Marcie's Murder (3 page)

A
t 2:21
a.m. they kicked down the door
,
dragged him out of bed
,
beat the living crap out of him
,
and
threw
his sorry ass
in jail
.

3

The Town of Harmony Police Department was headquartered in a small, single-story building
a block from
Bluefield. Set
back
about
twenty
feet
from the sidewalk
, the
station building
was fronted by parking spaces. Branham swung the cruiser into an empty space in front of flagpoles set in a broad concrete base. Hank heard flags fluttering above him as Branham led him by the arm
from the cruiser
to the front door. Inside, they crossed a shallow lobby
area
and passed through a waist-high cattle door at the end of the front counter.
There were four cluttered desks
behind the counter
. Branham
stopped at a
little fingerprint station attached to the wall with metal brackets.

“We don’t have a Livescan,” Branham said
.
“
W
e just do it the old-fashioned way, with ten-print cards and ink. Got a problem if we take yours now?”

Hank shook his head and let Branham
finger
print him. When it was done
he
led
Hank
over to a
heavy metal door. There was a small window set in the door
with
safety mesh embedded in it. Branham pressed buttons on the number lock and opened the door.

“
J
ust rest quiet
for a bit
.
” Branham
guided
him by the arm into the corridor and down to a cell. “Think you can do that?”

There were only four cells in total in the lock-up
. T
he other three were empty.
Hank
allowed
Branham
to
push
him
into the cell.
The deputy chief
locked it and went back down the corridor and out through the metal door. Hank looked around.
The
cell
was
six
feet wide and
nine
feet
deep
, with a metal cot bolted to the wall on the left
. That was it.
There
was a mattress on the cot that looked reasonably clean and a folded brown blanket and a thin pillow stacked at the foot of the mattress. Hank spread the blanket out on the cot, propped the pillow against the wall
,
and sat down to wait.

After what felt like an hour
,
the metal door opened again and Branham walked down the corridor to the cell. With him was a small, balding man in a brown suit with narrow gold-framed glasses. He was carrying a large black bag. Hank didn’t move from the cot as Branham opened the cell door.

“This is Dr
.
Justice,” Branham said. “He’ll look you
over.”

“Sit forward on the edge of the cot,” Justice instructed. He knelt down and opened his black bag to remove a notebook and pen. He opened the notebook to a fresh page, wrote the date, checked his watch
,
and wrote the time.

“What time is it?” Hank asked.

“Three forty-seven,” Justice replied. “Don’t speak, please.” He took Hank’s pulse, made a note, then removed a blood pressure cuff and took Hank’s blood pressure
. That called for
another note.

“I imagine it’s up a bit,” Hank said.

“Shh.” Justice took out a stethoscope, shoved it under Hank’s t-shirt and listened, moving it around. “Breathe deeply.” He listened and moved the stethoscope. “Again.” He moved it once more. “Again.” He put the stethoscope away and made a few more notes. He lifted up the t-shirt again and examined Hank’s rib cage. He palpated a spot on Hank’s right side and looked at him expectantly.

“That hurt?” he prompted when Hank said nothing.

“No
,” Hank
said
.
“
Don’t think
they’re
broken, just bruised.”

He ran his fingers gently over Hank’s throat. “Swallow.”

Hank swallowed.

“Hurt?”

“No.”

He
nodded and made a note. He
flicked a light in and out of Hank’s eyes, made a few more notes
. He put down the notebook and examined Hank’s hands, wrists
,
and forearms,
both sides,
finding nothing out of the ordinary. He made another notation
, then
removed
some supplies from his bag and cleaned up the
small
cuts on Hank’s forehead, left cheek
,
and lip.

“Head ache?”

“A little,” Hank admitted.

“What day is it?”

“Saturday night. Sunday morning,
actually,
September
1
8
.”

“Okay
,” Justice said
.
“
The lip’s stopped bleeding
. It’ll
be okay if you
rest
your mouth a
bit
.
I’ll put a plaster on
your
cheek.”

He applied
a
small bandage to Hank’s left cheek, packed up his black bag
,
and stood up, nodding at Branham. “He’s fine.”

“Thanks, doc,” Branham said, stepping aside as Justice left the cell.

Hank watched him lock the cell door. The two men went down the corridor and out through the metal door.

Hank slowly slid back against the wall and closed his eyes to wait it out.

4

The sound of the metal door woke Hank from a
light
sleep. He was lying twisted on the cot, his head at the top and his bare feet sticking out over the side. He sat up and swung around as Branham
walked down the corridor and
unlocked the cell door.

He motioned Hank to his feet and held up a
plastic bag
. “Brought some clothes for you,” he said. “You can use the washroom at the end of the hall.”

Hank stood up and walked stiffly to the open cell door. His entire body ached. He took the
bag
and looked inside at a pair of
jeans
, a yellow polo shirt, a pair of
gray
tube socks
,
and
gray
boxer shorts
.
Each item still had the
store
tag
s
attached.

“
Crime scene team
gave me your sizes from the stuff in your suitcase,
”
Branham explained.

“I appreciate the thought.”

“Petty cash,” Branham
said
. “You can reimburse us later.”

“I’ll be sure to.”

Branham
pointed
. “Down here.” He led Hank down the corridor past two other cells to a washroom at the end. There was no door. Hank looked at a toilet and sink. There was a small metal shelf bolted to the wall. On the shelf were a white face cloth, folded white towel, and a bar of soap.
“Sorry about the lack of privacy.”

“
I’ll survive.
” Hank stepp
ed
into the washroom.
“What time is it?”

“
It’s 6:40
a.m.”

Hank used the toilet and then stepped in front of the sink. There was no mirror on the wall.
He ran his hand through his frizzy hair and scratched his scalp.
He washed his face, trying to keep the water away from the small bandage on his cheek. He kept his beard trimmed at about a
quarter of
an inch and so wasn’t bothered by the lack of a razor, but he could have used a tooth brush and tooth paste. He settled for rinsing out his mouth several times.

“
I
checked you out and confirmed your ID back home,” Branham said. “I’m sorry about this, Lieutenant, but you’ll have to stay in the cell for a while longer. I hope you understand.”

“If you’re trying to tell me it’s police business, then, yeah, I understand
.
” Hank
dried
his face with the towel. “If you’re talking about the situation
itself
then
shit
no, I don’t understand at all. What the hell’s going on?”

“Wish I could say more, I really do. Best if you just hang tight a while longer. I appreciate it.”

Hank shook his head. He wiped his hands, folded the towel
,
and put it back on the shelf. Then he stripped off the blood-spattered t-shirt and briefs, put on the clothing Branham had brought him, and stuffed the t-shirt and briefs into the
plastic
bag. “Your name’s Branham, is it?”

Branham pushed off the wall and motioned Hank to precede him back down the corridor to his cell. “That’s right. Deputy Chief Neil Branham.”

“Well, Deputy Chief Neil Branham,” Hank said, handing him the bag, “you forgot to bring me shoes.”

Branham grunted. “
W
e’ll set you up with some later
. What size
do
you wear?”

“
Thirteen
.
”

“I
’ll find you something
later
.”

“Thanks, Branham. Appreciate it.” Hank sat down on the edge of the cot.

“No problem.”

“Pretty quiet place,” Hank observed. “Get much business?”

“Not really. The odd DUI or what have you. Not a lot of serious crime around here. That’s
one reason
why things are a little tense right now. So j
ust sit tight and wait it out.”

Branham locked the cell door
. With a brief look into Hank’s eyes
,
he
went down the corridor and
out through
the metal door.

5

Some time later
Hank heard the metal door open
again
. He
watched Chief
Askew
and Deputy Chief Branham walk down to his cell with a man between them. The man was
small
and thin, like a jockey. He was
in his
fift
ies
, had short
gray
hair, a high, wrinkled forehead, and small hands and feet. He wore a blue plaid shirt with the sleeves turned up on his forearms
,
faded blue jeans
, and beat-up white sneakers
.

“Take a good look,” the
c
hief ordered brusquely.

Hank folded his arms across his chest and
considered
telling the
c
hief
how his lawyer would discredit
the
use of a
show-up identification procedure whe
n
Hank
was sitting alone in a cell displaying obvious signs of having been beaten
and when a lineup or photo array procedure
would
not
have been
all that difficult to arrange, even in a backwater town like Harmony. Instead,
he kept his mouth shut because
the witness was already shaking his head.

“Could be,
Chief,
but I don’t think so
.
”
T
he little guy
spoke
in a
distinct
Appalachian
accent
.
“This
fella
’s big but the
other fella
was
bigger. This
fella
has a
sorta
beard, but the
fella
I seen
had a real beard.” He looked at
Askew
, who glared at him, then turned to Branham, who merely watched with interest. “Know what I mean? A
big
bushy beard like Moses, not like this
fella
’s
. And the clothes
is
wrong.”