Murder Comes by Mail (6 page)

“It was just circumstance that put us on the scene. I was driving a busload of church ladies to a play in Eagleton. I told them to stay on the bus, but two of these women love to take pictures. They must have thought a man about to jump off a bridge was their photo op of a lifetime. They weren’t about to pass it up.”

“They took pictures?”

“As fast as they could click the camera buttons on their phones.”

“I’d like to see those photos.” Dr. Colson showed his first real interest. “Seeing Mr. Jackson’s face while he was considering suicide might reveal something about his emotions at his moment of greatest despair.”

“I can check with them, but they weren’t really close enough to get much detail. However, the editor of our local paper showed up at the bridge too. He took some pictures.”

“Yes, I called the
Gazette
an hour or so ago after Mr. Jackson revealed a reporter was on the scene. Mr. Leland was kind enough to send me copies.” The doctor smiled briefly. “The photos put you in a very favorable light, I must say.”

“I was lucky our man was sort of teetering or I’d have never gotten him back over the railing.”

“So you think he was wavering even then?”

“I think he lacked the courage to jump and wanted someone to push him. At least he told me I would wish I pushed him. That I’d be sorry I saved him.” As soon as he spoke the words, Michael wished them back. He needed to let it go, forget what the man had said instead of dwelling on it.

Dr. Colson gave Michael his full attention. “Why do you think he said that?”

“I don’t know, Doctor. Maybe that’s something your examination can reveal. It sounded like he felt guilty about something he’d been doing.”

“What do you think that might be?”

“I have no idea.” Michael shrugged a little. “But he obviously had problems. Maybe an addiction of some sort.”

“Addiction? Interesting.” Dr. Colson tapped his chin as though that helped him think. “What addiction would you guess?”

The doctor didn’t blink as he stared intently at Michael, who suddenly felt like an uncooperative witness or maybe one so bent on helping in an investigation that he was making things up. He forced himself to sit still and meet the doctor’s eyes. “Who knows? Some kind of demon pushed him toward the edge of that bridge.”

The doctor wouldn’t let him back away from his words. “We all have our demons. I daresay even you have your share.”

All at once, the hospital smell crept out of the corners, dark memories firmly embedded in the odor. Michael tried to keep his face blank, but it was obvious Dr. Colson sensed Michael’s unease.

Michael spoke up before the doctor had time to offer him a counseling session. “None that have me climbing over bridge railings. The fact is, if Mr. Jackson is involved in something which might endanger others, you have an obligation to report that activity to the police.”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Colson conceded. “What activity do you suspect?”

“I don’t suspect anything. Simply doing a routine follow-up here.” Michael wasn’t sure if speaking to a psychologist was routine after keeping somebody from committing suicide, but it sounded more professional than saying he was checking out a premonition.

Dr. Colson seemed to be a step ahead of him. “I don’t suppose it would be very heroic to save a child molester.”

Michael stood up, ready to end the conversation. “Whenever you feel Mr. Jackson’s mental condition improves enough to allow it, I want to talk to him.” He handed the doctor one of the sheriff’s old campaign cards with the office number scribbled on the back.

“I will let you know when or if he’s agreeable to such a conversation. The man hasn’t committed a crime. At least none we are aware of.” The doctor glanced at the card, then placed it in the open book he still held as if to mark his place. He closed the book and smiled up at Michael. “But you can rest assured if I find out the poor man’s demons pose a threat to others, you’ll be the first to know.” Dr. Colson laid the book on the table by the bed.

Michael didn’t look at the book even though he had the feeling the doctor would leave it there for the housekeeping staff. With his card still inside. “If any relatives show up before you release Mr. Jackson, they can claim his car with the proper paperwork.”

“I’ll pass along that information.” Dr. Colson held his hand out toward Michael. “It’s been a pleasure, Deputy Keane. I appreciate your willingness to help me understand our Mr. Jackson. And his demons. I’ve always been interested in the criminal mind. Not that Mr. Jackson necessarily fits that profile.”

Michael wasn’t going to go down that trail again. “Let us know when you release him.”

“Why? I doubt he’d make another attempt from the same bridge.” A puzzled frown wrinkled the doctor’s forehead.

“Probably not, but we can send out an extra patrol just in case.”

“You must not be very busy down in Hidden Springs.”

“It’s a small town.”

“A nice, peaceful job for you, I suppose.” The doctor followed Michael out of the room.

“I like it.”

“A satisfied man, happy in his work. A rare thing these days.”

Michael was glad the doctor didn’t follow him down the hall to the stairs. He didn’t know which he was happiest to escape when he went out the front doors—Dr. Colson or the hospital odor. Either way, he took a deep breath and left the ghosts of the hospital behind.

7

The Channel 22 news crew was long gone when Michael pulled off beside the metal sign at the end of the bridge. The state put up the marker years ago detailing the history of the Eagle River Bridge, date of construction, the politicians who took credit for the project, the engineering design. Nothing very interesting except that it was one of only two bridges in the United States with a curve. Most people stopped reading before they found that out.

Michael didn’t even glance at the sign today before he walked out on the bridge. The road, once the only route to Eagleton, had been drained of most of its traffic by the interstate just west of town. The interstate added a few miles to the trip to Eagleton but guaranteed you wouldn’t get caught behind Farmer Brown poking along, checking out the cows in his neighbors’ fields.

Michael traveled the old road whenever he had the extra time. Sheriff Potter said it didn’t hurt to let the citizens see a sheriff’s car around their way on occasion. It helped get the vote out at election time, and the sheriff, working on his fifth term, was an expert at getting the vote out.

Heat from the afternoon sun rose in waves off the blacktop, and the railing was warm to the touch as Michael leaned against it and looked down at the river. The water was settling into a nice green color that made Michael imagine monster fish lurking in its depth. Funny how yesterday’s muddy water had caused the jumper to hesitate, maybe saved his life.

A beat-up Chevy pickup rumbled down the hill and stopped beside Michael. The right front fender had been crunched in some accident so long ago that the creases in the dent were rusting through and some twigs rested in the empty headlight socket as if a bird had briefly considered a nest on wheels. Orbrey Perkins had given up night driving years ago, so the lack of a headlight was no problem.

Orbrey braked to a stop beside Michael and leaned across the seat toward the passenger side window. “Is this where the guy tried to jump?”

“He was considering it strongly.” Michael stepped away from the rail and over to Orbrey’s truck.

“You find out what his problem was?” Perkins, well into his seventies, had long ago given up worrying about the time. He was fond of saying if God hadn’t wanted him to talk, he wouldn’t have given him a mouth. A fair number of folks in Hidden Springs figured God gave them legs to turn and go the other way when they saw Orbrey coming toward them on the street, because even a simple hello had a way of stretching into ten minutes or more.

Michael didn’t figure he had to worry about that today. Another car would come along to nudge Orbrey on up the road. Michael rested his arms on the open window. “Nope. Could be he was just depressed.”

“For the life of me, there’s some things I can’t understand. To take a flying leap off here no matter what the reason.” Orbrey shook his head. “It don’t make no sense.”

Michael didn’t say anything, but Orbrey didn’t need much encouragement to keep a conversation going. “I’ve known four folks to pitch themselves off here. Five if you count Jerry Cox, who changed his mind halfway down. Could be all the others might have changed their minds halfway down too, but he was the only one to live to say so. That was a story now. Must have been nigh on thirty-five years ago now. Me and the wife were already living on our farm out here then. I heard tell Jerry died down in Tennessee a couple of years back. Heart attack.”

Sweat was soaking through the back of Michael’s shirt. He didn’t mind talking to Orbrey, but there were better places than the middle of a highway bridge in the July sun. “You know, Hank Leland was talking about writing up a story about the jumpers. You ought to go see him. I’ll bet you could help him out a lot.”

“That would be a story, wouldn’t it?” Orbrey reached down into the clutter on his seat and pulled out a plastic-wrapped peppermint. He looked at it a minute as if he knew it was his last one before offering it wordlessly to Michael. When Michael shook his head, Orbrey looked relieved and slowly unwrapped it. “You know I just might go hunt Leland up tomorrow. I could tell him some things. If he will ever slow down enough to listen. The man’s always in a rush about some kind of deadline or something.”

“He’ll want to hear these stories. You tell him I told you to come by.” Michael kept his smile to himself as he thought about Hank stuck listening to Orbrey. Maybe that would keep the editor out of everybody else’s hair for a few hours.

“I’ll do it. Reckon Leland might take my picture?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Orbrey popped the mint in his mouth and got a good suck going. He pushed it over into his cheek to keep talking. “Leland takes a fine picture. You got to give him that. Them in today’s paper ought to win a prize somewheres.”

“You ever see the guy around before?”

“You mean in the last week or two?”

“Ever.” Michael swatted at a sweat bee on his neck. “I mean, none of those folks that jumped before, none of them were strangers, were they? He had to know about the bridge somehow.”

“I see what you mean.” Orbrey rolled the mint around in his mouth as he considered his answer. “You know, his picture in the paper did remind me of somebody that used to live around here. Sort of a no-good, best I recall.”

“You remember his name?”

“I ain’t too good at names, just faces, you know. I never forget a face, and I ain’t saying this fellow was the one I’m thinking about, just that he looked some like him. Family maybe.” Orbrey looked directly at Michael. “But don’t you have his name already? I mean, you got his car and all, or was it stolen?”

“Not so far as we know, and Jackson is what he said.”

“No, that ain’t right.”

“Well, if you were to remember a name, you call me up, okay, Orbrey?” Michael pushed himself away from the truck window, thankful for a car approaching down the hill.

“I’ll do it, Michael. The missus, she’s better at names. I’ll ask her.” With a glance up at his rearview mirror, the old man reluctantly put his truck in gear before he raised his index finger off the steering wheel in farewell and slowly drove on toward the other side of the bridge.

When Michael got back to the office, Betty Jean had the phone to her ear. She rolled her eyes at him and pointed to the pile of pink While You Were Out messages on his desk held down by his stapler.

Michael shuffled through them while he waited for her to hang up. Buck again. Guess he’d better try to track the state police detective down to see what he wanted. He couldn’t think it had anything to do with the jumper. More likely that stolen car Buck found abandoned out on the interstate last week.

Kim, the reporter, called to thank him for the interview and to remind him to tune in at six. Aunt Lindy called to tell him to stop by her house before he went home. No reason, but then Aunt Lindy didn’t need to give him a reason. She said come, he went.

The rest were “way to go” notes from various citizens of the county. Betty Jean had written the message out on a couple of the notes. After that she just wrote “ditto.” On more than a few of the ditto notes, the
o
had been decorated with smiles or frowns and one from somebody named Brittany had been turned into a radish with a top and roots, the whole works.

After Betty Jean finally hung up, she groaned loudly. “I’m not answering another call.”

“The phones that bad?” Michael looked over at her. “What’s going on?”

“We have heroes among us.”

Michael counted through his notes. “Ten calls.”

“I quit taking messages. They all were saying the same thing anyway. ‘Tell Michael how proud we are of him. Keane County is lucky to have a man like that serving us, yuk, yuk, yuk.’ You get the idea.” Betty Jean held up a list of names. “Uncle Al said I should get their names. The election’s next year and it’s always a good idea to know who your friends are.”

Michael looked across the room at the page. There had to be thirty names. “That many people couldn’t have called.”

“That’s just what I answered. I had Lester helping for a while but talking to all those females gave him hives, so I sent him out to wash the sheriff’s car.”

“Females?”

“Running four to one, I’d say. Maybe better than that. Half of them I don’t even know.”

“You know everybody in Hidden Springs.” Michael gave her a doubtful look.

“I thought I did.”

“Just tell them they’ve got the wrong number and hang up,” Michael suggested.

“People don’t vote for people who hang up on them.” Betty Jean rubbed her ear.

“If you don’t know them, they can’t be voters.” Michael looked down at the telephone messages he still held. “Do you know what Buck wanted?”

“To make trouble, same as usual. And Hank Leland called.”

Michael ruffled through the notes to see what Hank wanted. Betty Jean stopped him. “You know I don’t take messages from Hank.”