Still Life With Crows (13 page)

“A new type of what?”

“Of serial killer.”

Hazen rolled his eyes theatrically. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still dealing with a single murder. A dog doesn’t count.” He turned to Tad. “Call the M.E. and let’s scoop this dog up to Garden City for an autopsy. Get the SOC boys out here to work over the site and especially take a look at any prints they find. And get the Staties to post a guard. I want this site sealed. No unauthorized personnel. Got it?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Good. And now, Pendergast, I’m hoping you will escort all
unauthorized
personnel from the site immediately.” Corrie jumped as he abruptly shined his light on her.

“Sheriff, you’re not referring to my assistant, are you?”

There was a thunderous silence. Corrie glanced at him, wondering what his game was now. Assistant? Her old suspicions began to return; next thing she knew, he’d be trying to assist himself into her pants.

After a moment the sheriff spoke. “Assistant? Are you referring to that delinquent standing next to you who’s facing a charge of larceny in the second degree, which, by the way, happens to be a felony in the state of Kansas?”

“I am.”

The sheriff nodded. And when he spoke again, his voice was unnaturally mild. “I’m a patient man, Mr. Pendergast. I will say this to you, and this only: there
is
a limit.”

In the ensuing silence, Pendergast said, “Miss Swanson, would you kindly hold the flashlight while I examine the posterior of this dog?”

Holding her nose against the rising stench, Corrie took the flashlight and aimed it at the desired spot, aware of Sheriff Hazen standing behind her, staring so hard at the back of her neck that she could feel the hairs curling.

Pendergast turned, rose, and laid a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. The man looked down at the hand, seemed about to brush it off. “Sheriff Hazen,” said Pendergast, his voice suddenly deferential, “it may seem that I have come here expressly to annoy you. But I assure you there are good reasons behind everything I do. I do hope you will continue to exercise the patience you’ve so admirably demonstrated already, and bear with me and my unorthodox methods—and my unorthodox assistant—a little longer.”

The sheriff seemed to digest this for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice sounded ever so slightly mollified. “I can’t say I honestly like the way you’re handling the case. You FBI boys always seem to forget that once we catch the perp we’ve got to
convict
him. You know how it is these days: screw up the evidence
in any way
and the perp walks.” He glanced at Corrie. “She better have scene-of-crime authorization.”

“She will.”

“And keep in mind what kind of impression she’s going to make in front of a jury with that purple hair and the spiked dog collar. Not to mention a felony on her record.”

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

The sheriff stared hard at him. “All right then. I’ll leave you to Fido here. Remember what I said. Come on, Tad, let’s go make those calls.”

Then he turned away, lit a cigarette, and disappeared into the wall of corn, followed by Tad. As the sound of crashing diminished, a silence descended on the site.

Corrie took several steps back from the stench of decay. “Agent Pendergast?”

“Miss Swanson?”

“What’s this ‘assistant’ crap?”

“I assumed you were willing to take the job by the fact that you disobeyed my orders and came here, thereby displaying an interest in the forensic aspects of crime.”

Was he kidding again? “I just don’t like being left behind. Look, I don’t know jack about detective work. I can’t type, I can’t handle the phones, and I’m sure as hell not going to take dictation or do whatever it is that assistants do.”

“That is not what I require. This may surprise you, but I’ve actually given this matter some thought and I’ve concluded that you’ll make an excellent assistant. I need someone who knows the town, knows the people, knows their secrets, but who is also an outsider, beholden to no one. Someone who will tell me the unvarnished truth as she sees it. Are you not exactly that person?”

Corrie considered it. Outsider, beholden to no one . . . Depressingly, she seemed to fit the bill.

“The promotion comes with a raise to a hundred and fifty dollars a day. I have all the paperwork in the car, including a limited scene-of-crime authorization. It means obeying my orders to the letter. No more jumping out of the car on a whim. We will discuss your new responsibilities in more detail later.”

“Who’s paying me? The FBI?”

“I shall be paying you out of my own pocket.”

“Come on, you know I’m not worth it. You’re throwing your money away.”

Pendergast turned and looked at her, and once again she was struck by the intensity that lay behind those gray eyes. “I already know one thing: we are dealing with an extremely dangerous killer and I do not have time to waste. I must have your help. If one life is saved, what is that worth?”

“Yeah, but how can I possibly help? I mean, the sheriff’s right. I’m just a dumb delinquent.”

“Miss Swanson, don’t be fatuous. Have we got a deal?”

“All right. But
assistant
is where it begins and ends. Like I said before, don’t get any ideas.”

He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a man. You know what I’m talking about.”

Pendergast waved his hand. “Miss Swanson, the inference you are making is quite unthinkable. We come from two different worlds. There is a vast difference between us in terms of age, temperament, upbringing, background, and relative positions of power—not to mention your pierced tongue. In my opinion such a relationship, while it might afford both of us considerable diversion, would be most unwise.”

Corrie felt vaguely irritated by his explanation. “What’s wrong with my pierced tongue?”

“Perhaps nothing. Females of the Wimbu tribe of the Andaman Islands pierce their labia and dangle strings of cowry shells from them. The shells jingle under their skirts when they walk. The men find it most attractive.”

“That’s totally foul!”

Pendergast smiled. “So you are not the cultural relativist I had assumed.”

“You’re a seriously weird person, you know that?”

“The alternative, Miss Swanson, does not appeal to me at all.” He took the light from her and shone it back on the dog. “And now, as my assistant, you can begin by telling me whose dog this is.”

Her eyes flickered unwillingly back to the bloated corpse. “It’s Jiff. He belonged to Andy, Swede Cahill’s son.”

“Did Jiff wear a collar?”

“Yes.”

“Did he normally run free?”

“Most of the dogs in town run free, despite the leash laws.”

Pendergast nodded. “I knew my confidence in you was not misplaced.”

Corrie looked at him, feeling amused. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“Thank you. We seem to have something in common.” He took the light from her and shined it back on the dog.

A silence descended on the rude clearing while Corrie wondered if she’d been insulted or complimented. But as she followed the beam with her eyes, she felt a sudden stab of pity: pity that transcended the awful stench, the drone of flies. Andy Cahill was going to be heartbroken. Somebody had to tell him, and it looked like that somebody would have to be her. She certainly couldn’t leave it to the sheriff or his assistant, who could be counted on to say the wrong thing. Nor did she think Pendergast, for all his courtesy, was the right person to break the news to the kid. She looked up and, to her surprise, found Pendergast looking at her.

“Yes,” he said, “I think it would be an act of kindness for you to break the news to Andy Cahill.”

“How did—?”

“At the same time, Miss Swanson, you might find out, in an offhand way, when Andy last saw Jiff, and where the dog might have been heading.”

“You want me to play detective, in other words.”

Pendergast nodded. “You are, after all, my new assistant.”

Fifteen

M
argery Tealander sat behind the old wooden desk of her spartan office, industriously clipping coupons while keeping one eye on
The Price Is Right.
The picture on the old black-and-white was so poor that she’d cranked the volume up so as not to miss any of the action. Not that there was all that much action today; rarely had she seen such a sorry group of contestants. Bidding high, bidding low, bidding every which way except within a mile of the real price of anything. She paused in her clipping to peer at the screen and listen. Everybody else had bid on the latest item except for the final contestant, a skinny Asian girl who couldn’t be more than twenty.

“I’ll bid one thousand four hundred and one dollars, Bob,” the girl said with a shy smile and a duck of her head.

“Man alive.” Marge clucked disapprovingly and returned to her clipping. Fourteen hundred dollars for an over-under Maytag? What planet could these people be living on? Couldn’t be more than nine hundred fifty, tops. And the audience wasn’t any help either, yelling encouragingly at every wrong guess. Now, if
she
was on the show, the audience would see some
serious
cleaning up. She always seemed to guess the right price, always seemed to pick the right door. And she wouldn’t settle for any of those cheesy prizes, either, the redwood utility sheds or the knickknack cabinets or the year’s supply of floor wax. She’d hold out for the fifteen-foot Chris-Craft; she had a cousin up near Lake Scott with a dock and mooring. The pity of it was that she’d finally talked Rocky into taking her out to Studio City, and then a week later he was diagnosed with emphysema. And now, she couldn’t very well go alone, God rest his soul, it would be much too much for . . . Now
this
was interesting: twenty percent off Woolite with a grocery purchase of $30 or more. That hardly
ever
went on sale, and with triple coupons on weekends that meant she could buy it for almost half price. She’d have to stock up. You just couldn’t beat the Shopper’s Palace in Ulysses for prices. The Red Owl in Garden City was closer, of course, but if you were serious about saving a little money you just couldn’t beat the Palace. And on Super Saturdays she’d get ten cents off a gallon on regular gas—that more than made up for the extra mileage right there. Of course, she felt a little bad about not patronizing Ernie, but these were lean times and a body just had to be practical . . . Now, if that didn’t beat all. Nine hundred twenty-five for the Maytag. Sure would have looked nice right next to her slop sink. Maybe she’d talk to Alice Franks about looking into a bus excursion that could—

All of a sudden she realized that a strange man was standing before her desk.

“Good gracious!” Marge quickly turned down the sound on the television. “Young man, you startled me.” It was that man in the black suit she’d seen out and about recently.

“My apologies,” the man replied in a voice redolent of mint juleps, pralines, and cypress trees. He gave a formal little bow, then stood before her, hands at his sides. He had slender, tapered fingers with nails that—she noticed with some surprise—were subtly but very professionally manicured.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Just don’t be sneaking up on a body like that. Now, what can I do you for?”

The man nodded toward the coupons. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

Marge barked out a laugh. “Hah! A bad time! That’s a good one.” She pushed the coupons to one side. “Mr. Stranger, you have my
un
divided attention.”

“I must apologize again,” the man said. “I’ve neglected to introduce myself. The name’s Pendergast.”

Marge suddenly remembered the article in the paper. “Of course. You’re that fellow from down south who’s looking into the murder. I could tell you weren’t from around here, of course. Not talking like that, you aren’t.”

She looked at him with fresh curiosity. He was rather tall, with hair so blond it was almost white, and he returned her look with pale eyes full of mild inquisitiveness. Although he was slender, he gave no sense of being frail; quite the opposite, really, although his suit was so unrelievedly black it was hard to tell. He was really very attractive, in a Southern Comfort kind of way.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pendergast,” she said. “I’d offer you a seat, but this swivel chair of mine’s the only one. The people who come here aren’t usually inclined to stay very long.” She barked another laugh.

“And why is that, Mrs. Tealander?” The question was phrased so politely that Marge didn’t notice he already knew her name.

“Why do you think? Unless you happen to be partial to paying taxes and filling out forms, of course.”

“Yes, of course. I do see.” The man named Pendergast took a step forward. “Mrs. Tealander, it’s my understanding that—”

“Five hundred dollars,” Marge interrupted.

The man paused. “Pardon me?”

“Nothing.” Marge pulled her eyes from the now-silent TV.

“It’s my understanding that you are the keeper of public records for Medicine Creek.”

Marge nodded. “That’s right.”

“And that you function as town administrator.”

“A part-time job. Very part-time, these days.”

“That you run the public works department.”

“Oh, that just means keeping tabs on Henry Fleming, who drives the snow plow and changes the bulbs in the streetlamps.”

“And that you levy real estate taxes.”

“Yes, and
that’s
the reason I don’t get invited to Klick Rasmussen’s canasta parties.”

Pendergast paused again for a moment. “So one could say that, in essence, you run Medicine Creek.”

Marge grinned widely. “Young man, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Of course, Sheriff Hazen and Art Ridder might not share your view.”

“We’ll leave them to their own opinion, then.”

“Man alive, I
knew
it!” Marge’s eyes had strayed back to the television, and with an effort she returned them to her guest.

Pendergast slipped a leather wallet from his jacket pocket. “Mrs. Tealander,” he said, opening it to display the gold shield inside, “you’re aware that I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”