The search warrant contained words like “Squalor an’ Filth,” words the judge’d have to look up in his Thorndike an’ Barnhart dictionary. Time I got done, I was on a roll. I felt so good I wrote up another warrant just for the hell of it—to search Ash Jackson’s place.
Out here in the country, the circuit court judges really do ride a circuit—there ain’t enough business to keep ’em busy in any one town. Tuesday was West Wheeling’s court day, an’ it wasn’t Tuesday, so I had to go all the way to Okra to get my search warrants issued. Me bein’ from outta town, the Okrans let me go ahead of ’em. Or maybe they was just curious as to what kind of crimes afflict our town. Anyway, the judge looked over my paperwork an’ signed the warrant to search the Thistle place without comment. Then he held up the other one an’ axed, “What’s your probable, Homer?”
I pointed to the paper. “Like it says there, Judge. We got some human remains unaccounted for, an’ a missin’ man—mebbe the same man as the remains. An’ Ash Jackson was the last one seen with him.”
“Says here you got a reliable informant. Who?”
I stepped up to the bench so no one but the judge could hear me ax, “Off the record?” The judge didn’t say no, so I said, “Rye Willis.”
“Rye? He’s a moonshiner.”
“You drink his shine?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I rest my case.”
“Humph. Says here you hope to find evidence of a murder: blood, personal property of the victim—that should be the alleged victim—guns and drugs. ’Course you’re gonna find guns and drugs. Everybody knows Ash’s got more guns than the national armory, and everybody in Boone County has—”
“Okay. Okay,” I said. “How ’bout if I change it to illegal guns an’ drugs?”
“That wording would be acceptable.”
I wondered where he learnt a word like “acceptable.”