CHAPTER 53

Around five o’clock that same day, a knock came at the door. Not as hard as last night’s, but determined. “Who is it?”

“Sheriff Sweeney, Garfield County.”

Bucky sighed with relief and opened the door.

“Bucky Ontario?”

Sheriff Sweeney hadn’t mentioned the three deputies in green uniforms accompanying him. They all poured in, except the beefy one with the double chin who stayed out in the thirty-degree fresh air.

The sheriff placed his hat on the kitchen counter. The hat had left a crease along his hairline just above his ears. “May we sit?”

Bucky shuffled around the three men and pulled up chairs. The last time he stood crowded among policemen, he was looking down their flaming-red gun barrels, with bullets shooting out and whizzing by him.

The sheriff and the long-necked deputy sat; the other deputy, heavy-shouldered, stood at the door, parade rest, jaw fixed.

The sheriff relaxed his hands on the table. “Our Tulsa friends say you’ve got quite a story. I’d like to hear it.”

The deputy beside him took out a notebook and ballpoint pen from his coat pocket and clicked the pen with his thumb.

Bucky figured Sergeant Grady had already told the sheriff everything, but he needed to hear it firsthand. When Bucky finished, Sweeney nodded to the deputy at the door, who left. The nod was probably a signal to go arrest Gustafson. Pretty exciting.

The sheriff asked for a glass of water, and Bucky poured three. The sheriff took a sip and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He bounced his fingertips together, then flattened his palms against each other and slowly rubbed them up and down. “Now, Mr. Ontario, you say this Mr...” He glanced at his deputy, who checked his notes.

“Gustafson.”

“Right. You say Mr. Gustafson was not at the party?”

“That’s right. And he didn’t know Kansas had sold his car to Will, that’s why--”

“Right, you said he meant to kill Kansas, but screwed up.”

“Well--” Bucky squirmed in his chair, “he just didn’t--”

“But no one actually saw Gustafson cut the brake line. And, of all those people at the party, no one saw him outside, loitering around the car, anything like that?”

A small rock formed in Bucky’s chest. “I guess not.”

“You say someone wrote an anonymous note that said tinsnips, but you don’t know who that person was or what the word really meant.”

Bucky wanted to protect Kindra and not say her name. The rock was growing.

“And you don’t know what motive Gustafson might’ve had?”

“No, but if you compare Gustafson’s shoe to the foot impression, that’ll prove it.”

“Ah, yes, the foot impression Chief Trigger supposedly took from you.”

“That’s right, and I have--”

The door opened. The deputy who’d left stuck his head in and nodded. The sheriff nodded back.

In strode Chief Trigger.

The rock expanded against Bucky’s lungs. He couldn’t breathe.

The sheriff stood and stretched out a hand. “Thanks for coming, Cosmos. Have a seat and we’ll straighten this thing out.”

“No problem, Phil.” They shook hands.

“I’ll get right to the meat of things,” the sheriff said. “Mr. Ontario here claims you and two others came in here last night and ran off with a plaster foot impression. He says the impression proved that some person named Gustafson committed a double murder by cutting some fella’s brake line.”

Trigger shook his head. “This guy, they call him Bucky, he--”

“Because that’s my name.”

The sheriff shot Bucky a stern look.

“Bucky here’s been a troublemaker ever since I’ve known him,” Trigger went on. “Been in and out of jail I don’t know how many times.”

“What?”

The sheriff turned to Bucky. “Keep your mouth shut unless I ask you a question.”

Trigger put his forearms on the table and pulled one of his fingers until the knuckle cracked. “Facts are clear that the perpetrator in this murder left a unique shoe print, which Chief Parker believed belonged to Kansas Karradine, because he had a clubfoot or some damn thing and wore a special shoe. Nobody here knew Chief Parker had sent the impression to Tulsa for analysis. When I came onto the case, I investigated and determined with certainty that Kansas was indeed the perpetrator. Bucky here somehow found out about the impression, went to Tulsa, impersonated a Defiance peace officer, and took the damn thing as a souvenir.”

“Not a souvenir, but as proof that Gustafson is a murderer.”

“What did Sheriff Sweeney tell you, shitbrain? Keep your lip buttoned,” Trigger snarled. “Last night was the first I’d heard of the impression, and that this guy--” he jabbed a finger at Bucky. “--had taken it. Being duty-bound to check new evidence, I confiscated it.”

Sweeney rubbed an elbow. “Then what?”

“Well, I went to Gustafson’s house and compared his shoes to the impression. None matched. His were several sizes too small.”

“You have that evidence?” Sweeney asked.

“Yeah, sure. In my car.”

“Good. I’d like to see this comparison.”

Trigger turned his head and coughed. “There’s a problem, Phil. I have the shoes, but not the impression. After I finished my analysis at Gustafson’s, I instructed my officer to take the impression to the station and log it in, along with the shoes that I’d planned to return later. He placed the plaster impression on the roof of the squad car to unlock the door and the goddamn thing slid off and smashed to pieces.”

Bucky raised his hand.

“What?” the sheriff snapped.

“I’d like to suggest that Chief Trigger bring in Gustafson’s shoes, so you can see his thick soles.”

Sweeney thought a moment. “Good idea.”

Trigger hesitated then tossed his keys to the deputy at the door. “In the trunk.”

The deputy brought the shoes in and placed them on the table with a thud.

“Jesus Christ,” Sweeney said. “Soles must be four or five inches thick. What is this guy, a midget?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “Chief Trigger, you’re an expert on these things. Can you explain how one goes about comparing a shoe to an impression?”

“It’s simple. You look at tread marks and measure height and width.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Bucky fetched a ruler from the counter. “Can you show us?”

Trigger placed the shoe on the ruler. “See, measures four and three-eighths inches wide.”

“What did the impression measure?” Sweeney asked.

“Much wider,” Trigger said. “Here, I’ve got it in my notes.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and showed Sweeney his figures. “Five and a half inches. A lot wider.”

Bucky stretched around and read the notes. “It says the sole height is three inches. What’s Gustafson’s?”

Sweeney measured. “Four and a half. Big difference.”

“There you have it, Phil.” Trigger closed his notebook, with a satisfied smirk. “Let’s go home.”

“Chief Trigger,” Bucky said, “you mentioned comparing tread.”

Trigger got to his feet. “Different as night and day,” he said.

“Sheriff, there’s one more thing.” Bucky went to his desk and brought back a folder. “I took these photos of the impression. As you can see, each includes a ruler. And look.” He held Gustafson’s shoe upside down and put his ruler on it. “Four and three-eighths inches wide, just like the picture. And here, the shoe’s tread also matches.”

The sheriff sighed and nodded to the policeman at the door who whipped out his handcuffs and stepped forward.

Trigger’s head swiveled back and forth, eyes flashing. “Now, now, wait a minute, Phil. Let’s talk about this.”

“Hands behind your back, Trigger.”