4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4 (12 page)

Chapter 22

“Stuff on your desk for you, Boss.” Billy Sutherlin waved in the general direction of Ike’s office and headed for the door.

“Hold on a minute, Billy. Did you give Essie a pistol?”

“More like I loaned it to her, Ike. That piece set me back a couple of hundred.”

“You know what’s going on with George LeBrun?”

“Oh yeah.”

“If she gets spooked, she might put a bullet in him.”

“Public service, way I see it, Ike.”

“Billy, think a minute. If that little .22 caliber popgun misses anything vital, LeBrun will be on her, and kill her in a heartbeat. You know what he nearly did to your brother.”

“Ike, I thought about that, for sure, and I figured if she got the drop on him, he’d back away. Nobody wants to take a chance against a pistol. Besides which, it has a magnum load. Do more’n knick him.”

“I hope you’re right. Still, I don’t like it. What’s on the desk?”

“Crime lab report, on your car. Karl got the Webley and he’s picking up the kid that brought it to Norbert, and they’re running prints on the ammo. Sam says she has a lead on someplace in New Jersey.” Billy continued his way to the door. “Oh, yeah, thanks for taking care of George out at Lydell’s. If you hadn’t, I would ’a, and Henry said to ask if now is a good time to talk.”

“Sure, where is he?”

“Outside in his truck. I’ll send him in.”

“On your way to wherever it is you’re going, how about dropping this off at the Lab.” Ike handed him an evidence bag with a rock in it. To Billy’s raised eyebrows he added, “It was thrown through the window at Essie’s sister’s place. No note. Maybe we can lift a print, though I doubt it. But you never know what will turn up and we need all the help we can get.” Billy scooped up the bag, jammed his Stetson down low on his forehead, and left.

Ike settled in his beat-up oak desk chair and swiveled right and left. No squeal or squeak. That was good. As a rule, his desk looked like a burial mound. He told anyone who had the temerity to ask, he had a system to find what he needed in the heap, but lately either he, or the system, had developed a serious glitch and had crashed, which meant he needed to do his semi-annual desk top cleaning. He glanced at the calendar from Unger’s Funeral Home on the wall and realized April had arrived the week before. That confirmed it.

Henry rapped on the door and he waved him in. “Hey, Ike, I just wanted to say, I appreciate what you done for me out at Lydell’s this morning. That sombitch could ’a cut me up if you hadn’t come along.”

“You need to pick your fights a little more carefully, Henry. As you said, he could have cut you up proper.”

“Yeah, well, he was off on Essie and Billy and I just couldn’t stand there, could I?”

Ike pulled LeBrun’s Buck Knife from his pocket, jacked open the blade and speared a piece of paper. He pulled the paper free and held it by one corner, drew the knife down its length from the top. It sliced through its length with barely a whisper. Half fluttered to the floor.

“Whoa,” Henry said, “now that there is one sharp knife.”

With great care, Ike folded it and shoved it into a drawer. “You wanted to see me about something else?”

“Huh? Oh yeah. I was going to tell you about what I heard out at Lydell’s this morning. Well, actually there’s two things. First George, that’s LeBrun, I seen him hanging around, you know? Like more than once out at Lydell’s.”

“That’s interesting. Any idea why?”

“No sir, sorry. Just thought it might be something, and then there’s the other thing. It might or might not have anything to do with anything either, you know, but…well anyway, I was out there in the back stacking the wood I split the day before and I hear him and Miss Martha Marie upstairs going at it.”

“That’s Lydell and his daughter…going at it?”

“Yeah. And she’s yelling, which is no surprise on account of her drinking and all, and he’s hollering back.”

“And the problem is?”

“He don’t ordinarily yell back at her when she’s you know, sauced. He just shakes his head, sad like, but not then. They was going at it big time.”

“You hear anything helpful?”

“I don’t know if I did or not. He’s going on about some old documents and how she had no right to do this or that, and she’s yelling something like he’s a hypnotist—it sounded like that—but that don’t make no sense, either.”

“Hypocrite.”

“What?”

“She probably called him a hypocrite, not a hypnotist.”

“Yeah? Well you might be right there. Anyhow, that got me to thinking about documents. See, the day before he called me in on the carpet, so to say, and asked had I seen some old papers of his. I didn’t know what he was talking about but he sure acted spooked.”

“Documents?”

“Yep. He’s on about them papers. I don’t know what they were about, but it sure had him riled and then this morning he’s hollering at Miss Martha Marie, so I figured you might want to know about that.”

“Thank you, Henry. I don’t know what to do with it, but something tells me to remember it. Maybe it’ll come to me later. That all?” Ike stared at Henry’s hair, or more accurately, the lack thereof, and realized in the scuffle at Lydell’s, he’d completely missed Henry’s newly bald pate. “What happened to your hair, Henry?”

“I had Miss Lee lop it off, the hair, I mean. I can hide the tats, of course, and yes sir, that’s pretty much it, unless you got a minute to talk about the academy. See, I know I messed up the first time and maybe I ain’t supposed to be in law enforcement, but I’d like to give it another go.”

“Henry, you go for it, if that’s what you want. You see how your brothers handle it. Billy at work here and Frank over with the State Police, so you know what you’re getting into, I guess.”

“I was thinking more along the line of being an evidence technician. You know CSI and all that. You’d be okay sponsoring me?”

“Sure, why not? Good luck with that.”

Henry grinned a thank you, and Ike noted the small hole in his lip that must have supported a stud not too long ago. Henry seemed to be cleaning up his act. What he’d do about the holes in his ears was something else. Ike waved him out and started to sift through the pile of paper on his desk. He found the Crime Lab’s preliminary report under a discount coupon for pizza.

***

The Passaic Public Library faxed a list of books Grotz had borrowed in the past year and referred Sam to the Passaic Historical Society. The curator—Sam guessed that’s who it was—seemed reluctant at first to share any information with her. Sam reminded her she was following a lead in a murder investigation. That did the trick.

“Oh yes, it’s not easy to forget a name like Grotz,” she said. Sam waited. “Okay, I have it here. He read several old letters in the Walzak file. The family left them with us a few years ago. They had an ancestor who was killed in the Civil War and they thought we might be interested in some old letters and notes he wrote at that time.”

“Can you tell me if there is anything in them that might help us?”

“I really don’t know. What would you be looking for?”

That was the question, certainly. What indeed. “I’m not sure. We only have some overdue library books and an interest in the Shenandoah Valley campaign to go on. Would it be possible for you to copy the documents he spent his time on and send them to us?”

“Oh dear, I don’t know. Well, you see, the problem is, we are missing some of the documents in that file. We assumed Mr. Grotz must have taken them, but…well, we can’t be sure and don’t like to…”

“We will be more than happy to search for them at this end. Perhaps they are with his personal items.” Sam knew better, but she hoped the possibility that the documents might be retrievable would help with the decision. “We would cover any charges, of course,” Sam said, although she couldn’t be sure if she had it right. She listened as the person on the other end of the line conferred with someone else.

“Yes, we can fax you the documents. No charge for that, of course.”

Sam gave them a fax number.

Chapter 23

Traces of pseudaphedrine, cocaine, methamphetamine, cannabis, ethanol, and caffeine residue
…cough syrup, coke, meth, pot, booze, and coffee! The report continued with a laundry list of chemicals that Ike recognized as fillers, solvents, sugars, and other inconsequential materials. He read the report with growing concern.
A few
smudged prints on the cup lids, AFIS search tentatively identifies: LeBrun, George, on four points only. The glassine bags yielded small amounts of crystal meth mixed with inositol
. The car had Daryll Jenkins’ prints, but then it would. He worked on the car.

Methamphetamine worried Ike. Except for some recreational use of pot and, lately, ecstasy, at the high school and up at the college, the town had managed, so far, to avoid the worst of the nation’s pervasive drug culture. Now, it seemed, he faced the double nightmare of cocaine, crystal meth, and God only knew what else. Karl entered the outer office with a young man in tow. Ike moved to meet them.

“Sheriff,” Karl said, “this is Tommy.”

“Tommy? Last name?”

“He says he isn’t saying anything, including his name. He wants to ‘lawyer up.’”

“Where do you suppose he learned that? Tommy, what do you mean you want to lawyer up?” The boy looked confused, dropped his gaze and studied his shoes. “What have you done, son, which would require calling a lawyer?”

“Nothing. I didn’t do nothing, Sheriff. I was walking through the pasture out by Mr. Wainwright’s and I found it.”

“Found it? Could you be more specific?”

“What about my lawyer?”

“What’s his name?”

“Huh?”

“You wanted to call your lawyer. I’ll do that, but I need a name.”

“I don’t know any lawyers.”

“You want us to provide one, is that it?”

“I don’t know. Like, on the TV, they get lawyers and stuff.”

Ike sighed, and silently cursed the television industry for making his job impossibly complex as thousands of otherwise sensible people assumed without DNA and exotic forensic evidence, even a full confession wouldn’t convict.

“Tommy, let’s get something straight. You have not been charged with a crime, so you don’t need a lawyer unless there is something about finding an old revolver that can incriminate you. Second, we have a copy of your driver’s license and we already know your name. And finally, this is a murder investigation, and unless you want to be an accessory after the fact, and do some serious jail time, you need to tell us about the gun.” The latter was a stretch but Ike figured if the kid didn’t know anything more than televisionland law, it would work. It did.

“I ain’t going to no jail. I didn’t do nothing.”

“You found the gun. You want to give us the details now?”

Tommy squinched up his face and reached into his windbreaker pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

“Not in here, son.”

He dropped the pack back in his pocket. “So, now do we go into a room with the one-way glass mirror window?”

Karl started to laugh and then caught himself. With as much patience as he could muster, Ike led him into his office.

“Okay, Tommy, talk to me.”

“See, I found it out in the woods. You know, like, where Wainwright’s back pasture touches Mr. Lydell’s? Well, there’s this old hollow stump back on the fence line. I used to hide stuff there when I was a kid.” Ike smiled at Tommy’s
kid
. “Anyway, Mister Lydell chased me off a couple of times so I ain’t been back for a while. Well, old Wainwright just plowed that back lot and I was out there looking for arrowheads. They’re worth some money at the souvenir shop. So I think, I’ll just stroll over and have a look-see in my old stump. And there it was.”

“Why did you try to sell it? When I was your age, I’d have cleaned it up and kept it.”

“I figured it was worth some money and I wanted to get me some.”

“For?”

“I ain’t saying.”

Ike let that pass. “Was there anything else in the stump?”

“Just some old junk, like it’s been there forever.”

Ike swiveled around to catch Karl’s eye. He, in turn, produced a notebook and pen. “What kind of junk?”

“There’s a match box, all rotted up that had some old pennies. I think they must have been Billy Shorter’s, but he’s moved away somewhere. Me and him used to hide stuff in that stump back awhile. And an old key.”

“Key?”

“Yeah, like an old time door key. It was in there, too. Oh, and a box of bullets.”

Ike gazed at the boy who shifted from side-to-side and looked at him and then Karl. “Am I in trouble, Sheriff?”

“There are traces of marijuana on the pistol grip. That wouldn’t have anything to do with your needing money would it?” Karl glanced sharply at Ike. No test had been run on the piece and he had no idea what Ike was up to. The kid’s lower lip began to quiver.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “It were Daryll’s.”

“Daryll. That would be George LeBrun’s cousin, Daryll Jenkins?”

“Yes sir.”

“He wanted you to sell or buy?”

“Sell, out at school. I owed him for some…you won’t tell my folks?”

“Thank you, Tommy. I’m going to call your mom and dad now, and release you in their custody. I want you to tell them to bring in all the stuff you found with the gun when they come to pick you up. And Tommy…”

“Yes sir?”

“You don’t want to get mixed up with drugs, you hear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Karl, go pick up Daryll Jenkins.”

***

Karl walked into the garage where the man he assumed to be Jenkins stood under a rusted out Ford Explorer up on the grease rack, and struggled to free its oil filter. Karl let him unwind a string of obscenities before he spoke.

“Jenkins?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Daryll said, without ducking his head to see who addressed him.

“You want to pop out here for a minute?”

“Who’s asking.”

Karl considered for a moment and said, “FBI.”

“O…kay. Now we’re talking. You’re here about the stuff in the sheriff’s car, right?” Daryll ducked out from under, and took in Karl. Jenkins had the same beetling brows as his cousin. That constituted the only similarity between the two. “Hey, wait a minute,” he muttered, “you ain’t FBI, you’re the sheriff’s boy, ain’t that right?”

Karl slipped his nightstick free and tapped Daryll on the right knee. The knee buckled and Daryll Jenkins dropped to the floor.

“Hey. Ow. You can’t do that. I’m reporting you to the cops.”

“I am the cops, Stupid. Now stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

“You got nothing on me, boy.”

There was that word again. Karl tapped the other knee, this time harder. Daryll went down again. “There’s nobody here but you and me, you little dirt bag, so it’s your word against mine. Judges never listen to drug dealers anyway, so, you’re done. Now, get up and put your hands—”

“Behind my back. Okay, okay. Just keep that stick away from me. What’s the charge?”

“Solicitation to sell illegal drugs, for one, planting false evidence in a police car, and, I expect, we’ll find some more things to throw at you before Friday.”

***

George LeBrun needed to talk to his cousin. Either the Falco bitch sold him out or his cousin, Daryll, did. He rounded the corner of the garage in time to see Karl Hedrick lead Daryll away. He ducked back behind a stack of used tires. Neither man saw him. When the two had driven away, he slipped into the office. He riffled through the top drawer of a three drawer filing cabinet and emptied it of its contents, which he shoved into a dirty gunny sack. He spun and walked back into the garage area. It wouldn’t do to have the sheriff’s office return with a warrant, and they surely would. He had no illusions about his cousin. The jerk would blab his head off inside a half hour. He removed a key from his jacket pocket and unlocked a door to what appeared to be a small storage room. Nothing in it would survive a fire. There would be no usable evidence other than some scorched cans and jars. He’d already disposed of the cough medicine bottles in the dumpster down the alley behind Schwartz’s place. He carried in a gallon can of gasoline, poured it on the counter and floor, stepped outside, and tossed in a lighted match. He slammed the door and walked away. Now that’s some real meth cooking. Too bad about Daryll’s garage. He hoped the moron had insurance.