dead, too, lying out there on the tracks somewhere between here and Medicine Bow.”
“Yep.”
“And we’ve still got a killer or two or three on The Western Star.” He moved over to the desk and picked up a telephone. “I guess we’d better have somebody check the rails from here to Medicine Bow.”
“Yep.”
“What are your plans?”
I yawned and glanced down the tracks through the snow flurries—The Western Star appeared to be catching her breath. “I think I’ll head back to the dining car and have breakfast. I’m hungry.”
He nodded and then spoke into the phone. “Just a second.” He turned back to me as I reached the door. “I’ll meet you on the train?”
“Sure.”
“And if you don’t mind sending Miss LeClerc in?”
I pushed open the door and found her sitting on a leather chair. “Howdy.”
She looked at me and burst into a fresh set of tears. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
I sat in the chair next to her. “It’ll be okay; he just needs to talk to you. Tell the truth, and you’ll be fine.”
She wiped her eyes and looked
at me. “Yeah, that always works, huh?”
“Well, actually, most of the time it does.” I tipped my hat back and looked at her. “You mind if I ask you a question?”
“Okay.”
“When was the last time you saw McKay?”
She sniffled. “George?”
“Yep, George.”
“He was really mad when we got back to the cabin and said a bunch of stuff about you.”
“And when was that?”
“I don’t know, when we got back to the cabin one time.” She sniffed. “Do you really think he did all this?”
“I honestly don’t know, but he’s gone missing and that makes him a suspect.”
“Somebody was killed, they say?”
“Marv Leeland, the sheriff of Uinta County.”
“The nice old fella with the one arm?”
“Yep, him.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“That’s pretty much how everybody feels about it.” I took her hands in mine in an attempt to get her to focus. “What time did George leave your cabin?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“Had the train stopped?”
She thought about it. “Yes, it was stopped.”
“And he never came back after that?”
“No.”
I thought about the brief conversation we’d had trackside. “Did George ever talk about the other sheriffs, specifically Marv Leeland?”
“Well, he talked a lot about the sheriffs’ association; I think he was trying to impress me, you know, to get me in the sack. Wasn’t the one-armed fella the head of the sheriffs?”
“Yep. What did George say? Can you remember?”
“Just that he thought he should be the next in line but that there were a couple of older men who were more likely to get it even after he said he’d done a bunch of trips for the association. Fund-raising for their elections, I think.”
“How many trips were there?”
“Oh, a half dozen, I think he said.”
“Over how long of a period of time?”
“I don’t know, at least a year or two—way before me. Before that he said he was focusing on his own election.” She smiled. “You’ve got to remember, I’ve only known him for a few days.”
The Western Star Page 12
