The Hanging of Samuel Ash (7 page)

Hook followed her into a small area off the waiting room. It smelled of burnt coffee. Boxes of dental supplies were stacked along one wall.

When he came in, Hook stood. “Dr. Broomfield?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I'm Hook Runyon, security agent for the Santa Fe.”

Dr. Broomfield looked at Hook's prosthesis. “I've been expecting you, Mr. Runyon. Please, have a seat. I've no patients scheduled for a bit.”

Hook sat down and adjusted a droopy sock. Dr. Broomfield sat on the edge of the table, locked his knee in his hands, and bobbed his foot. He was tall, six two, maybe taller, and he had the hands of a woman. His hair, the color of straw, hung over an eye. He sported a blond mustache that curled into the corners of his mouth.

“You asked to see me,” Hook said. “What's the deal?”

“Yes,” he said. “It's about the body that the highway patrol brought in from the potash spur.”

“Right,” Hook said. “I found no identification on him. Have you found something?”

Dr. Broomfield's pant leg pulled up, revealing the hair on his leg, which was the exact color of his mustache.

“I found no identification, if that's what you mean. Perhaps it had been removed by someone else.”

“That's how I figured it,” Hook said.

Dr. Broomfield reached for the cabinet drawer and opened it. “I did, however, find something of interest while preparing the body for examination.”

“Oh?”

“This,” he said, dropping a medal into Hook's hand. “It was tied about his neck with a piece of string.”

“A star?” Hook said.

“Yes,” he said. “A Bronze Star for valor.”

 

8

 

“
A
WAR HERO?”
Hook said, cradling the medal in the palm of his hand.

Dr. Broomfield rolled his shoulders. “Or a thief. Who knows? Look at the back.”

Hook turned the medal over. The name Samuel Ash had been engraved on it.

“His name?” he asked.

“Possible,” Broomfield said. “But folks steal the damndest things, given a chance.”

“Have you checked it out?”

“Mr. Runyon,” he said, running his long fingers through his hair. “How many Samuel Ashes do you figure occupy this country?”

Hook shrugged. “Thousands, I suppose.”

“Exactly. Look, I'm a county coroner appointed by the judge to determine if there's been foul play in a person's death. And the judge, being the frugal sort, is dead-set against me pissing away money on hopeless causes. On top of that, I have my practice.

“There are four possible causes for a person's death as I see it: accidental, natural, suicide, and homicide. Now it's clear this fellow didn't die of natural causes, being young and healthy by all appearances, and I doubt he had an accident while climbing a wigwag signal with a rope around his neck.

“According to my calculations, that leaves suicide or homicide. My examination revealed no evidence of wounds, no signs of struggle, not a scratch or a bruise anywhere. No fingerprints were left behind, no footprints, no tire tracks, and no weapons. No hangman's noose had been used, and his neck wasn't broken.

“If I'm not mistaken that probably leaves suicide. In my judgment, he tied off that rope, climbed up that cantilever, and let himself over the side. Who knows why? Maybe he had a love affair gone wrong. Maybe he suffered a disappointment so devastating that he couldn't pull out of a nosedive. Maybe he killed someone himself for all I know. I figure he set out to do what he had to do, and that's where my responsibility as coroner ends. If the railroad wants more information than that, then I say, have at it.”

“The cantilever was an arm's length above his head. How does a man strangling at the end of a rope not reach up and save himself?”

“A person's will can be strong. I once investigated the death of a widow who shoved a pencil up her nose and into her brainpan.

“Look, Mr. Runyon, to investigate this further, I'd have to convene a coroner's jury and pay them stipends. I'd have to transport the body to Albuquerque for an autopsy, and I'd have to bear the wrath of Judge Bellow for squandering funds.

“I'm not prepared to do that because, in the end, it's unlikely that we'll ever know exactly what happened anyway. Even if we did find out, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to that fellow. He's as dead as he's ever going to be and knowing the reasons why won't change a damn thing for him.”

The bell on the front door signaled, and Dr. Broomfield looked at his watch.

Hook rubbed at the back of his neck. Riding that road-rail had taken its toll on his spine.

“What happens to the body?” he asked.

“It's been released to the funeral home. He'll be given a Christian burial in the pauper's cemetery at county expense.”

“Can I keep this star for the time being?”

“I don't see why not. I'll put it in the record.”

“You may be right about all this, Dr. Broomfield, but there is that name, Samuel Ash? I don't see how it can be ignored. I'd like a chance to track it down before you put this man into a pauper's grave. If he's got family, they deserve to know.”

Dr. Broomfield rose and checked his hair in the mirror on the back of the door.

“As long as it doesn't cost the county. I'll ask the funeral home to delay internment.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Hook said. “And I'll let you know what I find out one way or the other.”

Broomfield reached for the doorknob. “I've a patient waiting.” He paused. “You understand that there's a limit as to how long this can be postponed? A matter of a few days at most.”

“I understand,” Hook said.

*   *   *

Hook herded the road-rail back to the depot. Unable to find a parking space large enough to accommodate it, he parked under a tree nearly a block away and walked in.

Clyde, the new operator, stood up. “I locked that door to baggage like you said.”

“That's good,” Hook said. “Passengers got a right to have their belongings secured. All and all it's a deceitful world, Clyde; besides, some slacker might slip in on company time and take a nap behind the water heater.”

“Oh, no sir,” he said. “There's none of that going on around here.”

“I figure you as a stickler for the rules,” Hook said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that's good. Now, I need to use your phone to call Division.”

“Right over there.”

Hook pulled up a chair. “In the meantime, maybe you could write up a clearance order for my road-rail to Clovis.”

“Well, I don't know,” he said. “The company don't like putting road-rails on the line unless it's necessary. They don't hold up so well against an oncoming.”

Hook took the receiver off the phone and hung it over his shoulder. “I understand that, Clyde, but this here is a security matter. I'm sure you wouldn't want to stand in the way of the law.”

“No, sir. I'll work it up right away.”

Hook dialed Eddie and waited.

“Security,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, this is Hook.”

“Where the hell are you now, Runyon?”

“Carlsbad, checking in with the coroner on that wigwag deal like you asked.”

“So, what did he say?”

“He said that fellow died by hanging. Course, I had an idea that might be the case when I cut him down from the wigwag.”

“Get it off the books, Runyon. I smell a lawsuit here, and you know how the railroad hates a lawsuit. On top of that, we got strike problems cropping up everywhere.”

“He had a Bronze Star around his neck, Eddie.”

“A Bronze Star?”

“You know, like for heroism in combat.”

“I know what it's for, Runyon.”

“There was a name on the back of it.”

“On the back of what?”

“The Bronze Star. Jesus, Eddie, am I going too fast?”

“What name?”

“Samuel Ash.”

“Who's Samuel Ash?”

“I don't know, Eddie. That's the point.”

“Everyone has a name. I have a name.”

“Yeah, I know what they call you, Eddie.”

“Don't stir the pot, Runyon. I'm telling you.”

“I want to check the company employment records. You know how those bastards are about the records. Maybe you could clear it.”

“It's against my better judgment.”

“Something like this could come back on the company, Eddie.”

“Okay, but I don't want this thing strung out, you hear?”

“Right. I'll check with Topeka when I get back to Clovis.”

Hook hung up and leaned back in the chair. He could use a shot of Runt Wallace's shine about now. Talking to Eddie Preston could make a man dive headfirst off the wagon.

The operator came in and handed Hook his clearance. “You'll have to wait until the eastbound comes through. After that, you should have plenty of time to make it to Clovis.”

Hook tucked the order into his pocket. “Thanks, Clyde,” he said. “I think you're going to go far in this company.”

*   *   *

Hook killed a few hours scouting books down at the Salvation Army thrift while he waited for the eastbound to clear. When he heard the whistle go through, he made his way back to the road-rail. He hoped the damn thing didn't fail him in the middle of the Chihuahuan, and him with only a half-pack of cigarettes left.

He checked his rearview mirror. At least it would be dark soon and a hell of a lot cooler. As he drove through town, he thought about what the coroner had said. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe tracking down some indigent served no purpose in the end. In fact, the uncovering of his past may have been the thing he least desired in the hour of his death. And, like the coroner said, finding out whether Samuel Ash or someone else bailed off that wigwag would not change his circumstances one iota.

Still, a man had died on railroad property, and Hook had never been one to walk away from a case. He'd tracked down many a man in his time and lived with the consequences of doing so, good or bad. The day he lost the drive to find the truth would be the day he turned in his badge, if he could manage to keep one that long.

He took a left on Main and headed for the nearest crossing. If the man hanging from that wigwag turned out to be Samuel Ash, Hook figured him to be a war hero, and he had no intentions of letting them bury him in a pauper's grave.

He stopped on the first crossing at the edge of town and pulled onto the rails. Driving onto railroad tracks with a vehicle struck him as against the laws of nature, and his heart picked up a beat as he lowered the pilot wheels into place.

But, once moving, he relaxed. Leaning back, he listened to the hum of the wheels as he sped off into the fading light. He figured, with luck, to be back at the caboose in time for a whiskey and water before bedtime.

The old road-rail gathered up speed, the smell of oil and gas fumes drifting up about him. He turned over the steering to the pilot wheels and let the wind blow in his face through the window. Such moments as these were singular, dreamed of by boys and men alike.

Much of his life he'd burned away in passions of one kind or another, be it women, hooch, or the lust for a rare book. But more and more he'd found sweetness in solitude, in moments like these when thoughts washed up like an ocean tide.

He dozed, or so it seemed, and when he opened his eyes, red lights glowed about him in the darkness. He'd often imagined death this way, not violent and noisy, but an oozing away from one realm into another.

But when the siren blasted from out of the blackness, he sat erect, his heart pounding in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the throb of emergency lights beating in the blackness like a bloody heart. The oncoming vehicle, unaware of his presence in the absence of a signal, raced headlong down the side road toward the crossing in front of him.

Hook grabbed the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes with both feet. But the pedal sank to the floorboard, and the road-rail raced down the grade like a runaway steam engine.

As he entered the crossing, Hook glanced up to see the car looming on the tracks in front of him. His stomach waded into a knot, and his mouth turned to cotton. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against the inevitable.

The road-rail caught the back fender of the vehicle, and the impact drove Hook forward into the steering wheel. His lungs emptied of air and refilled with fire. Sparks sprayed up into the blackness, and the sound of breaking glass filled the night. The lights of the other vehicle spun about and shot skyward as the car skidded up the bank of the opposite bar ditch.

*   *   *

How long it took him to stop the road-rail, he couldn't be sure. But by the time he climbed the embankment and pried open the car door, his heart pounded in his ears like a steam jenny. Inside, he found a man lying on the floor of the car, his hat crushed over his eyes and his legs jammed under the dash.

“Jesus,” Hook said, pulling him out. “You okay?”

The bill of Officer Joe's hat stuck out over his ear like the porch on a shack, and his badge hung loose from his pocket. A smear of dirt ran from one eye to the other like an eyebrow gone feral. Weaving, Officer Joe looked at his car and then at Hook. He screwed his hat back on his head and clenched his jaw.

“No, I ain't,” he said. “But I'm a hell of a lot better off than you're going to be, Runyon.”

 

9

 

H
OOK POURED A
cup of coffee from the thermos and took up a chair. He scratched at his beard, the consequence of two days in the Carlsbad jail, and watched Clyde, the Carlsbad operator, finish off the last of his bologna sandwich and an overripe banana.

The judge had fined Hook the cost of repairs on Officer Joe's patrol car, the total of which had yet to be determined. He released Hook on his own recognizance with the understanding that full payment would be made to the court when the appraisal arrived. Officer Joe, being less than civil about the situation, had made Hook's two-day stay in the clinker as miserable as possible.