Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) (25 page)

He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find, so he began with a casual tour through the house. He discovered something right off the bat: Bert Gammel was a world-class slob. Crusty dishes were piled in the kitchen sink, the bathtub was pocked with mildew, and the sheets on his bed looked like they might just crawl away. Beer cans and fast-food wrappers were strewn on stained carpets throughout the house. The tiny spare bedroom looked to be a makeshift office, with a rusty metal desk against the wall, but clutter had taken over. Two old bicycles. A disassembled lawn-mower that was leaking oil. A dozen boxes filled with old clothes. Six boxes of
Playboy
magazines, some from as far back as the 1970s. Everything had been opened and rooted through by the deputies. Marlin figured there were probably fewer
Playboys
now than before the search.

Marlin was no neat freak, but he had no idea how a man could live like this. Coming home to a hovel like this would be depressing. And what about bringing a woman over? Either Gammel never did, or the kind of woman he brought home didn’t care.

Marlin checked his watch—ten-fifteen—then began a slow, methodical search of the contents of the house. He knew he was covering ground the deputies had already covered. But maybe they had missed something. By the time they searched, their minds already had been on Jack Corey. They had their man, and they had plenty of evidence to back it up. So they might have gotten a little sloppy.

As two hours passed, Marlin’s optimism faded. He had found some financial records in the metal desk, including a few months’ worth of bank statements, but nothing that shed any light on Gammel’s windfall. Marlin had spotted a pull-down ladder that led to the attic. Nothing up there but spiderwebs and rat droppings.

This just wasn’t adding up. Gammel, according to witnesses, had always lived from paycheck to paycheck. Then, suddenly, he was rolling in dough. Surely there would be some kind of records—if the money was legitimate. And if the money wasn’t legitimate, Gammel must have been dealing drugs or burglarizing houses or something.

Or bribes. Maybe he was taking bribes.

The thought struck Marlin out of nowhere. Gammel supervised large building projects for the county. Plenty of private contractors would want that kind of business, enough to pony up some cash to secure the contract. It was nothing new: People in Gammel’s position were bribed all the time. But Marlin had never heard of it happening in Blanco County. That was the kind of thing that happened on the East Coast, where mob bosses ruled the building industries with an iron fist. Try to bribe someone in Blanco County and they’d look at you like you were naked in church.

But still, it was worth checking into.

The standoff was seventeen hours old now, and Bobby Garza was starting to get nervous. Jack Corey’s behavior was becoming somewhat erratic, probably due to lack of sleep. Early this morning, they’d heard him in there shouting, apparently at Wylie; none of the deputies could make out what he was saying. But when they called him on the phone, he seemed reasonably collected. Not friendly, but not delusional or irrational, either.

Garza figured Corey’s exhaustion was both a blessing and a curse. If he nodded off, Wylie might be able to slip away or get control of the gun. On the other hand, Corey might become agitated, excitable, or violent. Garza decided to stick with the current plan, which was simply to wait. Sooner or later, Corey would realize it was hopeless and give up. That was the optimist in Garza talking. The other side of his brain knew that Corey could kill Wylie—or turn the gun on himself. And the blood would be on Garza’s hands. People would question his choices for the rest of his career.

At sunrise, some of the local volunteer firefighters had shown up with big thermoses of coffee, breakfast rolls, even hot eggs and bacon. Then they had erected a large canopy to give Garza and the deputies some shade. It was going to be a hot one for November. Texas weather could sneak up on you: cool and balmy one day, warm and muggy the next.

Most of the deputies were dozing in their cars or patrolling the perimeter, keeping curious locals and reporters away from the building. Garza was sitting in a chair under the canopy, his eyelids drooping, when he heard: “Sheriff Garza?”

He looked up to see an obese, friendly-looking man wearing a rumpled tan-colored suit. Garza figured him for media—probably radio, based on his looks. “I’m sorry, I have no comment at the moment,” Garza said, rising. “And you’re not supposed to be back here—”

The man surprised him by flipping open a badge. A U.S. marshal. “Smedley Poindexter,” the man said, extending his hand.

Garza shook it. Pudgy, but firm. “Sheriff Bobby Garza. How can I help you? I hadn’t heard the Feds were coming.”

“Oh, this isn’t official, Sheriff,” the man said, his accent identifying him as a Central Texas native. “I work out of Austin, but I was in the area and decided to stop by and offer moral support. Tough situation you got here.”

It struck Garza as a little odd that a U.S. marshal would drop by, especially since the standoff was not the type of thing that would ever fall under federal jurisdiction.

Garza gave Poindexter a quick recap of the events of the previous three days, starting with the discovery of Bert Gammel’s body and the evidence that pointed toward Jack Corey. He noted that the man nodded approvingly when Garza described his strategy to wait Corey out.

“So you think Corey’s good for it, then?” Poindexter asked, meaning the murder of Gammel.

“We’re still waiting on the results from the DPS lab, but yeah, that’s the way it looks. And I know I shouldn’t infer anything from Corey’s actions in there”—he gestured toward the building—“but it sure doesn’t help his case.”

Poindexter stared at the sheriff’s office for a few moments. “You know Corey well?”

“Sure. He grew up a few years ahead of me.”

“Any previous record?”

“None at all.” Garza eyed Poindexter, who returned his gaze calmly.

“What about this missing-persons report? Man named Emmett Slaton?”

“What about him?”

“Any leads on that?”

Garza hesitated, feeling that he was being probed. These questions seemed like more than casual interest. “Nothing so far. Blood at the scene, but it was animal blood.”

Poindexter raised his eyebrows.

“Slaton had a dog,” Garza explained. “We’re wondering if the dog might have been injured. There’s nothing to indicate that anything happened to Slaton, other than the fact that we can’t find him.”

The marshal frowned, but remained silent.

“Look, Marshal Poindexter—”

“Call me Smedley.”

“All right, Smedley. Is something going on here that I need to know about? I appreciate you dropping by and all, but it seems kind of strange....”

The big man opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to reconsider. After a moment, he said, “I’m just checking into something, Sheriff. I’m working a confidential federal case and...” Poindexter appeared to choose his words carefully. “I just wanted to make sure it had no connection to all the excitement you’re having around here.”

“And?”

Poindexter shook his head. “I don’t see any connection at all.”

“Let me ask you something, Maynard....” Marlin was back in Clements’s office, just after lunchtime, Maynard sucking the last few drops out of a soft drink from Burger King. Marlin leaned in close again. “Anyone ever try to bribe you?”

Clements chuckled, then realized it was a serious question. “Not once in twenty-three years on the job. Nobody ever even hinted around it. I got a plate of chocolate-chip cookies from an old lady once,” he smiled. “After we patched up the road in front of her house. That’s about as close to a bribe as I ever got.” Clements smacked his lips as if he was thinking about those cookies.

Marlin felt a little foolish. “Then I guess you never heard Bert Gammel mention anything along those lines.”

“No, never. And, see, John, there wouldn’t be any use in trying to bribe me or Bert anyway. We go out and solicit bids, but we’re not in charge of awarding the actual contracts—the county commissioners are. Then we manage the projects after they’ve been awarded.” Clements kicked his boots up onto his desk. “Hell, I wish someone
would
offer me a bribe. A big one. I got my eye on a new boat.”

“You know, this is all your fault,” Jack Corey said, rousing Wylie Smith from his nap. The deputy was stretched out on the couch, wrists still cuffed, his wounded hand heavily bandaged. Corey was back to his usual position: sitting on the floor, his back against the door.

Corey glared at Wylie, who didn’t reply. In fact, the deputy hadn’t spoken since Corey had imposed the “no-talking rule.” Corey wondered whether he could get Wylie talking now.

“You just had to keep pushin’ me, didn’t you?” Corey continued. “But the thing you don’t understand is, how can I confess to somethin’ I didn’t do?”

Wylie swung his legs around and sat upright. He stared into space, apparently groggy from the painkillers Marlin had brought in.

Corey tried to sound reasonable, tried to keep the threatening edge out of his voice. “You kept talkin’ to me about tire marks and boot prints, but come on, that’s pretty shitty evidence, ain’t it? I’m not the only guy around the county with a Firestone tire and Red Wing boots.”

Finally, Wylie spoke in a raspy voice: “Don’t forget the tobacco spit. If you didn’t do it, then the smartest thing to do is give up. The DNA evidence will clear you.”

Corey snorted. “Yeah, right. I know what you’re capable of. Hell, you pointed a gun at my head, threatened me with Death Row. Planting evidence would be no big deal for a guy like you.”

Wylie shook his head, like he was talking to a slow child. That made Corey angry, but he swallowed it down.

Wylie said, “Now, tell me, where would I get a puddle of your saliva?”

Corey had an answer ready. “I done some thinkin’ about that, and you coulda stolen a spitcan out of my truck.”

“But I didn’t even find the spit,” Wylie said, his voice rising. “Marlin found it. I hadn’t even gotten to the scene yet. Can’t you understand that?”

“You coulda put it there earlier.”

Wylie leaned back against the couch. Quietly, he said, “What you’re talking about is crazy, Jack. If I framed you for Bert Gammel’s murder, that would mean I probably killed him myself.”

“How do I know you didn’t?”

“You gotta be kidding me.” Wylie shook his head. “I had no motive, for starters. I didn’t even know the guy. And secondly, on the day Gammel was killed, I was in Austin with my wife. It was my day off. We spent the night with her sister. You’re really grasping at straws here, Jack.”

Both men fell silent. Corey felt so tired, so ready to give in. If he could just sleep for a few minutes…but he had to keep Wylie talking. “At least tell me why you pointed your gun at my head. Don’t you know a man can’t think straight in a position like that?”

Wylie sighed. A few heartbeats passed and Corey thought the deputy wasn’t going to respond.

“Well?” Corey said.

Wylie licked his lips and said, “Okay, I’m sorry about that. I really am. But when I’m investigating a guy for murder, and I feel like I have some solid evidence, I tend to go at him pretty hard. It’s just my style. Let’s say, worst-case scenario, you confess to the murder but you didn’t really do it. We’d
know
that, because you wouldn’t be able to tell us specifics about the crime scene. And if you
did
do it”—Wylie shrugged—“the gun is just my way of speeding things up a little.”

Corey smiled at Wylie and rose off the floor. He walked to the table and stared down at the tape recorder that had been sitting there all along. Such an innocent-looking device. Last night, before this whole ordeal started, Wylie had wanted to record Corey’s confession.

“Thanks, Wylie,” Corey said. He reached down and pushed the STOP button.

Wylie was staring at him now, eyes bulging, mouth agape. Then his jaw snapped shut, like a dog trying to catch a passing fly.