Fourteen —
A Shot at the Chief

Chief Duncan was sitting behind his large grey metal desk, sheaves of paper obliterating the surface. The place smelled like burnt coffee and grease, or ink—not unlike the newspaper office, which gave Blanche a pang of comfort. Duncan’s green polyester uniform shirt was too tight, and so were his pants. He gave the appearance of being crammed into a job that somehow didn’t fit his nature. But he still managed to separate the demands of policing from his easygoing personality, and finally leave the pressure of the work load at the office. He was a typical Florida guy, normally laid back, born and bred in the sunny ways of the South, but it seemed as if this murder had sent him over the edge.

“I need retirement,” he said to Blanche, without preamble. He scooted away a pile of papers in front of him. “Real retirement.”

“Not now,” she said. “We have to figure out why Bob was murdered, and who did it.”

“We?” Chief Duncan had known Blanche since first grade, and he still looked at her like she had peanut butter and jelly on her face.

“I wish your Gran could see you now.”

“I wish I could see her, too. She’d have a thing or two to say about all this awful business. And she might have an idea or two about how to clean up the mess. Bob’s murder. Unforgivable. And what’s up with these Chicago types trying to take over the island. I could lose Tuna Street. We’re all on the losing end of this.” Blanche felt herself lapsing back into the police beat for the Island Times. It was like slipping on a pair of comfortable old shoes. She collapsed into a chair next to his desk, her eyes averted and studying the overflowing desk and waste basket.

“Oh, goodness, girlie. One thing at a time.”

“Well, I’m not here to waste your time though it is always nice to see you, and chat.” It was good to butter him on all sides, like a Parker House roll, before she bit into him.

He looked up and smiled. He loved her lop-sided grin.

She stood up and leaned on the desk. “I saw something. Someone. In that parking lot the day Bob was murdered.”

Duncan had eyebrows like caterpillars and now they jumped. “And who would that be?”

“A guy and a white van. Not far from Bob’s Mercedes, about one hour after the murder, I’d say, noon-ish.” The who, what, where, when. But no why, or how.

“That right?” He tilted back in the metal armchair, thumbs in his waist band. With Blanche, it was always the questions. And no answers. “There are about a million guys and white vans in Florida, give or take. Can you be a little more specific? Why this guy?” He waved at Blanche and the world, in general. She sat, knees crossed. She had a hankering for her notebook. She looked Duncan in the eye.

“Because I know. I’ve got this radar.” Duncan knew all about Blanche’s radar. It had worked many times, especially when she had a lead on a good story. But he had a soft spot for Blanche, and he’d loved Maeve. He’d taught Jack to throw a mean splitter—alongside Bob.

“Blanche, this ain’t Star Trek. I need a little more than that.”

“Wish’d I’d gotten that license number. But all the same I wrote down a very good description.” At that, she reached in her bag and pulled out her notebook and began to wilt at the thought, Yes, there are a million guys and white vans, but this one was different. Somehow. “Something just wasn’t right about him. That’s what I’m saying. He didn’t seem to know anyone, or connect. He didn’t talk to anyone. He just hung around after the murder. Scoping it out. Then I found a piece of cellophane on the ground that I’m positive he threw away.”

“Really! Well, maybe we can pick him up for littering—as well as loitering.”

At that she pulled out a small plastic bag.

Duncan put on his reading glasses. “What’s that supposed to be? A plastic bag. Of air?”

Blanche shook it gently. “I hope it’s something. It’s the cellophane from that guy’s cigarette wrapper. I don’t have a license number. But this might help.”

Duncan’s face, as large as a pie plate, studied her, one eyebrow raised. Deflated, she wondered why he’d even consider the flimsy evidence.

“We’ll tag it.” He reached for the bag.

“He shot out of that parking lot like he had a rocket booster on his van. That sort of did it for me.”

Duncan hesitated. She could see his brain cells clacking together, like dice. Would he roll them? “It needs follow-up, Blanche. It does. Lemme have that description again.” He held up the bag. “And we’ll print this for sure.”

He flipped open one of the notebooks scattered about his desk and squinted at his writing as Blanche dictated the particulars she’d written down. She had the sudden urge to push him along, a frustration overwhelming her that was almost palpable. He seemed tired. Now was not the time to be tired.

Blanche itched for more activity, and the police station did not have the flavor of an active murder investigation. A clerk shuffled around the office, slapping papers into folders and taking his time to answer the phone. Business as usual at the Santa Maria police station was pretty dull, but Bob’s murder had foisted a new cast on the policing of the island. Business should be picking up around here. The bulletin board over Duncan’s desk had several menus and a baseball schedule pinned to it, but the white board did have a fresh list of officers from all over the county. The wheels were turning, geared to island time, chugging and grinding, like they needed a good shot of WD-40.

“I’ll be back soon,” said Blanche, “with more details. You’ll let me know what you find out, won’t you?”

His bland expression said neither yes, nor no.

“Say, chief, I hear you talked with Liza. About a connection between the developers and Bob?”

“You heard that, did ya? Lots of talk going around. I’ll say that. But we have nothing firm. Just talk, for now.”

Ah, Dunc, lots of talk and no action? But she smiled. He was one big old sweetheart, basically.

His eyes were clear, and concerned. “I do thank you for stopping by. You be careful while you’re out and about. And let me know if you see that fella again.” He grunted and his head went back to the paperwork, fingers like bratwurst wrapped around his coffee cup. He sighed.

Blanche hesitated in the doorway. She turned back to him.

“Chief!”

Duncan jumped. “For lord’s sake, Blanche, what is it now?”

“I just thought of something.” Duncan was visibly wary. Blanche’s thinking was an energy field into which one stepped carefully.

She couldn’t figure why it struck her so hard, but it did. The guy and the white van again. “He was rubbing his arm.”

“So? I’m just not getting it, Blanche. This about the guy at the scene? The cigarette wrapper, the white van, the rubbing of the arm. These things do not exactly add up to murder suspect.”

“Maybe not. But why was he rubbing his arm? And he kept at it. Do you think something, or someone, scratched him?”

“Blanche, there are bugs, you know.”

“Not so many. Not now.” It was true. Santa Maria was a bird sanctuary and birds loved bugs.

She could see, in her mind’s eye, the smoke curling from the cigarette in that guy’s fingers, the hand passing over his forearm. More than once. “And check out Bob’s tie. It was on the front seat. Bobby would not remove his tie like that and just wad it up on the seat. Before he was murdered?” Blanche still hadn’t moved a hair out of the doorway. “Maybe something’s on that tie? And maybe something’s on that cigarette wrapper.”

Duncan lips moved, but nothing came out except, “hurump.” He moved a stack of papers, the pen hovered over it. “Goodbye, Blanche.” He sighed, and the pen began jabbing the paperwork.

Blanche started across the parking lot where Bob had died, and Santa Maria had changed forever. She hoped to heaven the chief was all over it, and that he wasn’t just humoring her. She wanted to help. Flashes of the town hall meeting, then the murder, hounded her. Urged her to keep digging. These events had left her on edge and with nowhere to go but deeper.