Murder at Willow Slough (17 page)

LeRoy continued to watch Kent and Jamie as he headed to the sink, where his mother handed him an icy glass. He swallowed thirstily, then said, “How do you do?”

Jamie got up,approached LeRoy,hand outstretched.“Mr.Walker,I’m Jamie Foster. This is Sgt. Kent Kessler. We’re sorry to disturb your family. Nothing has happened, we’re only looking for some help.”

Kent stood. LeRoy shook hands with him too.

“Now will you let the man finish so’s we can eat?” his father demanded.

“How was the bank today, son?” Mrs. Walker inquired.

“Fine, Mama,” LeRoy replied softly. He was still watchful, but if his Mama said things were okay, they were okay.

“The body was found September 7th,” Kent said. “He had been there awhile before anybody found him. We think he might have been put there of an evening, maybe around the Labor Day weekend. We were just wondering if you remember seeing anything unusual around then. Did you happen to see anybody near the Slough that you thought looked a little out of place? Anybody who caught your eye or made you wonder?”

Mr. Walker rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Mrs. Walker cocked her head, trying to remember. LeRoy moved to study a calendar, advertising a Watseka grain elevator.

“Maw, what night was it you had me go investigate that there foreign car?”

“I’m not sure what night that was, Henry,” she said slowly. “LeRoy? You remember what night that was?”

Jamie asked, “What was the car doing that made you notice it?”

“Well now, Maw had seen it from the kitchen window there when she was finishing up the supper dishes. Driving up the road faster’n he oughten to, raising a big cloud of dust. And then coming back again. What for? Sometimes he’d stop over on the Slough side, pull into one of them parking areas, then turn around and go the other way.”

“Up and down. Up and down,” Mrs. Walker said. “Like he was looking for something but didn’t know what it was. If you miss the Slough sign, you miss it. If you’re southbound, Illinois don’t show you a Indiana park.”

Kent asked, “What kind of car was it?”

“Tuesday night. September the 6th,” LeRoy said, finger on the date.

Kent’s eyes met Jamie’s. Right time frame.

“Is that when it was, LeRoy?” his mother asked.

“Day after Labor Day, Mama,” LeRoy said emphatically. “Everybody came that day to get money or deposit their checks. We had the picnic the afternoon before at the lake.”

“With all the bank people,” Mrs. Walker told Jamie. “First Bank of Kankakee, yes sir. He invited them and everybody came, even though it’s little ole Hopkins Park.”

“You must be proud of him.” White people seldom ventured into the historic Black settlement.

Mrs. Walker beamed. “Assistant manager there at the mall.”

“Wow. Assistant manager already. Banking.”

“Don’t tell him I said so, but he’s a smart little fella. Put First Bank on the Internet, yes sir.”

Jamie knew what a huge achievement this was—not the Internet, but the family. “A college man?”

The farmer’s wife swelled even more. “Yes indeedy. Univers’ty of Illinois. Mr. Walker scrimped and saved for that boy.”

“Congratulations, all of you. What fantastic parents.” Mrs. Walker sat proud as a mother hen.

“Let’s see,” Mr. Walker said, rubbing his chin some more. “A brown car, pretty beat up. What’s the name of that foreign car, LeRoy? A Twyota? Yeah, Twyota. Ten years old at least. Maybe more.” LeRoy grinned slightly at Jamie. “Anyways, I was sitting in the front room there, watching the teevee. And then I seen him going up and down the other way. Looked like he’d go into the Slough, then five minutes later back out again, up and down. I didn’t like it. That’s why I noticed him, yes sir.” Mr. Walker nodded, certain of himself.

“Did you see who was driving it?” Kent asked. Jamie pulled his notebook out of his back pocket.

“Not right at first. After awhile we didn’t see him no more, and I got ready for bed. I was going to turn in when Maw here comes saying that little brown car done turned into our lane and was right out there, and I had to go see.”

“That’s right, now. What was that man doing here? I didn’t like it,” Mrs. Walker scowled.

“So I put on my overalls again, and LeRoy, you come in asking what I was getting dressed for, so…”

“So Daddy went out the back door to talk to the man, and I went out the front and circled around,” LeRoy finished. “I don’t want no White man tramping around here at 10 o’clock at night.” He looked at Kent, then Jamie. “I mean…”

“Absolutely right,” Kent said. “You have to protect your family.”

“Sometimes the hunters, they pull over and urinate on our property, right close to the house even, out there in public,” Mrs. Walker said. “Don’t give a care who sees ’em.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?” Jamie asked.

“We both did. Didn’t we, son?” Mr. Walker replied.

“We sure did, Daddy.”

“Could you describe the person?” Jamie pressed, pen in the air.

“Well, it was a White guy, like I said,” LeRoy began, glad the race thing was out of the way. “Maybe six feet or so? Medium build. In his mid30s, or late 30’s. Wearing Levi’s and a blue and gold tank top with a basketball. Brown hair. Just a regular White guy’s haircut. I don’t think he saw me in the dark.”

Jamie wrote, blue and gold tank top, hoops.

“Said he was lost, had a map out,” LeRoy’s father said. “I asked him could I help him find what he wanted, and he said no, he’d found it, he’d be moving on right now.”

“And Daddy, you waited till he did.”

“Stood out there in the driveway, trying to look stern, you know, even though I was in PJ’s under my overalls.” Mr. Walker chuckled. Then he grew serious again. “Don’t like strangers coming here late at night.”

Kent asked, “Did you see him well enough that you would recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Well, now. Yes sir, I think I might. I think I might.”

“LeRoy?” Jamie asked.

“I can do better than that,” he said with satisfaction. “I wrote down his license number. Now where did I put that paper?” He moved over to a kitchen drawer as Kent and Jamie exchanged glances. Kent got up to stand next to LeRoy.

“Child, is that the slip of paper I put in my special place?” Mrs. Walker asked. She told Jamie, “That’s where I always put my important papers.”

“Maybe, Mama.”

She got up, went into another room, returned with a white slip, handed it to her son. “Is this the paper you mean?”

LeRoy unfolded the note. “This is it, Mama, 49R 772. I even got the expiration date. And the date and time it happened.”

Jamie wrote the number down, 49, Marion County. The plate was purchased in Indianapolis. Kent asked LeRoy to sign the paper and give it to him; Kent gave him a receipt and pocketed the evidence. Jamie said, “What else should we be asking? Any other details you remember from that night? Any little thing.”

LeRoy declared, “That car stunk.”

His father looked at him. “Shore did. Don’t know how he could stand it. Like he was a hunter, ’cept he didn’t have a pickup. And it ain’t huntin’ season noway.”

Jamie asked evenly, “The smell of dead flesh?”

“Daddy, wouldn’t you say?”

“He had animals in there for three, four days afore he cleaned ’em.”

They had no other details; these were plenty. Kent handed his business card to Mr. Walker. “Sir, you’ve all been very helpful. We really appreciate it. It’s the good people like you who help us out and give us a chance to catch the bad guys. Now you call me if you think of anything else. Or if you happen to see that car or that man again, you call the sheriff first thing, then you call me. Will you do it? It’s an 800 number, toll-free. It doesn’t cost anything. Will you do it?”

Mr. Walker took the card, studied it. “Sho’ nuff. You think he might be the one?” He stood, scratched his neck, gazed up at Kent.

“We don’t know, sir, but if he is, you’ve helped us so much. We have a lot more questions before we know anything, and I’ll be back to talk to you again, show you a photograph and ask if that’s the man. But you’ve been very helpful. All of you have,” Kent said, turning to face Mrs. Walker and LeRoy.

“Thank you all,” Jamie said. He shook hands with LeRoy, whose vibes had changed. Jamie smiled at him, and LeRoy smiled back.

Mrs. Walker held out her hand shyly; Jamie took hers in both of his. “We’ll let you get back to that good supper, ma’am.”

“I wish you could stay. We’ve got plenty. Man needs to eat regularly.”

“You’re so kind.”

She reached toward her husband. “Now here, Henry, you give me that card. I’ve got a safe place for it.”

“I’ll see you to your car,” LeRoy said, following Kent and Jamie down the back steps. Kent went on ahead, studying tire tracks; LeRoy fell into step beside Jamie.

This was pleasant. A stand of gladiolus was colorful in the late-summer air. LeRoy seemed to want to say something. Jamie glanced at him. LeRoy was smiling, but he was watching the behind of the officer in front of them.

“Oh,” Jamie grinned.

“Oh ain’t the half of it, you dog. Look at that hot bod.” LeRoy growled like a cat, then whispered, “I don’t know how you did it, but that is the handsomest cop since Erik Estrada.” Then he held back. “But I do know how you did it. You are the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.”

Jamie chuckled, they went on to the car. “Where did he park?” Kent said. LeRoy showed him. Kent crouched, studied the ground. “Between the rain and the tractor, this is a waste of time. We’ve got the plate number anyway.”

Then Mrs. Walker came out carrying napkins and two paper plates. “Would you eat a tomato sandwich? If I’d’a known, I’d have fried up some bacon.”

Jamie squealed. He took a plate from her, bit into white bread, mayonnaise, salted juicy redness; his mouth had an orgasm. “Fantastic. Thank you, ma’am, no bacon’s needed. Tomato sandwiches are my all-time favorite meal.”

Mrs. Walker cocked her head at him in mock accusation, “I knew I caught you looking at my ’maters.”

“Busted,” Kent laughed. “Tomato thief!”

Jamie wiped his mouth, shook hands again with his fraternity brother. “Thank you so much, Mr. Walker. It was great to meet you, and your information could be very important. Congratulations on such a fine family. Sgt. Kessler will be in touch.”

“Hope so. Anytime,” LeRoy replied with an eyebrow twitch. “Night, sergeant.” The young bank manager turned back toward the house, arm around his Mama.

“What a turnaround,” Kent said. “First he thinks we’re there to beat up his parents, and five minutes later you’re best friends?”

“Get in the car, Commander,” Jamie ordered, grinning. “They’re expecting us in Rensselaer.” Before they reached the highway, Jamie devoured his tomatoes and Kent obtained a registration on the license plate.

They discussed that soberly. Then Jamie silently lusted after Kent’s sandwich—never has a tomato been cruised harder—and after suitable suspense Kent finally shoved the plate over, accusing him of tomato larceny. Jamie gobbled up the evidence and went uncharged.

18  

Jack

Kent dropped Jamie off at the sheriff ’s office in Rensselaer, then headed back to the state police post at I-65. Their contacts were still at work, staying over for them.

Jamie hadn’t been to Rensselaer since he was 13. He was born in the hospital there, his whole family was; Rensselaer was a city of 5000, so big it called its high school Rensselaer Central, as opposed to the suburbs.

He pushed his way inside the new jail, told a woman dispatcher hidden behind smoked, one-way safety glass who he was and what he wanted.

A buzz, then a door opened off the small lobby. Lt. Jack Snyder was a compact man, 5’9”, beginning to strain the seams of his brown uniform. His close-cropped hair had once been sandy; now it was going gray. His nose had been broken years ago and set by the town dentist. “Jamie Foster. We meet at last,” Snyder boomed.

“How’s business, lieutenant?” They shook hands.

“Drunks, drugs and domestics, we got ’em in 3-D.”

“Full house next door?”

“Double-celled by court order,” Snyder said proudly. “Our stars are a couple of Colombians from Miami Beach. Found them speeding on their way to Chicago. That wasn’t all they were doing.”

“How much did you pull in?”

“Estimated $175,000. Biggest bust in county history. Surrendered without a fight.”

“That’s great. Did you get the takedown?”

“McClatchey and me. What brings you up here?”

Jamie told him about Thelma, Kent, Mr. Ferguson and the Slough, as Snyder showed him to a desk and pointed him to a chair. The gray steel desk was piled high with file folders. A half-finished form ripened in an old Selectric. “I heard about that body at the Slough. They get an ID?”

Jamie described the victim. “We saw the crime scene, interviewed the naturalist and some neighbors.”

“Is Suzanne Myers still working the geese there?” Jamie said she was. “Nice woman. Wonder why she never got married. I go hunting at the Slough every fall and see her. I look forward to those trips—a chance to shoot something and watch it drop right then and there. Not like this job, where it takes a judge and jury six years to let your prey off the hook.” Snyder pictured his last kill. “Go out real early in the morning with my brothers-in-law. We have a hell of a time.” He eyed Jamie, who was probably not a member of the National Rifle Association. “Not too mature, is it? Grown men chasing after Bambi?”

“Hey, you’ve got to let off steam.”

“Hell. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to. Where’s Kessler now?”

“State police post. Talking to Johnson.”

Snyder nodded, noncommittal, reached for a Marlboro Light, lit it with a scratched-up Zippo. “Good luck.”

Jamie pulled out a cigarette too. He wondered how his mother was doing. After they were done he’d ask Kent to take him back to West Lafayette. But Snyder was telling him something. “What’s that mean?”

Snyder leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a minute. “Nothing. Forget it. Maybe it’s me.”

“Jack, this may be our first meeting, but we’ve worked together for three years. Don’t hold back on me now.”

“You’re right. I just think Johnson’s lazy, a con man. Spends his time looking for lady travelers he can help out, in exchange for certain favors. Or hanging out at the rest stops by Roselawn and Remington, looking for Gay guys he can haul in for giving blowjobs in the woods at 4 a.m. Says he’s protecting the decent people, but it’s really that he enjoys it.” Hell, I got a blowjob from a queer once, at a rest stop. He was damn good. Jack Snyder never disrespected a Gay man again.

“By the time he hauls them in the story’s not 4 a.m. in the woods, it’s sodomy with a 6-year-old, high noon at the courthouse square.”

“And he’s always playing the jealousy game, like the state police are God’s gift to Indiana. They get a new piece of equipment, he’ll be over here bragging about it. They get a decent bust, it’s all over the paper. Hell, we’ve got a better arrest record in this county than they do. If we get one, we won’t see Johnson for weeks. Then he comes in and wants to tell us how to run our department. Most of the officers at the post are good, solid, reliable guys—a couple of sharp gals, too—people you can turn to if you’re in trouble. Johnson? He makes trouble.”

“Kessler feels he has to schmooze him to cover his own backside, so he’s making a courtesy call.”

“Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am, hope he’s not wasting his time. Did you find anything today?”

Jamie told him about the Walker family. Snyder listened, made a few notes. “What was that plate number again?” Jamie read it back to him. “Forty-nine, huh? Did Kessler run a check? Who’s it registered to?”

A voice behind Jamie answered for him. “Thomas Alan Ford, male White, age 36, Indianapolis.” It was Kent.

That was a quick visit.

Snyder dropped his PaperMate, dropped his jaw, stared at Kent and then at Jamie, whistled long and low. “No shit.” His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

Jamie said, “Jack, Kent needs to see your photos. Or better yet, get them copied. All the ones with Schmidgall, Crum, Ford and Lash.”

“Right.” Snyder stubbed out his cigarette. Hands on the edge of his desk, he shoved back his chair. But he didn’t stand up. Again he searched their faces. “Holy shit. You’ve got him at the scene of the crime.”

“Don’t tell your wife,” Jamie cautioned. “Don’t get her hopes up.”

“No. No, I don’t want that.” Snyder rose with purpose. “This way,” he called behind him, heading down the hall. In the dispatcher’s office he picked a ring of keys off a hook, told his fellow officer where he’d be. Jamie and Kent followed him to the evidence room.

Snyder entered his code on an electronic keypad. They heard a buzz and a click. Snyder opened the door, switched on overhead fluorescents. Rows of numbered wire baskets lined the wall, storing the personal effects of two Colombians and a couple dozen locals at the county jail. A large table made of two-by-fours and plywood stood chest-high in the center of the room. A goose-neck lamp of brown steel, circa 1930, was screwed onto one end of the plywood. On another wall, lateral file cabinets stood shoulder to shoulder like sentries. Snyder found the year he was looking for. A silver key unlocked the cabinet. He opened a drawer, riffled through folders, hauled one out. “This is it.” He led the way to the examination table. The file was labeled, block letters, “Doe 8/15/88 File #3, Photos.” And then in cursive, “The Red-Haired Boy.”

Jamie admired Jack Snyder.

Snyder lifted the manila. An 8 by 10 greeted them: redheaded, mostly nude, stabbed and rotting, dumped in a creek, his gut and chest gashed 24 times. Jamie swallowed hard. Snyder stared. “Fuck.” He turned away. “I can still smell that smell. You know?”

Kent nodded. “Nothing like it.”

More pictures, different angles; crime scene, vicinity, the farmer who discovered the body; the autopsy, the morgue, the pauper’s burial plot.

Jamie spoke. “Jack, if you’ve got time, I’d like to go to the cemetery. Or you can give us directions.”

“Really?”

“I brought something for him. Just plastic flowers and little flags to remember him.”

“Jamie, you’re a good man. By God, that one I’ll tell Marie.”

Kent whispered, “So that’s what’s in your bag,”

They found the photos they came for: Schmidgall being transported to enter his guilty plea in Kickapoo County; Dr. Crum outside the courtroom, on trial for murder; Schmidgall at a convenience store in Eastwood; Schmidgall in court at Crown Point and in jail fatigues in Lake County; Ford and Lash, in separate Indianapolis P.D. mug shots; Ford and Lash together outside the Indy Public Library; Ford dressed for his social work job; Schmidgall outside the Chez Nous bar; Lash and Ford coming out of the Six of One Tavern. Then older photos: Ford and Schmidgall with the veterinarian; Crum and Ford outside a fast-food joint; Ford and Lash at Crum’s farmhouse. If Crum and Ford were involved in criminal activity, they both had a friend in Lash, he wasn’t just Ford’s associate.

Each photo was meticulously identified on the back. Jamie said, “These are great, Jack.”

Snyder asked, “Can they help you, Kent?”

“Sure they can. Question is, how are we going to get them from here to there?”

Snyder lit another cigarette. Jamie said, “Jack, since Schmidgall’s confession, how much do you need to keep these shots? I know you can’t legally close the case without having questioned him yourself, but it’s also 99% likely that Schmidgall did it and this is as closed as it’s going to get. On his deathbed the man admitted it.”

Snyder exhaled smoke. “True. Unless he had help.”

“Can you let Kent borrow these for 24 hours, just long enough to get dupes made? If Schmidgall had helpers, Kent’s going after them.”

Snyder sighed, felt old all of a sudden. “Funny thing, you know? There’s regulations; don’t give them to you for even a minute. There’s common sense; of course lend them to you. But somehow it’s Marie I’m thinking about.” His eye found Jamie’s. “Marie and that boy.”

Jack and Marie Snyder had not only buried the victim, they’d been the only visitors to his grave, every Memorial Day, every Christmas, tidying things up every year for the last ten. “Shall we ride?” Jamie asked quietly.

Snyder found an evidence envelope, selected photos, shoved them inside and tied the envelope’s string. He jotted a note on an inventory sheet, put Doe’s File #3 back in the drawer, closed and locked it. They headed out, Snyder turning off the lights, keypadding the door. “Let’s go, men.” He handed the envelope to Kent, started to follow them out. Kent was so happy to get the pictures he instinctively slapped Jamie’s butt.

Jamie whirled around, eyes like saucers, “What the fuck was that for?”

Kent froze. “Um, good job?” He held the envelope up defensively. “My teammate done good?”

Jamie looked away, blinked a few times, “Oh.” He nodded up at him very slightly; turned and led them out, his boots chomping the tile and concrete floor.

Jack said, “Man, fags can be touchy. Him especially.”

“Tell me,” Kent muttered. “Don’t call him that, though. He’s a skilled investigator, he ain’t your epithet.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. It’s just a term guys use, I should never have said it.”

Kent was surprisingly emotional, the first time in his life he’d defended a homosexual. “I know, no problem. But stay professional, don’t ever call him that again.”

Jamie heard Jack call him a faggot; it hurt a little, it always did. He didn’t hear Kent’s rebuke. But that wasn’t the most important thing that happened. Neither were the photos.

Jamie’s ass burned.