by Gaus, P. L.
Chester strolled out from behind the barber’s chair, looked the kid over, gave a little skeptical snort, and said, “Can’t be sure, Doc.”
“I know he is, Chester.” To the boy, Branden said, “Look son, it seems to me you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. For a regular cut, that is.”
“Professor,” Chester said officiously, “You need to remember the last time you were wrong about one of these pink laddies.”
“I’m not a pink laddie,” the boy asserted sternly.
“You see, Chester. I told you. He’s ready. Aren’t you son?”
“I’m not a pink laddie.”
By now Robertson had put a stop to his shave. He stepped down out of the barber’s chair, shook hair off the apron that hung from his sizable neck, and winked at the professor. He held out his enormous hand to help the boy up into the tall barber’s chair, and said, “Well, then, you step on up here, young man.”
Chester pumped the seat high, threw a striped apron around the boy’s neck, spread it out over his lap, and started snapping his hand shears near the lad’s ears.
Robertson leaned over a bit, apron hanging down in front of his belly. He propped his hands on his knees, and stared the boy straight into his eyes. “Good decision, lad. Now pay attention.”
The boy’s head turned to the clipping sound of the scissors behind his ear, and Robertson pulled him by the chin back around to face toward the front. “Now, young fella,” he said, “the best part is the first. Just a normal haircut.”
“Sheriff, are you sure about this?” Chester said with exaggerated concern.
Robertson looked deeply into the boy’s eyes and asked, “You’re sure, aren’t you boy?”
From his chair, Branden said, “Of course he’s sure,” and only just managed to keep a smile off his face.
The little fella nodded weakly and tried to read some comfort in the big sheriff’s eyes.
Robertson gestured with confidence and said, “He’s quite certain, Chester,” and Chester began to snip out the very style of haircut that the boy’s mother had earlier described.
Robertson continued to stand directly in front of the barber chair, watching intently as Chester made a show of clipping. The sheriff’s legs straddled the footrest and his hands were planted on the armrests near the boy’s hands. His apron hung low in front, and he was nose to nose with the boy, five inches off. Half his face was still lathered, and he used the end of the barber’s apron to wipe off the remaining foam.
“Now, the next part is really not so bad,” Robertson said. “You’ve probably heard some bad things, but that’s all exaggeration. We’ve got a styptic pencil in case you bleed, and even if you do, it’ll probably be only this once. Nobody bleeds much after the first one.”
The boy’s eyes widened into saucers, and Chester began to strop a straight razor slowly back and forth along a leather strap attached to the barber chair. The boy squirmed and eyed the razor wildly. Robertson laid a hand on his knee to calm him. “Steady now,” he said. “This probably won’t be too bad at all.”
Branden stood, arms folded, to assess the boy’s courage.
Chester ran some hot water into a lather cup and beat it to a froth with a shaving brush so that the boy could watch. While it was still warm, he slapped it lavishly on the boy’s neck behind each ear. The kid jerked practically out of his seat in surprise, and Robertson eased him back into the barber chair with a confident hand.
Chester took one last pass over the strop and flipped the knife edge of the razor to give it a little tinging sound as it lifted off the leather. Then Chester silently turned the straight razor over to use the rounded back edge, and laid the cold, dull steel against the boy’s neck behind the ear.
“Hold it one second, Chester,” Robertson said. “It’s a man’s cut, son. You sure you’re ready?”
The lad swallowed hard, looked around the room and back to Robertson. He was obviously considering bolting for the door, but fought the impulse bravely, and nodded weakly “Yes.”
“Now don’t move a muscle,” Robertson warned and then gave the go-ahead to Chester.
The boy closed his eyes tightly, and Chester slowly drew the dull edge down along the boy’s neck behind the ear, scraping off lather. The kid rose six inches out of his chair, opened his eyes wide, and nearly fainted.
Robertson smiled encouragement to the lad and said, “Halfway done.”
Chester walked around to the other side of the chair, laid the dull steel against the boy’s neck again, lifted up the ear, and drew the back of the razor slowly down through the lather. When he was finished with the second stroke, Chester took a warm towel, wiped excess lather off the boy’s neck, and dabbed at a little patch of white on his ear.
“Now the last part,” Robertson said. The lad stared back at the sheriff, unable to speak.
“Mennen or Jarvis, Chester?” Branden asked, and moved in closer.
“Jarvis, I think, Doc. Jarvis is his brand all the way.”
“You agree, son?”
The boy nodded his head the slightest fraction of a terrified inch.
“Jarvis,” Robertson announced, and Chester poured some out, slapped it into his palms, said “This might sting a bit,” and clamped both of his cold hands to the sides of the lad’s neck.
The aroma came suddenly into the boy’s nostrils and he choked a bit. When he opened his eyes, he saw Robertson standing back from the front of the chair, giving the thumbs-up sign with both hands.
The boy smiled and wrestled himself into a taller position on the barber’s chair. He glanced around the room, looked back at Chester, and smiled a little bit more. When he realized he wouldn’t die in the barber’s chair, he smiled wider still.
They let him sit there a little while and celebrate his victory. When they were sure he’d be steady on his feet, they saw him to the door, shook his little hand, congratulated him exuberantly, and sent him on his way some six inches taller. Branden returned to his seat, unable to force the smile from his face. “Bruce,” he said, “if word gets out about us, the mothers in this town will have us locked away.”
“Now what would you suppose he’s talking about, Chester?” Robertson said and sat back in the chair to finish his shave.
“Wouldn’t know, Sheriff,” Chester said and lathered the sheriff’s face again.
Branden laughed outright and said, “The next time that kid comes in for a haircut, he’ll likely not let his mother through the door. And he’ll ask for Jarvis.”
“You bet,” Chester agreed.
“And he’ll ask for a manly cut and shave for years to come,” Robertson said. “Then along about ten years from now, Chester here’ll actually start using the sharp edge on that razor. The way I see it, we did the kid a favor.”
Branden chuckled, clasped his hands behind his head, and stretched his legs out straight, ankles crossed. Chester finished up, Robertson paid, and Branden walked with the sheriff back toward the jail.
“Bruce, I want you to give me some time to find David Hawkins,” Branden said, as they came abreast of the old red jail.
“Can’t do that, Mike. Sands is due in court in a little over a week, and that’ll pretty much be the end of things.”
Branden stopped on the lawn, considering how best to reason with his old friend.
“You’ve got to think about this like razors, Bruce,” he said.
Robertson eyed him skeptically.
“Bromfield was killed by a dull razor. Hawkins is the sharp razor. Special Forces. The best. He’d never have left Bromfield out where his body could be found so readily.”
Robertson said, “That may be all well and good, but I’ve got to assume that Hawkins is a wrong kind of guy.”
“If you ease off on hunting him down, you’ll probably find he comes in on his own one day.”
“I can’t afford to wait and see, Mike.”
Branden stared down thoughtfully at his sandals. “Have you done the ballistics on that pistol yet?�
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Robertson said, “The .22 bullets that killed Bromfield were high velocity, and they broke up in his skull, so we can’t match the rifling in the barrel. Coroner’s still got some connections with the labs in Cleveland, though, and we expect we can match powder residue on Bromfield’s temple with the bullets we found in the magazine.”
“Any prints on the gun?”
“One small set. A woman’s.”
Branden wasn’t surprised and let it show.
“Mike, I want to know where you got that pistol,” Robertson said forcefully.
“I’ll tell you, if it can be linked to a murder.”
“Is this Hawkins’s gun?”
“Sharp razor, Bruce. Sharp razor. Do you really think Hawkins would be the kind of guy to leave his murder weapon lying around for someone to find?”
Robertson stared at Branden for a long time and said flatly, “You’re making yourself an accomplice, Mike.”
Frowning, Branden shook his head, and said, “I need to talk with Marty Holcombe.”
He left Robertson standing in front of the jail, headed north on Clay Street, and came immediately to the intersection with Route 62, called Jackson Street in its stretch through town. The tan and salmon-colored sandstone courthouse sits on the southeast corner of that intersection, sharing the block with the monument lawn and the jail. Branden waited for the light to change and idly studied the small downtown area.
The copper-green roof of the courthouse stood out distinctly against a blue sky that held a few clouds of cotton white. There were several workers tending to flowers at the base of the Civil War monument. Five Amish children stood beside mom and dad, who were seated on one of the old cast-iron benches along the sidewalk. The traffic on the streets was routine, mostly cars and trucks, some buggies, and an occasional tour bus.
He crossed Jackson with the light and covered the two blocks north to Perkins. Left on Perkins took him to the Holmes Gazette building, where Marty Holcombe was expecting him in his office looking out onto the street from a first-floor window. They went over what each of them knew about the Bromfield-Hawkins-Sands affairs, and Holcombe let Branden read the early stories that Bromfield had prepared.
Branden finished them and asked, “That’s all there is? Cal Troyer knew all of this about Hawkins long ago. So, probably, did most of the people in his church.”
“Knew that Hawkins served in Vietnam?” Holcombe asked, somewhat puzzled. “Special Forces? CIA?”
“They’ve known everything about David Hawkins that you know and probably more. So has the family of his Amish fiancée.”
“Paints a fairly raw picture,” Holcombe argued.
“Not raw enough to warrant murder,” Branden said.
Holcombe took back the typed pages, stacked them on edge, dropped them into a file drawer in his desk, and closed the drawer. He drummed his thumbs on his desk and thought. When he leaned back in his chair, the editor said, “Bromfield was just a kid, Mike. I hired him fresh out of Ohio University with a degree in journalism. A young kid with a girlfriend and a quiet future at a newspaper in a sleepy country town.”
Branden listened.
“He wanted to do the Janet Hawkins murder story because it was so unusual. I figure he followed things up and got killed before he could bring the last of his story in to me.”
Branden asked, “Do you have all of his notes before that?”
“Yes,” Holcombe answered. “And I know most of the early leads he traced down.”
“Did he talk to Sands?”
“First thing. Didn’t learn much, though. It did give him the idea of looking into the prison records in New Jersey. Robertson had checked there before him, but I guess Bromfield got something new, being there in person.”
“Did Bromfield talk to anyone else for the story?”
“He tried to talk to David Hawkins himself, but he was never home. Never did find him.”
“That’s all you’ve got, Marty?”
“There was the retired security guard. Some funny-name Greyson.”
“Nabal Greyson.”
“Right, Nabal. What kind of name is that?”
Branden shrugged. “Cal Troyer says it’s Old Testament. Do you know anything about Greyson?”
“There’s very little about him in any of Bromfield’s notes, but Greyson seemed inconsequential to us. Lucky break to have been there when Sands was captured. He’s told Robertson that he was here to see the Amish—you know, a tourist, but he took an apartment downtown when Robertson asked him to stay for the trial. The mayor intends to give him some kind of ceremony next week before Sands goes to court. But beyond that, I think Bromfield pretty much wrote him off.”
Branden sat in his chair, eyes focused on the carpet, and then asked, “Anything else?”
Holcombe studied the professor’s face for a moment as if he were mulling over a puzzle. “Mike, you said Bruce Robertson figures this is going to be a straightforward act of revenge? Hawkins on Sands I mean.”
“Robertson does,” Branden answered. “I don’t.”
“Then I’ve got a problem,” Holcombe said. “I want to run Eric Bromfield’s stories. Can’t do that, though. Not just yet.”
Branden asked, “Because of Robertson?”
“Partly,” Holcombe said. “Robertson has asked me to hold off a spell. But there’s another reason.”
Holcombe lifted the receiver on his phone, punched in the audex code, listened to a recent message, skipped backward through the rest, found the one he wanted, and handed the receiver to Branden. Holcombe punched again on the phone and Branden heard Bromfield’s voice.
“Marty, this is Eric. I’m in New Jersey. The state prison in Trenton. I can’t run it all down for you now, but there’s more here than just Jesse Sands. Hold those stories. I’m flying home tonight.”
11
Tuesday, June 10 10:30 A.M.
BEFORE leaving the newspaper offices, the professor read through the few notes in Bromfield’s desk on the Janet Hawkins murder. They revealed nothing about the trip to New Jersey, and nothing much about David Hawkins, either, considering how open Hawkins had been with Cal Troyer about his past. The only information Branden found helpful was a downtown address for Nabal Greyson.
The address was in an alleyway off Jackson Street, where Branden found a door to a narrow flight of stairs. It was in one of the old city buildings so often photographed by tourists on the square. The tall, ornate windows on the upper floors were set deeply into gray stone, with the brick trim painted black. The shutters were painted a soft rose. The steep, cramped staircase was a relic from another era. It had been remodeled and was now well lighted. The walls had been painted a light chocolate brown, and the iron steps had shiny black rubber treads.
He took the stairs past a first-floor music store and a second-floor law office and came to the third floor, which served as a residential hotel. A sign on the stairwell door indicated that rooms were available by the week or the month.
On the third-floor landing, Branden stopped to rest at a window looking out upon the square. He saw five or six young Amish fellows joking together at the light. An assortment of semi tractor trailer rigs making the turn to follow 62 south out of town. One buggy at the hitching rail behind the old courthouse.
In a narrow hallway of the old building, he found Greyson’s door number and knocked. In the apartment across the hall, he heard a shuffle, and out of the corner of his eye, Branden saw the door open a slight crack and then close. As Greyson answered his door, a metal security chain drew tight on the inside and stopped the door after it had opened an inch. A soft, raspy voice spoke from behind the chain.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Greyson?”
“Yes,” he said again, with a hoarse, painful sound. Through the crack in the door Branden noted the pungent aroma of old cigars.
Branden began. “My name is Michael Branden,” he said. “I’d like to talk with you about the Janet Hawkins murder.”
“I’ve already given a complete statement to the police,” Greyson said and coughed.
“I’m not with the police, Mr. Greyson. I’m trying to find David Hawkins as a favor to his fiancée’s family.”
“Do you know Hawkins?”
“No. I’ve simply been asked to help find him now that his daughter is dead. He seems to be missing.”
“I doubt that I could help you any,” Greyson said tentatively.
Branden noted a leading tone. Greyson lit the stub of a cigar from behind the door and seemed to invite conversation as he lingered in the smoke.
“Mr. Greyson, I understand that you captured Jesse Sands. I’d like to talk with you about that. Perhaps something you remember will help me find Hawkins.”
Greyson slipped out of Branden’s view and closed the door without speaking. Branden waited, not knowing whether to try again or go home to Caroline. After a pause sufficient to allow Greyson to think, the chain rattled slack, and the door opened.
Branden saw immediately that Nabal Greyson was a badly weathered man. He appeared disheveled and tired. His face betrayed a sense of weariness, and his dress was careless. The cigar in his teeth seemed to account for his irregular voice.
Greyson’s one-room apartment revealed little about its temporary inhabitant. The furnishings were simple in the extreme. The bed was unmade. A sink and counter ran along the back wall, centered under a small window that admitted light past soiled yellow curtains. There were no personal effects in the room, apart from a police band radio that squawked periodically on the counter.
Greyson crossed the small room ahead of Branden and turned the volume on the scanner down to a faint mutter of squad cars, dispatchers, and ambulances. “I’ve been in the private security business twenty-two years,” he explained in his crackling voice, “and I still haven’t managed to retire completely. I listen to the public safety frequencies out of habit. Beats anything on radio or TV.”
Greyson’s attitude had turned noticeably more friendly, and he offered the professor a seat.
“I’m having a scotch,” Greyson said as he turned to the sink. “Can I get you anything?”
