Chapter 7

 

Another hot and humid Texas morning, Buck's shirt already soaked as he climbed the bank to Deception amid crowds of gaping tourists. Although he would have liked to tour the town himself, he had other things on his mind. A talk with the sheriff topped the list, and an old man with a fishing pole on his shoulder directed him to the jail.

The town's municipal complex near the far end of town left him immediately impressed. Larger and nicer than similar complexes in many cities, Deception's cut stone and sculptured concrete replaced hand-cut pine slats of the rest of town. He located the sheriff's office at the end of a long hallway, Sheriff Taylor Wright at his desk and his gangly deputy standing against the wall. Wright glanced up when he opened the door.

“I'm Buck McDivit, Emma Fitzgerald's nephew.”

Wright didn't seem impressed. Pointing to the chair in front of his desk, he said, “Have a seat. Been expecting you.”

With a red bandanna he wiped his rugged forehead, scarred by teenage acne. Air-conditioning wasn't working very well and sweat had stained a large ring around the neck of his khaki shirt. He had no discernible drawl and Buck judged from his age he might have lost it while in the Army, possibly Vietnam. Probably along with the bullet-shaped chunk missing from his right ear.

Wright continued staring at the manila folder on the desk and Buck took the opportunity to scope out the room. Framed pictures of Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush hung on the wall. A small rotating fan vibrated on the floor. When the water dispenser burped, Wright shoved the folder out of his way and stared at Buck with unnerving eyes.

Finally he said, “Sorry about your Aunt Emma, McDivit.”

“Thanks,” Buck said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

A muscle in Wright's cheek twitched and he massaged it until it stopped before reopening the manila folder. “Fisherman found her floating in the middle of the lake, tangled in his trotline.”

“She drowned?”

“Looks that way.” Sheriff Wright's twitch returned and he said, “Seems unlikely she was fishing because she had her nightgown on.” He glanced at the lanky deputy, still propped against the wall. “Sam, get us some coffee.”

Sam's bookish appearance, resulting primarily from his unruly hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses, contrasted with his strike khakis, ten-gallon hat and the big .44 at his side.

“Yes sir,” he said, jumping to action at the sheriff's command.

“Sam Goodlake,” Sheriff Wright said. “My deputy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Buck said

Goodlake nodded. “Hear you're a P.I. in Oak City.”

“Word travels fast in Deception.”

“Only thing that does.”

Wright and Goodlake both grinned, as if Sam had cracked a private joke. The deputy's sing-song drawl sounded like the twangy riff of a steel guitar. Buck strongly doubted anyone ever kidded him about it, or anything else. He filled two foam cups from a large stainless steel urn as Sheriff Wright, his own amusement quickly fading, drummed his knuckles on the desk top.

“We found Emma floating face down in the water,” Wright said. “No boat. No fishing gear. Pearl Johnson said she'd been brooding all day.”

A squirrel perched on the window sill, cracking pine cones with his teeth. Wright sipped his coffee slowly before continuing his rambling account of Emma Fitzgerald's demise.

“Emma was still awake when Pearl went home for the night. Maybe the storm disoriented her and she wandered down to the lake. Storms around these parts can whip up high winds and waves. Maybe she fell in the water and got swept out to the middle of the lake.”

Buck sipped his own coffee. “You don't sound convinced.”

“Because I'm not. I just got the coroner's report.

Dr. Tom pegs the cause of death as suicide. He thinks Emma just waded into the water and let herself drown.”

“Seems a stretch. What's his reasoning?”

“Pearl's testimony, mainly.”

“Why rule out accidental death, or foul play?”

The sheriff shot a glance at Sam Goodlake and they both grinned. “Emma could swim like a tadpole and I don't know anyone strong enough to hold that old lady's head under water.”

“Mind if I look at the coroner's report?” Buck said.

The file in front of Sheriff Wright was apparently Aunt Emma's. He pushed it across the desk. The folder contained the coroner's report, notes and photos taken at the scene, and Sheriff Wright's account of what he saw. Buck quickly scanned the report.

Dr. Proctor ruled Aunt Emma's death a suicide by drowning, concluded because of Pearl's testimony, the absence of marks of violence on her body and water in her lungs. Buck quickly thumbed through the photos until one caught his attention.

“This report says Aunt Emma had no marks of violence on her body. What about this?”

He handed Wright a photo that showed him squatting over Aunt Emma's body, touching the back of her head.

“What about it? We took lots of pictures.”

“Looks like blood caked in her hair to me,” Buck said.

“Maybe she banged into a stump in the lake. The storm was chopping up the water pretty good out there.”

“Then the blood would have washed away before it dried. Looks to me like it caked up in her hair before she ever went in the lake.”

“What's your point, McDivit?”

“My point is her death could just as easily be accidental, or maybe even murder.”

“Emma had no enemies.”

“What about Bones Malone?”

“Bones is harmless. If you knew him, you'd know that.”

“I'd like to ask him a few questions. Know where I can find him?”

“He's on the lake somewhere. We won't find him till he wants to be found.”

Buck shook his head in disbelief. “Can you think of anyone else that might have reason to harm Aunt Emma?”

Wright stretched back in his chair and scratched his chin. “Not many people in Deception agreed with Emma's politics. When I returned to Deception after the War, Emma had a grocery store over in Rambeau. Black town. Some of the folks around here called her a nigger lover.”

Buck's neck flushed at Wright's blatant racist remark. He took a deep breath and said, “You think someone might have murdered her because she respected human rights?”

Wright's pasty face colored. “Why hell no! Emma drowned, pure and simple. I don't believe she committed suicide any more than you do, but that's the official finding.”

“What about the blood on her head?”

“Don’t know. No telling what might have happened during the storm.”

Buck kept quiet, waiting to hear the rest of the story. Instead, Sheriff Wright closed the file, pushed it to the edge of his desk and began cleaning his nails with an old pocket knife. The interview, it seemed, was over.

At the door, he asked, “What about the wound, Sheriff? What did it look like?”

“Better ask Dr. Tom about that. And McDivit,” he said. “Watch yourself.”

The visit with the Sheriff left him with more questions than answers. He somehow doubted Dr. Proctor would rectify the problem, at least not purposely. He set out along the maze of marbled corridors to find his office.

The nameplates he found on two adjacent offices surprised him: Hogg Nation, Mayor of Deception, and Ben Malone, County Archeologist. It made him wonder how many possible conflicts of interest were at work in Deception. He located the office of the coroner on the second floor.

Municipal employees were leaving for lunch, the coroner's door locked, and hallway empty. No one answered when he knocked. After picking the lock he slipped inside, finding the reception area dark and empty, the door to Dr. Proctor's private office ajar. Pushing it open slowly, he peeked inside.

The room was deserted and banks of gray file cabinets on the walls surrounded a stainless steel table used for performing autopsies. Buck searched the file cabinet, soon locating Aunt Emma's autopsy report. An exact copy of the one he'd seen at the Sheriff's. The coroner's copy had the notation Emfitz.aut, the name of a computer file, at the bottom of the last page. Aunt Emma's autopsy report was on computer and Buck began searching the office for hardware to access it. He found no computer, not even a dumb terminal.

Backtracking through the reception area, he entered Proctor's office, quickly locating a computer on his desk. An open window faced the alleyway and someone outside was mowing grass. Focusing on the computer, Buck blocked out the mower's high-pitched whine and concentrated on controlling his elevated heart rate. The computer was active, flying toasters filling the screen. The toasters disappeared, revealing the main menu when he tapped the return key. After calling up Aunt Emma's file on the word processor, he scanned it to satisfy himself it was identical to the hard copy in Proctor's file. A clatter of keys at the door stole his attention from the screen and he glanced around for a place to hide. He froze as a lone woman retrieved a purse from beneath the receptionist's chair then hurried away without noticing Proctor's open door.

Returning the computer to the main menu, Buck scanned the listings for a recovery program to recover files deleted purposely or otherwise. Most computers have one and so did Proctor's. Buck quickly scanned the list of recently deleted files on both drives. And there it was. A baritone voice in the hall halted him again. This time it wasn't the receptionist. Grabbing the jump drive he kept on his keychain, he hit the return key and restored the deleted file to his storage device. But it was too late to hide. Slipping over the open second-story windowsill, he jumped, twisting his ankle when he hit the ground. As he grimaced in pain, he realized he wasn't alone. Staring down at him was a very startled old man.