The Last Death of Jack Harbin (8 page)

When I get home, dawn is still a long way off, but the sky is pale gray, light enough to see. I walk down to the pasture and find that the cows are spooked, feeling the change in the weather. There's one who always gets upset at any little thing. She bucks a couple of times when she sees me, to let me know things aren't right. I talk quietly while I feed and water them, but it doesn't help much, with the wind picking up and the scent of rain in the air. It's going to be a long day.

The whole while, I'm thinking, who would stand to gain by killing Jack? Was there an old score that needed settling? That tends in Woody's direction. It's hard to imagine Jack being a threat to anybody, but threats come in all varieties. And something else is bothering me. Bob was barely cold in his grave before Jack was murdered. Is there some connection between Bob's and Jack's deaths? Why did Benadryl show up in Bob's system? Maybe Jack was right and Bob didn't knowingly take it. Maybe somebody slipped it to him to knock him out. Who would be served by having them both out of the way? Curtis comes to mind. Marybeth will probably inherit half of Jack's money, too, but between the two of them, I'd bet on Curtis.

I take a shower to get rid of the smell of death I imagine clinging to me. When I'm dressed, dawn is just tinting the sky. This morning it's a purple and pink sunrise, reflecting off the tower of clouds to the west. While I drink my coffee, I stand in front of a painting that I bought a few months ago. The artist is a young man, a boy really, who loves the land as much as I do, and who captures the deceptive softness of a storm approaching over a sparse field. I have come to appreciate it even more than when I first saw it, and it seems to fit with the storm I know is coming.

Worried that James Harley will leave important things undone, I return to Jack's place to find James Harley out on the sidewalk with a scattering of law enforcement personnel. There's a highway patrol duo and a tall hulk of a man, dressed in khaki pants and shirt with a wide belt and a cowboy hat, with his back to me.

They all turn toward at me as I hobble up. The big man steps forward. “Well, I don't believe my eyes. Samuel Craddock, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you'd retired.”

“I might ask you the same thing, Luke.” I'm happy to shake hands with Luke Schoppe. The “wheel” badge on his shirt tells me he's still with the Texas Rangers. If he's been brought in to investigate this crime, he'll make short work of it.

Schoppe turns to the patrol duo. “If Samuel is on this, we might as well go home. He'll have it cleared it up in no time.”

“Oh, no. Not me. You're right. I retired from law enforcement a long time ago. This is up to you fellows.”

Schoppe points to the highway patrolmen. “We're not really assigned to this case. Me and these THP officers have been out since midnight on a big wreck out near Dimebox. We got diverted over here on our way back home.” He jerks a thumb in James Harley's direction. “This deputy here says his chief should arrive before too long.”

James Harley has his hands on his hips and his legs spread wide, like he's trying to look bigger than he is. His hat is tipped back on his head. “Yeah, Chief Skinner should be coming along any minute now.”

The highway patrol contingent looks frazzled. Schoppe throws a worried look my way, and I can see that he's read James Harley Krueger's shortcomings. “I was just telling Deputy Krueger that we've got a big problem. We'll be glad to go in there and take evidence, get photos and what not, but it'll be a while before we can sort out our findings. These budget cuts are killing us. So it might be better if your police officers take the lead.”

Getting wind of where this is headed, James Harley says. “Well, I'm going to have to leave you boys to get on with it. I've got some things to see about. Rodell will sort it out with you.”

Schoppe straightens even taller and gives James Harley the once-over. He's not a lawman who would think of leaving a crime scene until he was sure it was properly secured. I can see he's about to ask James Harley what's so all-fired important that he has to drop a murder investigation for, when I butt in.

“I'll tell you what, James Harley. I'll stay here until somebody from the department gets here. I promise I won't interfere with your job.” I have no intention of waiting around for Rodell or any of his men to show up, but I'm afraid if Schoppe says anything to James Harley, he'll stick around and get in the way.

“I guess that would be all right,” he says.

The four of us watch him scurry to his car. Just then a bolt of lightning scatters across the sky and we pause, startled, and wait for the thunder. It takes several seconds, which means the storm is still some distance away. The wind whips up in a flurry and the smell of rain is strong, although it's no more than a promise, and could come to nothing.

“If that doesn't beat everything,” Schoppe says as James Harley drives away. “Just leaving us to it.”

“I don't want to say too much, but you're not losing a whole lot with him gone,” I say.

“No surprise there.” Schoppe turns to the highway patrol pair. “Let's get our gear and collect the evidence so we can head on home.”

Investigation of capital crimes in small towns in Texas is convoluted. Not that we have all that many murders, but when we do, state authorities have jurisdiction. That can be highway patrol, but more likely Texas Rangers, working with the county sheriff's office.

The medical examiner in the nearest big city also gets involved with the examination of the victim. And sometimes even the FBI gets called on certain cases. But it's not unusual for a good bit of time to pass before much investigation gets done. That is unless it's a serial crime, a mass murder, or some kind of political thing.

I help Schoppe carry in the forensic gear. “How'd you happen by here anyway?” he says.

I tell him how my morning unfolded. “I came back because I had a feeling James Harley wasn't going to take care of business.”

“Where's the chief?”

“Likely on a bender.”

“Like that, huh?”

In Jack's room Schoppe gets out his fingerprint ID kit. One of the patrolmen begins taking photos, lots of them. Schoppe points to Jack's body, which by now has gone rigid. “You know anything about how this poor boy lost his leg?”

I give Schoppe a sketch of Jack's background, including the fact that not only did he lose a leg, but was also blinded.

“Jesus H. Christ! Who would have done something like this to a busted up war vet?”

They work swiftly. I go in and make a pot of coffee, which they're grateful for. After about ten minutes, we hear doors slamming outside. I look out and see that the ambulance has arrived. I bring the drivers inside and they wait with me in the kitchen until the investigative crew has finished up.

Schoppe hangs back after everybody leaves, and we catch up a little on each other's lives. We're oddly embarrassed to find that we've both lost our wives recently, as if somehow we were careless. But he's got two kids and reports that they're doing well, and he's a grandpa.

Before long he's yawning and gets up to go. “I don't envy those patrolmen. They had a rough night. A four-car pile-up with two teenagers dead and an old boy who's probably not going to make it. He was torn up pretty bad. Crushed. People in the other cars had broken bones and scrapes.”

I'd forgotten that Schoppe has a little of the ghoul in him. He relishes going over the worst details of car accidents and crimes. I guess it's his way of dealing with the demons that come with seeing the terrible things people do to themselves and others.

At the door, we shake hands and promise to be in touch, though I doubt we will. “I notice you didn't put up crime scene tape,” I say.

“We've got everything we need. I don't know what officer this will be assigned to, or when. Shame, when you consider his sacrifice.”

All this has taken a lot less time than it seemed to. It's barely eight o'clock when I call Walter Dunn. Fifteen minutes later I hear his motorcycle pull into the driveway. He tromps into the house and heads straight for Jack's bedroom.

He stays in the room for a long time, and when he comes out his eyes are red. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. He looks around, distracted. I know how he feels. “I guess his suffering is over now,” he says. Then he smacks the flat of his hand on the wall. “What kind of coward attacks a man who can't fight back?”

“He put up a pretty good fight. Whoever did it not only stabbed him, but strangled him so he'd keep quiet.”

“Lord, have mercy.” Dunn hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

I fetch him a cup of coffee. He grabs it with a beefy paw, like it's a lifeline.

“Let's go outside and sit down,” I say.

Although the sun is up, it hasn't penetrated the back yard yet, and wisps of mist swirl in the wind, close to the ground under the pecan and post-oak trees. The wind has shifted to come from the north and it's actually chilly, but Dunn, dressed in a T-shirt, seems not to notice.

“How long have you known Jack?” I say.

Dunn runs his hand along his unshaven chin. “Something like fifteen years.”

“How did you meet him?”

It takes him several seconds to answer, as if his thoughts are far away. “His dad brought him to a VA meeting I was running over in Bryan.” He manages a smile. “Belligerent son of a bitch gave me so much shit, I was ready to throw him out. But after I knew him a while his attitude was what I liked about him.” He shakes his head, the smile snuffed out. “Nobody deserves that kind of injury. He always felt that somehow people blamed him. I told him that was ridiculous, but he said the questions people asked him made him feel like that.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Oh, like, wasn't there some way of identifying vehicles that had been booby-trapped, or wasn't he wearing body armor. Stuff like that. But what really got to him was people telling him he should trust in God and look on the bright side, and that maybe his wounds were a blessing. What bright side is there to being blind and having a festering wound that won't heal?”

I shake my head. Sometimes people can't imagine someone else's burdens. “Anybody in particular that bothered him?”

Dunn grimaces. “He never mentioned anybody. Probably a good thing. One of us would have had to set them straight.”

“With Bob gone, I expect Jack was worried about what was going to happen to him.”

He groans. “Oh, God, I didn't even think about that. He was about to get married. I guess I'll have to go tell her.”

I feel like someone has shoved me backwards. “What are you talking about? Who was he going to marry?”

“That waitress down at the café. Lurleen Zachary. They'd been keeping company for a good while. She wouldn't marry him, said she liked things just the way they were. But when Jack's daddy passed, she changed her mind. Jack just told me a couple of days ago. It was going to be awhile before they could make it official. I guess Lurleen never bothered to get a divorce when she and her old man split up. So she had to file and wait for it to go through.”

“I'll be damned.”

Dunn stands and gestures toward my cup. “You want a warm up?”

While he's gone, I think about Lurleen's solicitous way with Jack down at the café last week. I don't remember her at Bob's funeral, though. But why would I? And then I think about Woody's plan to rescue Jack from his troubles. Jack getting married would have put a kink in that notion.

Dunn comes back and looks at the darkening sky. “We're about to get a storm. I guess I better get on down to Lurleen's. Do you know her?”

“Just from the café.”

“How about if you come along?”

“Not on that cycle, I'm not, but I'll follow you.”

Lurleen lives in a rusted out aluminum trailer on the other side of the railroad tracks directly east of the café. It's on a regular size lot, and looks like it has been there so long it has taken root. A makeshift wooden ramp leads up to the front door.

Dunn says, “The boys and I built that ramp.”

There's no reason I should have known about the relationship. Jack and Lurleen are another generation entirely. Still, I like to keep up with the business of the town. I wonder if Loretta knows what was going on.

“They were real quiet about it so her ex-husband wouldn't find out and try to take the kids away.”

Jack's disability check would have taken a financial strain off Lurleen. And it would have been nice for Jack to have a family. Whoever killed Jack took away hopes and dreams along with him.

When Lurleen opens the door, she's already dressed for work in her dull gold uniform. She's got a sweet, round face, with soft brown eyes. The lines around her eyes are deep for a woman her age, a hint of the hard life she led before she kicked her husband out. Behind her I hear kids squabbling. She looks distracted and flustered. “Walter, what are you doing here?”

“Lurleen, why don't you step out here for a minute,” Dunn says.

“I don't really have any time right now. And look at that sky. It's going to pour before too long.” But then the gentleness of his voice registers with her. She looks at me and realizes something is wrong. Her hand goes up to her throat, a gesture women make when they sense bad news coming.

Her eyes widen. “Just a minute,” she says. She pokes her head back inside. “You kids get ready for school. Right now. I mean
right now
.” She closes the door behind her and stumbles a little.

Dunn reaches out and steadies her.

“Is this something about Jack?”

“It's bad news, Lurleen.”

Her face closes up. “How bad? What happened?”

“He's gone.”

She gives a little whimper. “Oh, Sweet Jesus, this can't be. What happened?”

Dunn glances at me to fill her in. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Jack's nurse called me about three o'clock this morning and I went over there and . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to say the words. “It looks like somebody killed him.”

Lurleen puts her hands to her face and her shoulders heave. “Killed him! What do you mean? Killed him how?”

“Lurleen, you don't need to know the details this minute. Just give it some time to sink in.”

“Oh, this is just awful. Poor Jack.” Her head comes back up and her eyes are wild. “Who did it? Who could have done it?”

The door opens and a little boy about six, still dressed in his pajamas, peeks out. “Mamma, Glory won't let me in the bathroom.”