Bound by Mystery Page 19

  “So, he isn’t our shooter?”

  “Nope, and there’s more. The ballistics came in and the bullets in the Lynchburg shooting and the Purvis killing are from this here gun.”

  “So, Hernandez hands off the gun. Someone else sells it on to our killer. How many spent shells in the cylinder?”

  “Five.”

  “How many shots fired in Lynchburg?”

  “Two.”

  “And three here. What kind of person doesn’t reload a gun for a week and then sells it along?”

  “Well, maybe he just wanted to get rid of a hot weapon.”

  “And not wipe the thing clean. Is anybody really that stupid?”

  “I met a few heading off to jail who were.”

  “And the person who buys a ‘hot weapon.’ Why doesn’t he wipe it and reload it?”

  “You got me there, Ike.”

  “Okay, we’re done for now. Tomorrow, I want to re-interview the two Livingstons, Ms Purvis, and I will want the two boys, Jake Baker and Charlie Livingston, brought back in. You set that up for me, will you? I’ll want the kids separate from the adults first, though, and make sure Jake’s parents is with him.”

  “What’re you going to do now?”

  “You call Roanoke again about that BOLO you put out on Livingston. Me? I need some alone time with a little sipping whiskey and a chance to think.”

  “We’re still six bits short of a dollar?”

  “As it now stands, maybe four. Have those people here for me at ten sharp.”

  ***

  Ike turned up at the office early. He made several phone calls. He drummed his fingers on his desk. After another brief phone call, he downloaded a file to his computer and spent the next hour studying whatever he’d been sent. The Livingstons, and Mrs. Purvis arrived a few minutes after ten. Billy ushered them into Ike’s office and stood in the corner. The three adults sat and waited. Ike squared himself to his desk and placed his hands flat on its surface.

  “Thank you all for coming in. Mr. Livingston, before you say what you are about to say, I know that none of you are either required to be here or answer any questions. You may caution any of the two women, if you please, but I urge you to be patient and let me proceed uninterrupted.”

  Livingston frowned and nodded.

  “Good. Now this may hurt, but I have to ask. Mrs. Livingston, it is alleged that you were having an affair with the deceased. Is that correct?”

  Louise Livingston paled and began to protest. Her husband stood up and started to yell something at Ike about having his badge. Mrs. Purvis sat mouth agape. Louise Livingston slumped down in her chair and shook her head. All three began to speak at once.

  Finally, Ike slammed his fist on the desktop. “Everyone be quiet. Actually I don’t need an answer. It’s true, isn’t it? I have a witness, so you needn’t deny it.”

  Billy’s eyes widened, “Ike?”

  “But we’ll get to that in a minute. See, here’s the thing. Because of that, two of you have motive and opportunity to commit the crime. Mrs. Purvis, all you had to do is drive down here from Lexington, walk into the house, and shoot your husband.”

  “I never did. You can ask anybody. I was at the market and then…No!”

  “We found the murder weapon a few yards from your back door, Mr. Livingston. And you also have motive and opportunity.”

  “Me? I was in Roanoke all day, but you already know that.”

  “Yes, but no one remembers seeing you. You need a better alibi. As do you, Mrs. Purvis.”

  Livingston turned. “My advice to you, Emily, is not to say another word. I have several criminal lawyers I can recommend.”

  “Lawyer? Why do I need a lawyer? I didn’t kill my husband. If what you said is true, Sheriff, I might have considered it, by God, but I didn’t know.”

  “Not even suspect?”

  Emily Purvis’ mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

  “You, on the other hand, had a very good motive to shoot Sam Purvis, Mr. Livingston.”

  “Stan…did you?”

  “Shut up, Louise. You know as well as I do that this is, at best, circumstantial, Sheriff.”

  “I do. I do. Wouldn’t it be nice if you had an iron-clad alibi, though? See, you went to Roanoke. You must have had a reason. So why doesn’t anyone remember you being there?”

  “I was meeting with a client. The identity would be privileged information.”

  “Even if it meant clearing your name?”

  “I have done nothing to be cleared of.”

  “No? Hmmm. The thing is, it turns out that you do have an alibi. We put out a BOLO when we wanted to find you. A street cop in Roanoke saw it after he finished his shift late yesterday afternoon and reported seeing a car with your license number parked outside an apartment complex.”

  “There, you see?”

  “Well, yes, I do see. There was surveillance TV on that street and I just spent an hour or so reviewing it. Would you like to see it?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble.” Ike opened his laptop and turned it so the three people opposite could see the screen. “Here you are pulling up and parking at nine-fifteen. You get out and disappear into the building. Okay, I advance it and here you are at noon leaving the building. So, you could not have been at your house to shoot Sam Purvis.”

  Louise Livingston leaned forward and squinted at the screen. “Who’s that with you?”

  “A client. As I said, privileged—”

  “That’s Marcy Dunlap. You handled her divorce last year. She’s the one with the sad story and those big doe eyes. How is she a client now?’

  “Just wrapping up some details and—”

  “Play the rest, Sheriff.”

  “Oh, if you say so,”

  “Stop this, this minute, Sheriff. You are way off-base here.”

  Louise Livingston was on her feet. “Twice a week, you have to go to Roanoke. What a dope I was. You were seeing that bitch.”

  “And while I’m away, you’re shacking up with Sam.”

  “You two sit down and be quiet. Mrs. Purvis, It looks like we’re back to you.”

  ***

  Jake and his mother sat with Charlie and Essie Sutherlin in the cubicle next to the glassed-in office used by the sheriff. They could hear the shouting, but the words were muffled.

  “What’re they yelling about?” Jake asked.

  Charlie shook his head and sighed. “It’s just grown-ups being themselves.”

  “Your folks yell like that?”

  “All the time.”

  “You hush now,” Jake’s mother said. “What goes on in Charlie’s house is none of your business.”

  “Why are they holding us out here, Miss Essie?”

  “Well, Jake, I reckon they want to talk to you two, but need to have some time with your folks and Miz Purvis first. Hey, don’t you worry. You just tell Sheriff Ike the honest truth and you’ll be fine.”

  Jake shot Charlie a look.

  The door opened and Billy Sutherlin poked his head in. “Hey, Essie. These two boys behaving?”

  “They are and it sounds like they are doing better than the adults.”

  “Yeah. Well, it got pretty hot in there. Ike wants you all now.”

  They traipsed into the office. Chairs were arranged so that the two boys sat directly in front of Ike and out of the Livingstons’ line of sight. Mr. Livingston was not pleased.

  “I insist on knowing what my son is doing here, Sheriff.”

  “Take it easy, Counselor. I talked to these two boys yesterday and they told me how they came to find the murder weapon. I wanted them to repeat it with their parents present so that there can be no question about whether the story was coerced and/or subsequently distorted.”

>   “I still want to state here and now that I object.”

  “Noted.”

  “Mrs. Baker, thank you for coming today. Jake’s dad?”

  “He’s at work.”

  “Thank you. Now, Charlie, you told me yesterday that you and Jake were exploring, is that correct? Exploring in the woods and you didn’t know what was happening back at your house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, you heard the gunshots but didn’t think anything of them. Then, later, you were walking home and veered off the path and stumbled on the gun. At that time a deputy showed up and retrieved the gun and brought you two in. Right so far?”

  “Ummm, yeah.”

  “Jake, you okay with this? You don’t seem so sure.”

  “It’s what Charlie said.”

  “I see. Boys, do you know what perjury is?”

  “Lying when you swore to tell the truth.”

  “Exactly.”

  Livingston cleared his throat. “Sheriff, these boys are not under oath and what makes you think they’re not telling the truth?”

  “Right again, Counselor. Good thing you’re here to represent them. Now, boys, lying to a police officer, whether you are under oath or not, is different. That is, if you say this or that and he says you said it, then, if it isn’t the truth, you have a problem with obstructing justice and judges don’t like that. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir”

  “So, we’re clear, then. Jake, what time did you go over to Charlie’s house?”

  “Must have been about ten-thirty, maybe.”

  “And you walked up the path?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Did you see any cars parked in the driveway?”

  “Charlie’s Ma has a big old car. It was there.”

  “Any other?”

  “There was a car with a sign on the door.”

  “Mr. Purvis. Any other?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Now Jake, remembering what I said about telling the truth, what did you do next?”

  “Me and Charlie went exploring and found the gun, like he said.”

  “Okay. Let’s try another approach. Charlie, where were you when Jake started up the walk?”

  “I was on the side porch where I always am.”

  Louis Livingston bolted upright. “You were where?”

  “Side porch, Ma.”

  “Why?”

  “I always am.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Charlie, look at me.” Ike fixed Charlie with what his deputies called the thousand-mile stare. “Was the window open?”

  Charlie swallowed. “Maybe, I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, my God,” Louise Livingston slumped back in her chair.

  Ike sat motionless for what seemed an eternity. “See, here’s what had me confused. The gun was all wrong. Who sets out to kill someone with a partially loaded gun? The pistol, by the way, was used in a stick-up in Lynchburg a week ago. I’m guessing the perp tried to toss it in the creek but didn’t understand the laws of physics and when he tossed it out of his car window, it did not drop straight down but landed on the bank. That’s where you two found it, didn’t you, boys?”

  Jake looked at Charlie. “Charlie?”

  “Never mind Charlie. You tell Sheriff Ike the truth, Jake, or your Pa will tan your rear so’s you won’t sit for a week,” his mother said.

  “Yes, sir, we did.”

  “Okay, Charlie, you with us? Here’s what I think happened. You were on the porch and heard something going on in the room next to you. It upset you.”

  “I peeked in the window.” Tears rolled down Charlie’s cheek.

  “You peeked and…?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Charlie, I need the truth.”

  “Ma and Uncle Sam were…doing it.”

  “Doing what, Charlie?”

  Livingston bounced up again. “Charlie, don’t say another word.”

  “Sit, Counselor. Doing what, Charlie?”

  Charlie leaned forward in his chair and sobbed.

  “It’s okay. You take a minute. Get yourself together.”

  Charlie looked up, tears streaming down his face. “He said he was going to kill me.”

  “Who said he was going to kill you?”

  “I walked in the front door and Uncle Sam was there. I said, ‘I saw you,’ and he said if I ever told anybody he would kill me. He started to come at me. I had the gun and I pointed it at him.”

  “And?”

  “He just laughed and started to grab for me. He said a bad word and ‘You’re dead, Charlie.’ I didn’t know…he…I pulled the trigger. He kind of spun around and the gun went off again.”

  “Then you ran out of the house and threw the gun in the bushes.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you had your friend, Jake, help you find it later?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Fingerprints. I had to wipe them off.”

  “Thank you, Charlie. That’s all. Mr. Livingston, your son will need an attorney. A clear case of self-defense, I would say. Jake, you stick around. You might have to testify, but I’m guessing this will never go to court. Mrs. Purvis, I am sorry to put you through all of this, but it was necessary. Okay, people, we’re done here. You all can leave now.”

  Red-faced, afraid, or confused, they filed out. Billy poked his head around the corner.

  “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar

  Looks like our Sheriff

  Done got hisself a collar!”

  “Knock it off, Billy. There is nothing to cheer about here.”

  Dodo

  Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel

  I’m a Mohegan Indian writer from Connecticut. You don’t see a lot of Native American stories getting published in New England. That’s why I sent my first nonfiction manuscript to the University of Arizona Press. When I completed my first spine-tingling tale of murder, I was naturally drawn to the fabulous Poisoned Pen Press, also of Arizona. The hearts, minds, and spirits of these folks are as big as the Grand Canyon. Happy twentieth anniversary, Poisoned Pen! May you continue to kill it for many more years to come.

  —M.T.Z.

  ***

  I

  Growing up, the best guys I knew were the ghosts of the dead soldiers that hung out by the Vietnam Veterans Monument. I always gave them packs of Marlboro cigarettes because they complained about the lousy Chesterfields and Pall Malls in their C-rations. It wasn’t charity. They told great stories about the dangers of messing with the evil god Yêu Quái and the Goo spirits of Southeast Asia. Go ahead and laugh; my brother, Dodo, always did. He only saw the butt obvious in this world, like everybody else in my hometown—except my Uncle Rennie.

  I don’t know what I would have done without Rennie. He taught me important mystical stuff about ghosts, angels, demons, precognition, past lives, and afterlives. He even proved one of his beliefs by visiting me in a dream yesterday to invite me back home to his funeral reception. So here I am in Pettipaug, Connecticut, for the first time in thirty-five years.

  I shuffle through slick rusty leaves en route to the American Legion Hall for my uncle’s reception. The fading foliage reminds me how Rennie always said this is the time of year when spirits come to visit us. Thanks to his recent postmortem appearance, I’d say he solidly proved that one. In life, he couldn’t convince many people to adopt his way of thinking. In fact, he spent a few years locked up at the state loony bin in Norwich, due to his freaky premonitions. I nearly wound up in Enfield Prison, for the same reason.

  Beyond our mutual mystical interests, we shared a love of nicknames. Rennie was short for Lorenzo. My name’s Oscar, but he called me Oz because I’m a wiz at dodging trouble. Rennie nicknamed my brother, Do
rian, “Dodo” because he was just the opposite. My late sisters, Sadie and Theresa, were known as “Shady and Trixie,” due to their love of dangerous pranks. He referred to my dad, Lucio, as “Loosero” because he made fun of all the supernatural stuff we cared about.

  I check out the dull-eyed crowd entering the American Legion reception hall. Man, it sucks that honoring Uncle Rennie’s memory means I have to hang with so many losers who didn’t understand him, like my brother, Dodo. I could sense his slimy vibe the minute I got back to town. What’s worse is that I’m feeling something awful is about to happen to him.

  II

  I amble into the crowded reception hall and pass a table covered with tuna fusilli, baked ziti with sausage, meat lasagna, and chicken pesto tortellini. Too bad I’m a vegetarian. A love of pasta and bad women are two things that Dodo and I actually share. We sure don’t share the same fashion sense. He always loved New England’s morbid navy, gray, and black clothing. Meanwhile, I’m sporting a sunny yellow, orange, and white shirt that reminds me of candy corn. It’s impossible to miss me. But the locals I pass keep their eyes glued to their cell phones, fingernails, and the cracks in the vinyl floor.

  Granted, I haven’t kept in touch since leaving here in a hurry all those years ago. My decision to skip town wasn’t personal. I never would’ve left if Officer Cieco hadn’t tried to chase me down, simply because I defended myself against my demon landlady. Once I took off, I kept going until I hit another ocean. It wasn’t long before I fell in love with Southern California’s eternal sunshine and lack of questions.

  A woman with skulls tattooed on her mounded cleavage turns her back on me when I try to say hello. This final cold shoulder makes the bar in the next room look heavenly. I grab a seat on a torn red vinyl stool between two prune-faced guys whose tee-shirts show through their thin white dress shirts. Their bottomless-pit eyes tell me they’ve recently been bitch-slapped by grief, which means they’re Rennie’s friends, for sure.

  The glue-on wood paneling behind the bar is decorated with black plastic frames filled with photographs of buck-toothed soldier kids, chomping at the bit to ditch this town. The guys on either side of me stare at those bar-back pictures like they’re some kind of magic mirror, transporting them back to their grunt days in Vietnam. Dodo’s unlucky 1951 birthday got him drafted, whereas my 1956 birth year kept my face from sitting on this veterans’ wall beside that of my brother.