EIGHTEEN

Blake set a bottle of water down on the desk in front of Amos Branson. “Figured you might need to wet your whistle.”

The young officer twisted off the cap and took a long gulp. He set it back down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What do you want to know, sir?”

Blake picked up a folder and sat down. “I have your report. You found the perp dangling from the top rung of the jail bars at 7:08 AM?

“That sounds right.”

“He was already dead, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Strangulation. Very obvious. Rigor mortis already setting into the jaw and eyes.”

“Hmm. Yes, coroner report concurs. Death occurred between four and five. No one checked on him?”

“I did, sir. About two.” He squirmed. “I, um...I guess after that I fell asleep, sir.”

“Thank you for being honest about that.”

“A strong cup of coffee usually gets me through night shift. I had two. Plus, I’m usually a light sleeper. I can’t believe I never heard a thing.”

A moment of silence hung between them. Blake pushed back in his chair. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. I’ll talk to Gates for you. Adrenaline rushes are common in tense situations. After the rush, the crash occurs.” He gave the officer a wink. “Been there myself. You never heard it from me though, right?”

“Yes, sir. Chief Gates did warn us of that in the debriefing. I felt fine, though. Honest.”

“Well, you were still probably on a rush until well after the prisoner was secured in our cell.” Blake rubbed his chin. “So why didn’t the sarge put someone fresh on overnight watch?”

Branson looked at his hands. “Who was fresh? Everyone responded to the call. Anyway, I volunteered, sir. Everett wanted to go home. His wife is due any day. He was worried about what the stress might have done to her in her condition.”

“I see.”

“Mason had already pulled a double. He’d only been off duty a few hours when the call came in. Besides, he and Aaron Jenkins were partners until they shifted Aaron to the western quadrant. The whole thing rattled him badly.” He swallowed another gulp of water and eyed Blake. “How is he, sir? I mean Aaron.”

Blake shrugged. “Survived the surgery. Haven’t heard anything more.”

Branson pursed his lips and lowered his chin.

“Son, I’m in charge of the I.A. on this. That’s why I need to go over this with you. One thing we are not clear on. How did Wellington hurt his ankle and who gave him the bandage?”

Amos Branson raised his gaze to the ceiling. “I’ve wondered about that as well. Oh, he limped all right. The anesthesia from digging the bullet from his calf wore off fast. However, sir...” He returned his focus to Blake, a question written on his face.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t recall him having anything wrapped around his ankle when we put him in the cell. We patted him down thoroughly to make sure he didn’t swipe anything from the E.R.”

“And yet, according to the coroner’s report, it was bruised and swollen. Forensics confirmed a sprain.”

Branson shrugged.

Blake rocked back and groaned. “Great. Just great.”

“One more thing, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“I could’ve sworn I put the bottle of pain pills in the desk. The investigators said they found it stashed under his mattress, empty.”

“Hmmm.”

A knock sounded. Phil stood there with a mousy woman about fortyish clutching a sketch pad half as big as she. Blake motioned them inside.

Over the next thirty minutes, Amos Branson described Jamison as best he could. “Dark, short hair. A bit wavy, too. Square jaw. Narrow eyes and strong eyebrows.” He watched as the artist began to sketch the portrait. “Um, thicker. Bushier.”

“What color were his eyes?”

“Dark brown, I guess. Oh, and he had a chicken pox scar on his forehead. About here.” He pointed about a half inch above his right eyebrow.

She added the feature.

“The nose needs to be wider, and a tad crooked as if it had been broken once.”

Blake leaned against the wall. “How old do you figure he is?’

Branson craned to face him. “I dunno. Mid-forties? Like you and Hornsby. His skin seemed weathered as if he’d been outdoors a lot. I’d say he’s about five-eleven. Fairly fit. Wore boots and his jeans were worn in the knees, but not to be stylish. More like old work jeans.”

Blake set his cup down. “Wait. He wasn’t in uniform?”

The cop shook his head. “Figured he’d been off duty, but got the call and came runnin’. Showed us his badge, though. Seemed legit. He carried a service revolver. Standard issue Glock.”

Blake released a long sigh. “Perhaps Mitch is right about him being a deputized rancher. Go on.”

Branson gave him a scrunched-eyebrow look. “They still do that?”

“Apparently. Many of the counties west of here are mostly ranches and dwindling towns with barely one hundred folks left in them. Most of them elderly.”

“Yeah, my grandparents live on the outskirts of one of those. Ever hear of Cherokee up Highway 16?”

Blake laughed. “You ever hear of Dickens, a half hour east of Lubbock? My ancestors settled around there.”

The young cop halted, his finger pointing in the air. “Um, there is something else.”

“Yeah?”

“You know the lock on that cell door has been quirky, right? We reported it last week when ol’ Mr. Sanford passed out against it and pushed it open.”

Blake’s blood pressure rose into his neck. “Then why did you put Wellington in there?”

Branson scratched behind his ear. “Because Sanford was out cold in the other one—again. The man really needs to join Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“And the city council really needs to get off their behinds and approve at least two more cells. After all, this town is reaching twelve thousand. We’ve added six new subdivisions in the past year. It doesn’t include Sunset Acres or the addition to the new outlet mall, both of which add up to a lot of property tax. You can’t tell me there isn’t the budget for it.” Blake clicked his pen several times in irritation.

“More space for us would work as well,” the officer agreed. “There were only, what, six on the force when it was built? We’re tripping over each other.”

The sketch artist cleared her throat. “Uh, gentlemen? Perhaps we need to get back to this sketch? I’m getting paid by the hour, including travel time.”

~*~

An hour later, Blake left with the sketch in hand. Maybe now he’d receive answers. Before he went to Grayson, he decided to visit Ethel at her condo. He glanced at his watch. He was already running late by fifteen minutes. He texted her as he walked to the car. Sorry. On my way. Be there in ten.

She greeted him at the door, all smiles, her eyes bright as a child’s on Christmas morning. “Come in. Come in. What can I get ya? Coffee? Water?”

Blake raised his hand. “I’m fine. I don’t have much time, but I want to ask you something. How would you like to be on the Internal Affairs Committee investigating the manhunt?”

He half-expected her to faint. She almost did. He caught her elbow and eased her into her chair.

“You all right?”

Ethel gave him a giant grin of anticipation. “Absolutely. Read me in.”

He snickered at her investigative cop-show slang. “Very well. Here are the reports I have so far. Why don’t you review them while I make a run to Grayson? I’ll be back in two hours, tops. After I return, I’ll answer any questions you have.”

She jumped up and grabbed her purse. “Why don’t I go with you? It’d save time.”

Blake laid his hands on her shoulders. “No can do. Sorry. You’re not to help gather evidence, just review it in an unbiased manner.”

“Oh, very well.” She opened the front door.

He placed his Stetson on his head and peered into her eyes. “One thing. You can’t discuss this case with anyone. Not Janie, not Betsy Ann. Got it?”

“May I ask why?”

“Unbiased, remember? They are prime witnesses.”

She raised her chin. “Right. Got it.” She ran her thumb and forefinger across her lip, mimicking a zipper.

Blake winked. “Good girl. I’ll inform Janie so she understands as well. See ya in a few.”

Driving away, he caught her peering out of her living room window, clutching the folder to her chest and waving wildly. Oh, boy. Lord, tell me I’ve done the right thing.