Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy (5 page)

“Eww, hyenas. Gross,” Cheri said, handing the bottle to Duke. She stepped into the tub and said, “Hey, baby, look what I found.” She made a
voilà
gesture with one hand and revealed a small amber vial filled with white powder.

“A woman after my own heart,” Kyle said.

While Duke poured some vodka, Kyle unscrewed the vial, poured a generous amount into the small lid, and passed it to Cheri. She sucked it into her left nostril, like a vacuum cleaner sucking up lint. Kyle took some for himself, then said, “You want a bump, Duke? Nothing like a little white stuff to chase your blues away.”

Normally, Duke wasn’t much of a cokehead. But at the moment, he couldn’t think of a good reason to turn it down.

Ernie Turpin had brought a dog with him, a skinny, hyperactive coonhound named Jessie that pulled eagerly on its leash, anxious to hit the trail. Marlin watched from beside his truck, along with two other deputies, as Turpin was dragged into the brush.

He was back in five minutes, grim-faced.

The deputy pointed to the south. “He’s right over there, under some oaks. Varmints have already been after him.”

Bill Tatum, the chief deputy, said, “Look like Searcy?”

“Yeah, it’s him. Looks just like the photos his wife sent.”

There was a moment of silence, and Marlin knew the deputies were thinking about the wife, and the call one of them would have to make.

Turpin spoke up again, almost in a whisper. “He was pretty torn up and everything, mostly through the torso, where the varmints got at him. But I think I could see what killed him. He had a puncture wound right here on his neck.” Turpin pointed to a spot below his right ear.

“Gunshot?” Tatum asked.

“Hard to tell.”

For a few seconds, Marlin couldn’t remember where he had heard about that type of fatal injury: a single puncture wound to the neck. Then it came to him.

“You gotta admit, it’s pretty strange,” Bobby Garza said. “One day, we got a guy screaming about a chupacabra; two days later, we got a corpse with a hole in his neck.” The sheriff had arrived shortly after the body was discovered. Now, two hours later, he and Marlin were sitting in Garza’s cruiser, having a private conversation before Marlin left the scene. Marlin had already given the deputies a full report, telling them how he had happened upon Searcy’s truck.

“Oh man, don’t get started on that,” Marlin said. “You’re as bad as Trey Sweeney.”

“It’s weird, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Pure coincidence.”

Bill Tatum, the chief deputy, approached the sheriff’s window. Tatum was short and stout, with biceps that bulged like grapefruits. He had gone straight to police work after a tour in the Marine Corps when he was younger. On the job, he was as tenacious and focused as they come—which was why he had earned the respect of every man and woman in the department. Off the job, he had a dry sense of humor and a fishing addiction that kept him on the lake most weekends.

“We pulled some prints from the interior of the truck,” Tatum said. “But nothing at all on the steering wheel or the door handle. Not even partials. Looks like they’ve been wiped clean. No footprints anywhere. The caliche’s too damn hard. No other tire tracks in the vicinity, either. Henry’s going over the body right now.”

Henry Jameson was the young forensics technician Garza had hired seven months ago. The Blanco County budget alone couldn’t afford Jameson’s salary, so Garza had worked a deal to pool resources with several neighboring counties, giving them all access to Jameson’s services.

“How’s Lem doing?” Garza asked, referring to Lem Tucker, the medical examiner for Blanco County.

“He’ll be ready to move the body as soon as Henry’s done. Neither of them have said much so far.”

“How about you? Any thoughts?”

“Pretty obvious we’re looking at a dump job. No blood at the scene. My guess, someone drove Searcy’s truck with the body in the back, then wiped it down later. We’ll talk to the neighbors, and I’d say somebody needs to have a talk with the vic’s wife.”

Garza nodded, and Tatum retreated from the car.

Garza turned to Marlin. “Well, we’re really in trouble now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Damn chupacabra knows how to drive.”

7

TWO CHINESE DWARVES were having sex in front of Marty Hoffenhauser, and he definitely didn’t like what he was seeing. Marty himself was not particularly aroused by the sight of two small Asians going at it, but there were certain people who not only craved but
burned
for this type of adult action. Fetishists. Marty had developed a keen eye for what these fetishists liked, and what they didn’t. And this was definitely not working.

As far as Marty could tell, the dwarves’ hearts just weren’t in it today. They were merely going through the motions—and if they weren’t fooling Marty, they sure wouldn’t fool the audience when the video was released.

“Cut!” he shouted, making no attempt to mask the frustration in his voice. “Let’s break for lunch, people. Back in sixty.”

As the crew dispersed, Marty pulled the naked male dwarf to the side. The man’s name—his screen name anyway—was Mike Hung, and Hung was, by far, the leading performer in Asian dwarf pornography. Marty had discovered Hung working as a busboy in a Chinese restaurant in Austin. As Hung had cleared the dishes from a nearby booth, Marty couldn’t help but notice the bulge in Hung’s slacks. Marty called him over and discreetly asked the young man whether he would be interested in an audition. That was two years ago, and since then, Hung’s popularity had skyrocketed (and Marty’s fortune along with it). In crude terms, Hung was the most important horse in Marty’s stable, and the director did whatever he could to keep the little stallion happy. At times, that was quite a chore.

“Mike, you doing okay?” Marty asked, draping a robe around the actor. “You seem kind of … I don’t know … distracted.”

Hung began to answer, then shot a sideways look at the sound guy, who was still within earshot.

“Tony, give us a little privacy here, will ya?” Marty said.

Tony nodded and left for lunch.

“So what’s up, little guy? Everything all right?” Marty asked, doing his best to appear empathetic.

Hung plopped into a nearby child-size chair. Marty had ordered half a dozen to accommodate the unique needs of his cast.

“T’ings velly bad with Wanda.”

Hung was referring to Wanda Ho, a superstar adult actress in her own right, and Hung’s costar in this film as well as the previous one,
Big Trouble in Very Little China.
It was common knowledge that Hung and Ho had been dating for several months. Marty would have preferred that his actors not socialize off the set, but there was really no way to prevent it. Especially among a population that was rather limited.

“Bad? Bad how, Mike? Everybody knows Wanda adores you.” Marty had taken a seat in one of the small chairs himself, and his knees were up to his shoulders.

“Aw, that just acting,” Hung replied. “She velly good actless. But she lose intelest in me.”

“Oh, now, Mike, I don’t think that’s true. Why do you say that?”

“Last week, she have dinner with Willie Wang.” Wang was the other male performer in Marty’s current production,
Fortune Nookie.
“She say it innocent, but I see way she look at him. I aflaid I not satisfy her.” Hung’s head dropped dejectedly and he stared between his legs. “Beside, he bigger than me. She like that.”

“Bigger? Come on, Mike. Nobody in the industry is bigger than you. You’re a regular Godzilla.” Too late, Marty remembered that the
Godzilla
films had been made in Japan, not China. But Mike didn’t seem to notice the faux pas.

“No, not that!” Hung replied. “Taller. He taller than me.”

“Oh.” Marty wasn’t sure what to say to that. Wang
was
a couple of inches taller than Hung. But Hung had those extra two inches where it really counted.

“I aflaid of losing her.” Hung’s eyes were starting to glisten.

Marty patted Hung on the shoulder, trying to offer some measure of comfort. But truthfully, he wished he was someplace else, doing anything but counseling the diminutive porn star on his love life. How was Marty supposed to know what to say? He wasn’t a counselor, just a director of adult films. Yeah, a pretty good one, but his expertise ended when the camera quit rolling.

On Wednesday afternoon, Sheriff Garza stuck his head into John Marlin’s office and was happy to find the game warden behind his desk. He hadn’t seen him since the day before on Maggie Mason’s ranch.

“I think I got a leak,” Garza said quietly.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Marlin replied.

“No, smart-ass,” Garza said, closing the door behind him. “I mean a leak in the department. Like someone flapping his gums too much to the press. Susannah Branson just called. Told me she heard Searcy had a puncture wound to the neck. Wanted me to verify it.”

“Wouldn’t that have been in Lem’s report anyway? And she would have found out that way?”

“Yeah, unless we sealed it.”

Marlin gestured toward a chair and Garza sat down. Garza had a lot of respect for Marlin, and he wanted the game warden to join his department as a deputy. Garza had run the idea past Marlin a number of times, but to no avail. Being a game warden was in Marlin’s blood, through and through. So Marlin remained an employee with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department—and Garza remained content that Marlin was assigned to Blanco County, where Garza could include him in investigations when the need arose. Marlin had a natural instinct—that much was clear to Garza. Some people would say it was luck, Marlin stumbling upon Searcy’s truck that way. But Garza knew better. Some people just have a knack.

“What’d you tell Susannah?” Marlin asked.

“‘No comment.’ Not that that will stop her from running with it anyway. The whole county’s buzzing about the chupacabra. This’ll only feed the fire.”

“So where does the investigation stand?”

“Slim pickings. Neighbors didn’t hear or see anything. Tatum and Cowan drove over to Houston last night to talk to the wife, but that went nowhere. They went through Searcy’s office, looking for notes or something that would tell us who he hunted with, but came up empty. They talked to his friends, neighbors, family—everybody. Got nothing. They’re still in Houston. Meanwhile, Ernie’s getting the phone records and maybe that’ll lead somewhere.”

“Any word from Lem yet?” Marlin asked.

Garza checked his watch. “I was just fixing to go see him. Want to join me?”

John Marlin enjoyed the latitude his position gave him. His primary role was to enforce hunting and fishing laws—and he loved every minute of it. But as a peace officer with the state, he was free to assist the sheriff anytime Garza asked. These investigations added a little extra excitement to the job.

At the county morgue, Garza parked his cruiser next to Lem Tucker’s ancient Chevy Suburban. The morgue was housed in an old Dairy Queen building, with the windows painted black and the signage removed. But the exterior of the building still featured a perky red-and-white color scheme. The only indication that the building had any official capacity was a small sign on the door that read
BLANCO COUNTY CORONER’S OFFICE.

Both men stepped inside and Garza called out Lem’s name.

“Back here.”

The interior of the building hadn’t changed much since its restaurant days, except that the booths had been replaced by desks and filing cabinets. Garza and Marlin found Lem behind the walk-in freezer, in a corner that housed an autopsy table, a hanging scale, and several other stainless-steel tools of Lem’s trade. Lem stood next to the autopsy table, where Oliver Searcy’s body still rested.

“I’m just about finished,” Lem said. He was a lean man in his late thirties, with sandy hair quickly going gray. All three men had known one another since childhood, though Marlin was a handful of years older than the other two. Nobody shook hands, chiefly because Tucker was still wearing bloody latex gloves.

“What’s the story?” Garza asked. On the occasions when Marlin had reason to visit the morgue, he noticed there was rarely any small talk.

“Just to set your curious minds at ease, it definitely wasn’t a chupacabra,” Tucker deadpanned. “I know you gentlemen were hoping for a little
X-Files
kind of excitement in your lives, but this ain’t it.”

Marlin and Garza chuckled to be polite.

Tucker pointed toward the wound on the neck, which was no longer recognizable. It had been deeply splayed open, like a flower in bloom, and Marlin found himself staring at what he assumed were Searcy’s vertebrae. The torso was even worse, the rib cage cracked open, the chest cavity empty. The abdomen was a grotesque mess, the skin ragged, rather than cleanly incised.

“It was the neck injury that killed him,” Tucker said. “Near as I can tell, the wound was made from a long pointed instrument, more than likely made of steel. Round shaft, about ten millimeters thick. It slammed directly into the spinal column, and he died in seconds, if not instantly. Not a great deal of blood loss, since it missed the carotid. Difficult to determine if he had any other injuries through the torso, because of the damage from scavengers. Most of the organs were gone or pretty mangled. What the hell got after him, anyway? Wild pigs?”

Garza looked to Marlin.

“Hard to say. Not pigs, though, because you wouldn’t have this much left to work with.”

“Lucky me,” Tucker said flatly.

“Back to the steel instrument,” Garza said. “Any guesses as to what it was?”

“This’d be speculation, now…”

“Sure.”

“I’d say maybe a screwdriver. Driven in all the way to the handle.”