Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (9 page)

Two rolling carts stood isolated in the middle of the room, each covered with a white sheet. The man from the alley lay on his side because rigor mortis had locked his hands behind his back. He had black hair; his coarse features were distorted from the blow to the back of his head. His digits were like little swollen sausages, the amputated fingertips grotesque. I studied him for a moment; stalling, because I didn't want to look at Sandy.

Bass spoke. "You keeping your mouth shut, like I asked?"

"I haven't said a word to anyone in town," I said, truthfully. Hal didn't count. "Any luck identifying him?"

Bass shook his head. "Not yet."

"He was shot, right?" I asked. "You said you were looking for a cartridge but you couldn't find one."

"Wasn't a gunshot," Doc drawled. "Not in my opinion. Up close, that wound reads like penetration with a pointed object, maybe an iron pick or a spike, something like that."

I nodded. "Less sound that way."

"And then the perp tried to smash out all his teeth, but he missed a bunch. Maybe got startled before he was done. So the coroner might be able to ID this guy from dental records, once they have an idea who he was."

"Let's get this done," Bass said. He motioned to the other cart and the white sheet covering it. I saw small, vulgar reddish stains. A shock of long blonde hair emerged from one end of the sheet, tiny bare feet from the other. I shivered and had an absurd urge to rub her toes, thinking she must be cold.

Doc strolled over and pulled the sheet down with a flourish, baring her to the waist. Sandy Palmer's once-lovely features were now flat, bruised, and waxen. Her eyes were still open, the left one bulging and dark with blood. She was naked, her breasts exposed. It seemed obscene. "I thought you weren't going to do an autopsy?"

Doc smiled. "I ain't. Just want to make a point."

There was something strange about those eyes. I realized I'd stopped breathing, finally let some air out. "What point?"

Doc pulled the sheet down a bit further. He drummed his fingers on a slightly swollen abdomen, palpitated slightly. "I think she was pregnant," he said. "Maybe a couple of months along."

Bass seemed weary, beaten down. "So okay, just for the record, with Doc here, tell me Sandy Palmer is the girl from the park and the one that called you on the air. This is her, right?"

I nodded, sadly. "Yes. That's her." I realized Sandy and I were a lot alike; both raised on a lonely ranch in the middle of nowhere by an abusive father; lost kids who partied too hard, hoping to find a way out.

I got down lower, but coming close to that damaged face made me flinch. I crouched and looked around at the back of the head. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but I knew I had to see.

"Doc, it was the beating killed her, right?" Bass asked.

"Maybe not. We got us a subdural hematoma for sure," Doc said. "That much I can tell you. See, her left eye is a mess, but her right eye has a blown pupil, it's all engorged. Girl took a bad beating, that's for sure, but maybe not enough to do her in. But then she fell. Hard. When she hit her head, or somebody else hit it, the blow compressed her brain and damaged the lining. She had lots of internal bleeding that probably would have killed her eventually, but I'm willing to bet you dollars to doughnuts the pathologist will nail the actual cause of death as drowning."

"Bullshit. In less than a foot of water?" Bass asked. The question came out with a rasp, and there was a lot of emotion behind it. I made a mental note.

"Well, you got your two kinds of drowning," Doc said. I think he was enjoying himself. "In a wet drowning, and most cases are like this, the lungs are aspirated full of water. Person kept trying to breathe. In a dry one, kinda rare, there's a sudden laryngospasm when the first water hits the throat and then everything inside seizes up. No air, no water, no nothing. Lights out. I'd say she's a wet drowning."

"Hang on," I said. "That's absurd. You think her death was some kind of accident?"

Doc shrugged. "I'm just saying the beating alone would not have killed her, maybe not even the fall she took. We don't know why she drowned."

I held his eyes. "You're saying her death wasn't necessarily murder. It might have been some kind of freak accident?"

"Well, I'm not saying that a deliberate, murder one homicide is totally out of the question." Doc was becoming visibly uncomfortable. It was all he could do not to look to Bass for a cue.

Bass finally said: "Look, this poor sonofabitch over here got tied up and stuck in the back of the neck by something sharp. Not much doubt what happened. I think what Doc is saying is that with Sandy, what it seems like it is could turn out to be different. We're gonna have to wait for the autopsy in Elko to know for sure. Until then, it doesn't do us much good to speculate."

I wanted time to think. "I guess you're right."

"She sure was a pretty one," Doc said. "Damn shame I never got to . . ." Bass glared. Doc caught himself and backpedaled. "I'm just making conversation, didn't mean nothing by that."

I turned to the sheriff. "It's hard not to figure Sewell for this, whether it was deliberate or not. I assume you're going to grill him?"

Bass didn't answer, but I was stating the obvious. I pressed him anyway. "And maybe suggest to Bobby that he and his friends don't take any sudden vacation trips to Mexico until the report comes back?"

"Already done both," Bass said. "Not that it's any of your goddamned business. Why are you so interested in my procedure here, Callahan? What's on your mind?"

"She wanted my help. I guess it's as simple as that."

I drew the sheet back up over Sandy's face without asking for permission. Then I looked at Doc Langdon for a cool, steady moment. "She deserves respect," I said. "Everybody deserves respect."

"I'll see to it," Doc said. His upper lip was beaded with perspiration.

"You do that."

"And I'll be back in the morning, Doc," Bass said evenly. "Mr. Callahan, let's go for a stroll, just you and me."

We went out the front way, onto Main Street. The night was fast approaching, crouching on the boulders. The coming darkness felt more oppressive than liberating.

Long shadows slid along the desert floor. I licked two fingers, held them up. "Bit of a breeze still. Seems somewhat cooler than last night."

For a few long moments, there was nothing but the sound of boots crunching in the dirt and the gravel. After a time, Bass grunted and replied, "Cooler? Yeah. Most likely it will be"

"Last night was pretty bad."

"It's not normally that hot this time of the year."

"I know. Could have fooled me, though."

Boots again, scooting along the cracked cement. Bass was tightly wound. His skin was tanned and dark, and seemed stretched as the leather in his holster. He stared off towards the sunset, squinting.

"So. How long you plan on staying around, Callahan?"

"Gosh, since we're getting so close again and all, you may as well start calling me Mick."

"I got enough information to make out two statements and type them up," Bass said, ignoring the jibe. "One for each incident. You come by my office tomorrow and sign the both of them. You can be on your merry way, just like before."

"Sounds okay."

"Good," Bass said. "I wouldn't want you to wear out your welcome."

"I get the feeling I already have."

"You have. I appreciate your keeping your mouth shut, like I asked. But this is a quiet little town, now. We like it that way. And you still have the smell of trouble about you, even after all these years."

"You've got to learn to speak your mind, Sheriff."

We arrived at his office and Bass started up the stairs. He turned a few feet up and looped his thumbs in his belt. "All right, here it is. I know you were some big shot on television and all, digging around in other people's private lives. You're likely used to getting your way. So listen up, I want to be sure and make this clear."

"I'm listening." I meant it, too. I was listening to what
wasn't
being said, and that made my instincts flutter. Bass was troubled, anxious, and felt defensive about something. I had him worried.

"Leave," Bass said. "I don't need any help, especially from an amateur."

"Okay."
Stay in neutral
, I thought.
Don't give him anything.

"Callahan, all I want to see of you tomorrow is your ass and your elbows going the other way. You sign that statement and get the hell gone. Understood?"

"I think we understand each other," I said, with my best smart-ass smile. "You have yourself a nice evening."

Saturday Evening, 6:40 PM

The gray alley cat was nowhere to be found. I could have used the company. There was a note on the door to the room signed "J." It read:
Going to go get drunk
. I stood for a long moment in the cool evening air, debating my next move. I went inside, but instantly felt claustrophobic and isolated. I wracked my brain and came up with only one place where Jerry might be. I left the room; angled out of the driveway, crossed First Street and entered the only bar I knew about, Tap's Place.

Originally a liquor store with some slot machines, Tap's was a makeshift local tavern. The cowboy who owned it had knocked down a wall to waist level, slapped down a varnished piece of cut plywood and created a bar. He'd set up card tables at night, open some folding chairs. People came these days because Tap had the only public satellite television around. The set, usually tuned to a sports network, was mounted on the wall above the window.

A boxing match was playing, the commentators jabbering away in Spanish. I looked around for Jerry, but the only occupants besides Tap were Loner McDowell and Annie Wynn. The slender, weathered brunette was perched on a stool, finishing a bottle of beer. Loner was at a table. I had wandered in at the end some kind of confrontation.

"But I do believe you're my next ex-wife," Loner said.

"In your dreams," Annie said. "You got a little too much of my
real
ex-husband in you." She turned her back, graceful as a cat, and took another sip of beer.

"Honey, don't be that way," Loner teased. "It would be a shame to see a pretty lady get all dried up and bitter. You don't get many chances for love in a piss-ant town like this. Strike while the iron is hot, if you get my drift."

Annie Wynn wasn't amused. "I get your drift, Loner. Anything with a heartbeat and panties looks pretty good right about now."

"The girls all get prettier come closing time."

"Well, that somehow fails to make a woman feel special." She dropped some money on the table and got to her feet.

"Stick around," Loner said. "You came in here to drink a beer or two, didn't you?"

Annie appraised him coldly. "Actually, I came in here selling health insurance. You keep undressing me with your eyes like that, cowboy, you're going to need you some."

McDowell roared with laughter and real appreciation. Annie was something special. She turned to leave, ran right into my chest, looked up at me and cocked her head. My body responded immediately. The woman seemed to come alive at my touch. She smiled. Under her breath, she said: "Now you, on the other hand . . ."

"This man bothering you, lady?" I said, mostly for Loner's benefit. "Please excuse him. He's hasn't been out of the institution all that long."

"Naw," she said. "He ain't even a half-pint of trouble to a gal like me."

"Yeah, yeah," Loner said, staring down. "I'm not listening." He shuffled a worn deck of cards.

Annie and I moved out into the darkness. "How you doing tonight?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I've been better."

"I can't believe this Sandy Palmer thing, Mick."

"I know. I can't either."

Annie moved closer. I didn't mind a bit. "Someone beat her to death in broad daylight. Christ, what a world."

She looked awfully pretty by moonlight. "Yeah, what a world."

"You figure things like that happen in the big cities," she said, sadly, "but not way out here."

I leaned back on the porch railing to ease away from her. "You are very sweet to Jerry," I said. "That really impresses me."

"Why? He's a wonderful kid."

"You don't take compliments any better than you used to."

She laughed and looked me up and down. "Neither do you. Mick, how have you been? Has the world been kind?"

I looked down and away. "The world was kind enough I guess, but I managed to fuck everything up anyway. You?"

"The same, I suppose."

"Great minds think alike."

Annie closed the distance and my blood pressure rose. "Callahan, does it bother you when a girl is a bit forward?" I didn't answer. She stroked the thigh of my jeans with her right hand. "Because I've been thinking about us again. All day long, in fact. You been thinking about me, too?"

"I have indeed," I said.

"When are you going to ask me out again?"

"I don't rightly know."

Annie touched my face with the tips of her fingers. My body sang opera. "Don't take too long," she said. "I might change my mind."

Loner called out. "Callahan?"

"Night, Annie," I said, as gently as possible. I gave her a hug. "I'll come by to see you."

"Night, cowboy. You'd better."

I released her, a bit reluctantly. Annie winked. I stepped back, clearing the sidewalk. She walked out into the night without another word.

"Callahan, you black Irish bastard. You come to drink with me?"

I walked closer, trying to gauge how many he'd put away. It was sizeable amount, from the look of him. His pupils were saucers, his eyes more red than white. "You know better than that," I said.