Bite the Moon (2 page)

As soon as I had my internal distress under control, I inched my way up to a standing position. I thought the movement was making my head ring but then realized the sound I heard was the distant, shrill wail of a siren. The posse was coming. In seconds, the spinning, flashing lights outside the windows lit up Solms like Las Vegas. I stood my ground by the door, shooing away a morbid looky-loo or two as I waited for my partners-in-arms.

A sea of blue flooded the hall and parted the mob into manageable groups. Quicker than a cap could fly off a longneck, the crowd was seated at the tables or in neat lines on the floor. Some nursed busted lips, others struggled to steady their bobbing heads, many rubbed mindlessly on the blue ink stamps on the backs of their hands.

When the first detective stepped into the hall, he made a beeline for my position. He flashed his badge with an air of condescension and commandeered my flashlight. When he pointed the beam into the closet, his air of superiority dissolved. He doubled over, covered his mouth and lurched toward the restroom. A newbie. Oh, joy. When he recovered, the look on his face encouraged me to bite my tongue and not speak a single word I was thinking. He took charge of the closet and I stepped in to assist with the drudgery in the hall.

I went tableto-table asking for drivers’ licenses and jotting down names and contact information. While those of us in uniform released the crowd one small table at a time, detectives questioned staff by the vendor table at the entrance to the hall.

Outside an engine roared and a horn blasted the night air again and again in quick succession. A whiff of diesel fumes drifted through the windows and penetrated our noses with that thick nausea-inducing smell. Had to be Trenton Wolfe’s tour bus making a heralded departure.

Moments later, Detective Tim Hawkins plowed into the hall with all the grace of a bulldozer. His red face, clenched fists and quivering paunch were sure indications that someone on that bus did not accord him the respect he thought was his right. I’ve known Tim since I was a kid. And I liked him. But sometimes, his pompous manner opened him up for a full roundhouse punch to his sensibilities.

I turned back to the task at hand. I had to concentrate to keep from transposing digits in phone numbers and butchering the spelling of names as I carried out the mind-numbing chore. At last, the final group of stunned spectators drifted out of the hall and into the night. By morning, many of them would be relating tales of a near brush with death to envious friends who rued their decision not to attend the show. In no time, the town would be buried in an avalanche of half-truths and generous exaggerations.

Yellow crime scene tape encircled the bloodied area next to the stage. It seemed the local posse had called in the cavalry. A white cowboy hat announced the presence of a Texas Ranger. And judging by the stenciling on the back of the Tyvek suits, a herd of Texas Department of Safety Crime Scene Techs was on hand, too.

I was curious and apprehensive about who was lying in the pool of blood on the other side of the tape. I didn’t think I knew the victim but I wasn’t sure—I was too focused on the gore to notice his facial features. I hovered in the background snatching bits of conversation out of the air.

Relief washed over me when I learned the dead body belonged to a stranger. Then I felt ashamed. No one’s death should ever be a relief.

The stranger was Rodney Faver, the general manger of Trenton Wolfe’s band. That made me wonder why the tour bus wasn’t still parked outside. I thought someone on board should be a suspect.

I didn’t think I knew any of the personnel from DPS in Austin, but then I saw a familiar face dart under the crime scene tape and scurry outside. Jim Mendoza was a student from the days before I was a cop when I taught chemistry up at the high school. Now, it seemed, he was a DPS tech. I followed him and found him digging through the trunk of his car.

“
What have you got in there, Jim?” I tilted my head toward the hall.

“
Ms. Mullet?” Jim squinted his eyes at me, not trusting the vision of his former teacher dressed in a blue uniform.

“
Yeah. Only it’s Officer Mullet, now.”

“
Jeez, this is weird.” His eyes darted around in his uncertainty. “Keep this to yourself, Ms. Mullet, but Ranger Allen is having a fit. We got a dead guy connected to the band stuffed in the closet with a guitar string wrapped around his neck and that stupid cop let the band bus go.”

He grabbed a hard plastic case from the trunk, slammed the lid and, with a nod of his head, disappeared back into the hall. Now I really wanted to know why Hawkins didn’t hold that tour bus at the scene.

I wandered back into the hall where I was told I would need to file a report in the next couple of days but was now free to go home. Across the hall, I spotted Bobby Wiggins, the hall’s janitor. His bowed head swung back and forth as he listened to Mike Elliot. I grew up on the same street as Bobby. He was ten years older than me, but when I was in elementary school, he acted my age. When I moved on to middle school, I realized that Bobby had not grown up at all. He was still a kid. A lot of my peers teased and tricked Bobby, but I usually heard the voice of my mother rat-a-tatting too loud in my head to join in their cruel fun.

I pitied Bobby back then. But as I became an adult, I grew to appreciate the simple dignity he possessed in the face of ridicule and the gentle nature he displayed under pressure. With every passing minute, he fidgeted more and more at the words that flew from Mike’s mouth. I moved a step or two in their direction but decided it would not be wise to interfere in their discussion. Not here. Not now. I’d catch up with Bobby later.

*

I was off-duty the next day and putzed around the house, cleaning up little pockets of debris. I had a horrible habit of forming little nesting areas whenever I sat anywhere for more than a minute. Scraps of paper, pencils, magazines, newspapers piled up by every chair. I put things away and dusted tabletops. Leaving the house was not going to be an option for me today.

It seemed everyone had heard I was at Solms Halle the night before and everyone wanted a firsthand account.

I allowed my answering machine to serve as my gatekeeper as one whispered message after another spooled on to the tape.

“
Molly, Molly, call me right away.”

“
Molly, I heard you were working at Solms Halle last night, call me.”

“
Molly, how many people were killed in the shootout last night?”

“
Molly, is it true Trenton Wolfe is under arrest?”

The truth was weaving into a web of deceit faster than a spider could wrap a fly.

Monday, I went in early to file my report and snoop around for the latest news about the investigation before my shift started. I sat down at a desk, pulled out a form and got busy.

Lisa Garcia, a nineteen-year-old administrative aide, sidled up beside me and peered over my shoulder without saying a word. “Yes, Lisa?” I said without looking up from my work.

“
Did you hear about the arrest?”

“
Arrest?” Now I was interested.

“
Yes, arrest for murder.” The last word stretched out of her mouth as if it were a hundred letters long.

“
Rodney Faver’s murder?”

“
Yes.” Her brown eyes twinkled as she held on to her moment of superior knowledge. She leaned her small rump against the desk, using one brown arm to keep her balance. With the other hand, she covered her mouth. She was the most enthusiastic—yet most coy—gossip in the whole department.

She wanted me to beg. So I obliged. “Come on, Lisa. Tell me. Who was arrested?”

“
You will not believe this.”

“
Tell me.”

“
Bobby Wiggins.”

“
Bobby Wiggins?” I said as I dropped my pen and jumped to my feet. I looked at Lisa’s bobbing head and stared into her dark, twinkling eyes. Was she excited that she got to break the news? Or was she just jerking my chain? “Lisa, if this is your idea of a joke, I am not amused.”

A wide-eyed look of indignation swept across her face like fire over a dry prairie. She popped off my desk and stood as straight and tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow. She pivoted on her heel, and I laid my hand on her forearm before she could escape. She shrugged it off, tossed her head and blurped out a sound of disgust.

I hate these girly games but I had no choice. “I’m sorry, Lisa. Of course I believe you. I was just shocked. Please forgive me.”

My pleading paid off. She spun back around, beaming. Leaning forward she confided, “Mama says it’s ridiculous—grade-A ridiculous.”

“
Your mama is right.”

“
Oh, I don’t know about Mama.” She shook her head slowly. “She’s had this thing about the police department ever since they picked up Uncle Jesus and questioned him about that bank robbery . . .”

I tuned her out and put my head in automatic-nod mode. I’d heard the story about Uncle Jesus at least a dozen times this year already. I’d have to wait until she finished before I could get any more information about Bobby’s arrest. It made no sense. Every member of the band had more potential motive than Bobby. Did the investigators back off because of their celebrity? There had to be a lot of other possible suspects, too. Trenton Wolfe’s meteoric rise had to have spawned some enemies. Someone had to hate Faver more than Bobby was capable of hating anyone.

I zoned back in as Lisa wrapped up her soliloquy. “So, I’m not so sure about Mama. I told her that in my experience with the police, I’ve learned that almost anybody can do almost anything for almost no reason at all.”

“
What makes them think it’s Bobby, Lisa?”

“
He confessed.”

“
Confessed?”

“
Yep. Lieutenant Hawkins says he’s got him dead to rights—dead to rights is exactly what he said—he got him dead to rights and it’s all on tape, too.”

“
He taped it?” Damn, a written statement would have been better. It would be so easy to argue that Bobby didn’t understand what he was reading. Whoa. Alien thought. Where did that come from? I’m a cop, not a defense attorney.

My mental darting must have danced across my face like a crazed tango. Lisa gave a sideways glare through slitted eyes as if she feared my head might make a full circuit and spew pea soup at any second.

“
Lieutenant Hawkins, you said?”

“
Yep. Yep. Lieutenant Hawkins. You okay, Officer Mullet?”

“
Yeah, I’m fine.” I patted Lisa’s shoulder, hoping to reassure her as I walked out of the room. I felt her eyes on my back as I left and wondered if she was going to call Hawkins and warn him that a lunatic was on the way.

*

I peered around a cubicle wall and spotted Hawkins at his desk. His short bristle cut made his incipient baldness difficult to detect at first glance. His jowls and gut seemed to sag a little more every time I saw him. The smell of fast food wrapper and discarded banana peel wafting from his overfull trash can filled the air with a greasy sweetness that churned my stomach. “Lieutenant Hawkins?”

“
Hey, Mullet!” He grinned. “You heard the word? Go ahead,” he said, thrusting a shoulder in my direction. “Pat me on the back.”

I kept my distance and wiped any emotion from my face. “I heard that you think you solved the Faver homicide.”

“
Think? Think, my ass, Mullet. I solved it and bagged the perp before the blood was dry. With a little luck, the DA will throw away the key.”

“
Bobby Wiggins, Lieutenant?” It was taking a lot of effort not to raise my voice or clench my teeth.

“
Yeah. Ain’t human nature a kick in the butt? You think you know somebody and, bam, they go do something you never expected.”

“
Maybe you didn’t expect it because he didn’t do it?”

“
Mullet, Mullet, Mullet,” he said, shaking his head in broad swings. “How long you been on the force?”

Oh, I hate this. Someone was always reminding me that they had more seniority—and more experience—than I did. “I’ve known Bobby Wiggins all my life, sir.”

“
Oh, cut the ‘sir’ crap, Mullet. You’ve known me most of your life, too.” He looked down at his watch. “You got some time before shift. C’mon, have a seat.”

He hooked his foot under the rung of the metal chair and dragged it around to the business side of his desk in front of the VCR-TV combo perched on the makeshift credenza by the wall. “C’mon. I’ll show you the tape. Sit. Sit. I’ve got it cued up a couple hours into the good part.”

I wanted to see the tape. But I didn’t want to see Bobby say he did it. I was afraid I would believe him and I didn’t want to. I slumped into the chair.

“
Wipe off that long face, girl. Here’s your chance to learn something about being a cop—a real cop.”

The video camera shot down from an angle above, giving a perspective that made the room look a bit larger than it really was. It was a plain, ugly room with scarred beige walls and stained, white-speckled floor tile. No one went all out for furniture either. There was one of those old metal tables with that strange spongy gray surface composed of a substance no one still living could identify. The metal chairs had thin built-in back and seat cushions of cheap green vinyl—the kind you can repair with a piece of color-coordinated electrical tape.