Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy (18 page)

23

MARLIN STOPPED AT a pay phone, called Bill Tatum’s cell phone, and relayed everything he had learned from Cheri, which wasn’t much. Marlin wanted to question Duke Waldrip about the imported animals, but Tatum told him he probably wouldn’t have much luck.

“Why’s that?” Marlin asked.

“Doubt he’ll talk to you. We’ve been getting nowhere, so Cowan called him earlier. He was happy to talk, until she mentioned the airport. Then he shut down. Said he was tired of answering questions, he didn’t know what happened to Searcy, he didn’t know where Kyle was, and he wanted us to—quote—‘quit pestering him.’ She asked about his brother, Gus, and Duke said to leave him alone, too. Then he hung up.”

“Houston getting anywhere on Bobby’s shooting?”

“If they are, I haven’t heard. I spoke to Bobby earlier, by the way, and he sounds pretty good. He’s coming home tomorrow.”

“Already?”

“Well, they’re transferring him to Blanco County Hospital. I think he raised enough hell that they agreed to move him. I think he’s going crazy—all this action and he’s laid up.”

“I imagine so.”

“Hey, hadn’t you better get on home? Your big show starts in an hour.”

Duke knew only one good defense lawyer—a potbellied older guy named Danny “Boots” Baker, the man Kyle had hired to try to keep Duke out of the pen after the armed robbery. Duke had done his time, but he knew deep down it wasn’t Baker’s fault. Outside of turning black and hiring Johnny Cochran, Duke hadn’t stood a chance in that case. Too much evidence.

During the course of the trial, Duke had learned a few things about Baker. Most important, Baker wasn’t concerned much about justice. His chief goal was to ensure that his clients walked, or did as little time as possible. He was a showman, too, a guy who could embellish, exaggerate, distort, coerce, cajole, and mislead with the best of them. Facts? Fuck the damn facts. When this guy got on a roll, he could paint an entirely different picture. Plus, he looked damn spiffy in a pair of alligator boots. He always wore them in the courtroom—hence the nickname.

Duke hadn’t talked to Baker in several years, but he still had the lawyer’s home number, and he decided to give it a try.

“Well, goddamn!” Baker boomed over the phone. “Duke Waldrip. How the hell are ya?”

Duke was surprised Baker remembered him. “I’m holding up,” Duke replied.

“Holding up what? Not any liquor stores, I hope!”

Duke held the phone away from his ear as Baker’s vigorous laugh filled the air. “Hell no. I learned my lesson on that.”

“I sure hope so. What can I do for ya, Duke?”

Duke wasn’t sure where to start. “Listen,” he said. “I need to talk to you about something. It’s kind of … touchy.”

“Hell, touchy’s my specialty, you know that. Fact is, I oughta put that right on my damn bidness card. You been arrested?”

“No, not y—uh, no, I haven’t.”

“Well then, before you spill the beans, two things. First, let’s talk in hypotheticals. You follow me?”

“Not really.”

“You know, like
what ifs.
You say, ‘Danny, what if this mighta happened or that mighta happened.’ Like you’re telling me a made-up story about some imaginary guy. It’s called hypothetical, ’cause we’re talking about what might hypothetically happen.”

“Gotcha.”

“And secondly, I do need to tell you that I have a five-hundred-dollar minimum fee.”

Duke winced. “Damn, Boots, for a phone call?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s steep. But there ain’t nothing I can do. It’s set by the bar association.”

Duke was fairly certain that Baker was lying—but that was part of the reason the man was so desirable as a lawyer.

“You just drop the check in the mail on Monday and we’ll be square, all right? Plus, see, it makes me your official attorney. That way, everything you say is confidential.”

“Okay,” Duke grumbled. “Monday. I’ll mail it.”

“All right, then. What’s your story?”

Duke chose his words carefully. “I’m wondering what might happen … if a guy—an imaginary guy—was suspected in a murder.”

Duke noticed that Baker had gone unusually quiet. “Murder, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me grab a notepad. Okay, start at the beginning.”

“Well, let’s say this guy knew another guy, and they had a business dealing together. Say the first guy supposedly guided the second guy on a dove hunt. Later, the second guy is found dead in the woods.”

“Then the question is—speaking strictly hypothetically now—did the first guy do it? Now understand, in a real case, I would never ask that. But here, we’re just shooting the shit, right?”

“Yeah, right.”

“So then …”

Duke took a deep breath. “Yeah, he did it. But it was self-defense. The second guy had a gun.”

“If it was self-defense, why the hell didn’t the first guy call the cops?”

“Let’s say he has a record, and he was afraid.…”

“Okay, good enough. The cops have already interviewed our guy about this situation?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they ask him?”

Duke quickly recounted his conversations with the sheriff and the game warden. Then he mentioned that the imaginary guy’s best friend had gone missing and was apparently also a suspect in the investigation. Duke could hear Baker scribbling.

“So this third guy owns the ranch where the first two guys allegedly hunted?”

“Yeah.”

Baker continued with a long list of questions: How was the man killed? How was the body moved? How many times had the hypothetical suspect been questioned? What did the cops say when he told them to leave him alone? Baker grilled him for nearly fifteen minutes. Duke answered all of the questions honestly, except for one.

Had anyone ever seen the first two guys together?

Duke thought of Gus and said, “No.”

“Well,” Baker finally said, “I’d say this guy is in fairly decent shape. If I was this guy, I’d sit tight and see what happens. Now, even speaking hypothetically, and even if it
was
self-defense, I would never advise a man to destroy evidence. Say, for instance, that the guy still had the dead guy’s gun. Never in a million years would I tell him to get rid of it. Or to throw away the clothes he was wearing at the time. Things like that.”

“I understand.”

“Also, if I was this guy, I wouldn’t talk to nobody about it, and I mean nobody.”

“What about the cops?”

“Now, see, it’s different with the cops. If they’re looking into this guy’s best friend as a suspect, they can subpoena him as a witness for a grand jury. But at that point, our imaginary guy would be smart enough to call his lawyer, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I hear ya.”

“Speaking of which, you got my cell phone number?”

“No.”

Baker recited it and Duke wrote it on a scrap of paper. “I’ll stick it in my wallet.”

“Hell, son, considering your history, you might want to tattoo it on your arm.”

Johnson City was bustling—Marlin could think of no other word for it. It was an odd sight to see. Johnson City might work itself into a mild buzz on occasion, but it rarely bustled. Driving north on 281, Marlin could see that every parking lot was overflowing, and the number of out-of-state plates had grown. Strangers were rearranging gear in trucks, carrying bags out of convenience stores, chatting in large groups as they threw tailgate parties. The population seemed to have tripled overnight. Marlin recognized a couple of the vehicles from trespassing calls the night before. Apparently, issuing citations wasn’t enough to send some of these folks home.

He pulled into the parking lot of the Kountry Kitchen and managed to snag a spot as an SUV pulled out. He was bone-tired, too weary to cook. He’d grab an early dinner, then a nap at home, and be ready for a busy night.

Inside, it was standing room only, something Marlin had never seen at the small café. He changed his mind and was about to leave, when a local hunter gave up his chair at the counter. That was fine with Marlin, and he could still see the large TV mounted on the far wall.

Marlin ordered a chicken-fried steak, then thumbed through a copy of the
Blanco County Record
that had been left on the counter. On the front page was a photo of Kyle Dawson, along with an article stating that the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department was seeking Dawson as a possible witness in a current investigation. It wouldn’t take a genius to conclude that the crime in question was the Searcy homicide.

Just as the waitress placed Marlin’s plate in front of him, a hush fell over the crowd.

“Turn it up!” someone yelled.

Hard News Tonight
was beginning, the catchy jingle blaring from the TV, complete with flashy graphics and synthesized sound effects. Marlin turned to watch.

The two anchors—a well-groomed male and a perky blonde—were so damn excited they could barely contain themselves. It seemed that George Clooney—a shot of George grinning bashfully appeared on the screen—had been spotted with a certain female celebrity. Could it be true love this time for George, the confirmed bachelor? they wondered. Well, everyone would have to wait in breathless anticipation, because they’d have that story later in the program.

What’s more, Brad Pitt had been seen purchasing a very expensive diamond necklace at Tiffany’s. Was it an anniversary present for his wife, Jennifer Aniston? The good ol’
Hard News Tonight
team would have the scoop, coming right up.

Plus—wonder of wonders—there was a new garment that promised to “shape and accentuate the curves of the buttocks.” The show would feature an exclusive interview with the designer, Giovanni Capestrano.

“But first,” the blond woman said, “tonight’s top story.”

“As you know,” the man said, “we’ve been following the strange story of the chupacabra down in Texas.”

“It’s quite a tale, too,” the blonde added. “But this is one that’s becoming more believable by the minute! One body’s been found, and local residents are wondering if the chupacabra is to blame—but the police aren’t saying.”

Marlin wondered what
that
meant. If anything, the interview would let the air out of this whole fiasco.

“There’s been another sighting, though,” the male anchor said, his face deadly serious. “And this time, we’re getting a report straight from the horse’s mouth—a genuine Texas game warden.”

“For an update, we take you to our correspondent Rudi Vee, on location in the Texas Hill Country. Rudi?”

Now there was a daytime shot of Rudi Villarreal in front of the courthouse. Marlin figured they must have shot it sometime today. “Thanks, Brad and Bonnie. The story of the chupacabra continues to unfold here in Blanco County. Late yesterday evening, an exotic animal of some sort was captured by Game Warden John Marlin.”

People whistled and cheered, and a couple of men patted Marlin on the back.

“Is it the chupacabra? Has the elusive creature finally been caught? If so, it will rock the scientific community to its core. Until now, biologists have maintained that the chupacabra simply does not exist. I caught up with Game Warden Marlin late last night and got the full story.”

Now there was a cut to the shot from yesterday evening—Rudi and Marlin on his front porch. Marlin had to grin, seeing his modest home on national television.

The interview began just as Marlin remembered it.

“What can you tell us about the animal you captured late this afternoon?” Rudi asked.

“Uh, I can say it wasn’t a native species for the area,” Marlin replied.

The screen now showed dramatic shots of the rolling Texas hills—twilight shots, meant to create a sense of mystery. Eerie banjo music faded in.
Banjo music?
Marlin had never seen an authentic banjo player in his life.

Then Marlin heard his own voice again—and that’s when the trouble started.

“Well, I personally had never seen anything like it in Blanco County before,” Marlin continued, “and we’ve had some odd animals get loose over the years. There’s been somewhat of a frenzy around here.…”

Marlin frowned. What the hell was going on? The quotes were out of order.

Rudi’s voice: “Okay, but you think this animal—whatever it is—was responsible for the so-called chupacabra sightings? Is this the animal that people have been seeing?”

“I imagine so. Sort of a cross between a flying monkey and a large reptile. Huge red eyes … long fangs.”

Oh, Jesus, those sons of bitches!
They had twisted everything around!

The audience in the café was babbling with excitement now, people tugging on Marlin’s sleeves, wanting to ask questions. Marlin could feel his pulse pounding in his temples.

Charlie felt sorry for the chupacabra. That
had
to be what he had been seeing around his house. They were talking about it in the newspapers and on TV, saying it was some kind of animal that had never existed before.

Charlie had almost gotten a clear view last night, but the animal was too skittish. It would hang back in the trees just after sunset, staring at Charlie from a distance, nothing but a dark shape. It was probably hungry and scared.

And everybody wanted to kill it.