Still Life With Crows (18 page)

“I see your point.”

“I care about this town. So do you, Smitty, I know you do. This isn’t for me. I’m just trying to do my civic duty.”

Ludwig swallowed. He noticed that his eggs were congealing on the plate and his bacon had already stiffened.

Sheriff Hazen spoke at last. “Smitty, I know we’ve had our differences. But there’s another reason not to publish anything on the dog. The forensic psychology guys in Dodge think the killer might be feeding off the publicity. His goal is to terrorize the town. People are already dredging up the old rumors about the massacre and the curse of the Forty-Fives, and those damn arrows just seemed calculated to revive the whole thing. It seems the killer might be acting out some weird fantasy about the curse. They say articles in the paper just encourage him. We don’t want to do anything that might trigger another killing. This guy’s no joke, Smitty.”

There was a long silence.

Ludwig finally sighed. “Maybe I can put the dog story off a couple of days,” he said in a low voice.

Ridder smiled. “That’s great. Great.” He squeezed Smitty’s shoulder again.

“You mentioned two things,” Ludwig said a little weakly.

“That’s right, I did. Okay. I was thinking—again, this is just a suggestion, Smitty—that you could fill the gap with a story on Dr. Stanton Chauncy. Everybody loves a little attention, and this guy’s no exception. The project—maybe it’s better not to go into that too much. But a story on
him,
who he is, where he comes from, all his big degrees, all the great things he’s done up at KSU—you following me, Smitty?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Ludwig murmured. And, in fact, it really wasn’t a bad idea. If the guy proved to be interesting it would make a good story, and it was just the kind of thing people wanted to read. The future of the town was always the number one topic of conversation in Medicine Creek.

“Great. He’s going to be here in five minutes. I’ll introduce you, then leave you two alone.”

“Fine.” Ludwig swallowed again.

Ridder finally released his grip on Ludwig’s shoulder. He felt a cold patch where the warm, moist hand had been. “You’re a good guy, Smitty.”

“Right.”

Just then the sheriff’s radio crackled to life. Hazen pulled it off his belt and pressed the receive button. Ludwig could hear Tad’s tinny voice giving the sheriff the morning’s incident report. “Some joker let the air out of the tires of the football coach’s car,” came Tad’s voice.

“Next,” said Hazen.

“Another dead dog. This one reported by the side of the road.”

“Christ. Next.”

“Willie Stott’s wife says he didn’t come home last night.”

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Check with Swede at the Wagon Wheel. He’s probably sleeping it off in the back room again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll check out the dog myself.”

“It’s two and a half miles out the Deeper Road, on the west side.”

“Check.”

Hazen shoved the radio back into his belt, ground out his cigarette in an ashtray, swept his hat off the empty seat next to him, fitted it to his head, and stood. “See you, Art. Smitty, thanks. Gotta run.”

The sheriff left, and then, as if on cue, Dr. Stanton Chauncy materialized at the far end of the bowling alley, glancing around.

Ridder called, waved at him through the glass. Chauncy nodded and walked past the alleys and into the Castle Club. He had the same stiff walk Ludwig had noticed at the Sociable. The man peered at the plastic decor and Ludwig thought he could see a flicker of something in his eyes: amusement? contempt?

Ridder rose and so did Ludwig.

“Don’t get up on my account,” Chauncy said. He shook their hands and they all sat down.

“Dr. Chauncy,” Ridder began, “I want to introduce to you Smit Ludwig from the
Cry County Courier,
our local paper. He’s the publisher, editor, and reporter. It’s a one-man band.” He laughed.

Ludwig found a pair of rather cool blue eyes turned on him. “That must be very interesting for you, Mr. Ludwig.”

“Call him Smitty. We don’t go on ceremony in Medicine Creek. We’re a friendly town.”

“Thank you, Art.” Chauncy turned to Ludwig. “Smitty, I hope you’ll call me Stan.”

Ridder spoke before Ludwig could answer. “Stan, listen. Smitty wants to do a story on you and I have to run, so I’ll leave you here. Order what you like; bill’s on me.”

In a moment Ridder was gone, and Chauncy had turned his two dry eyes back on Ludwig. For a moment, Ludwig wondered what he was waiting for. Then he remembered he was supposed to do an interview. He pulled out his steno book, fished out a pen.

“If you don’t mind, I prefer to work with questions presented to me ahead of time,” said Chauncy.

“I wish we were that organized,” said Ludwig, mustering a smile.

Chauncy did not smile. “Tell me what kind of story you had in mind.”

“It would be a profile, basically. You know, the man behind the project and all that.”

There was a silence. “We’re dealing with a sensitive subject. It has to be handled
just so.
”

“It would be a favorable, uncontroversial article, focusing on you, not on the details of the experimental field.”

Chauncy thought a moment. “I’ll have to see the piece before it runs.”

“We don’t usually do that.”

“You’ll just have to make an exception in my case. University policy.”

Ludwig sighed. “Very well.”

“Proceed,” said Chauncy. He sat back in the chair.

“Would you like a coffee, some breakfast?”

“I ate hours ago, back in Deeper.”

“All right, then. Let’s see.” Ludwig opened the steno book to a blank page, smoothed it, readied his pen, and tried to think of a few pithy questions.

Chauncy looked at his watch. “I’m really a very busy man, so if you could keep this to fifteen minutes, I’d appreciate it. Next time, you should bring questions instead of making them up on the spot. It’s a simple courtesy when interviewing someone whose time is valuable.”

Ludwig exhaled. “So, tell me about yourself, where you went to school, how you got interested in agriculture, that sort of thing.”

“I was born and raised in Sacramento, California. I went to high school there, and attended the University of California at Davis, where I majored in biochemistry. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude, in 1985.” He paused. “Would you like me to spell ‘summa cum laude’?”

“I think I can manage it.”

“Then I attended graduate school at Stanford University, graduating in four years—that would be 1989—with a doctorate in molecular biology. My dissertation was awarded the Hensley Medal. That’s H-E-N-S-L-E-Y. I shortly thereafter joined the biology department of Kansas State University on a tenure-track position. I was awarded the chair of Leon Throckmorton Distinguished Professor of Molecular Biology in 1995 and, in addition, became director of the Agricultural Extension Program in 1998.”

He paused for Ludwig to catch up.

Ludwig had done enough boring stories to know what one smelled like, and this reeked to high heaven. The
Hensley
Medal, Jesus Christ. Was this guy a prick or what?

“Right, thanks. Stan, when did, ah, genetic engineering really capture your interest? When did you know what you wanted to become?”

“We don’t refer to it as genetic engineering. We refer to it as genetic
enhancement.
”

“Genetic enhancement, then.”

A pious look briefly settled on Chauncy’s features. “When I was twelve or thirteen, I saw a picture in
Life
magazine of a crowd of starving Biafran children all crowding around a UN truck, trying to get a bit of rice. I thought,
I want to do something to feed those starving children.
”

What a crock. But Ludwig dutifully wrote it all down.

“And your father? Mother? What did they do? Does science run in the family?”

There was a brief silence. “I would prefer to keep the focus on myself.”

Father probably drove a truck and beat his wife,
thought Ludwig. “Fine. Tell me, have you published any papers or books?”

“Yes. A great many. I will have a copy of my curriculum vitae faxed to your office if you will give me the number.”

“No fax machine. Sorry.”

“I see. Frankly, I find it a waste of time to answer questions like this when it would be far simpler for you to get the information yourself from the KSU public relations department. They have a file on me a foot thick. And it would be much better if you
read
some of my papers before interviewing me. It just saves everyone so much time.” He checked his watch again.

Ludwig shifted to another tack. “Why Medicine Creek?”

“May I remind you, we haven’t necessarily chosen Medicine Creek.”

“I know, but why is it in the running?”

“We were looking for an average place with typical growing conditions. Medicine Creek and Deeper came out of a comprehensive, two-hundred-thousand-dollar computerized study of almost a hundred towns in western Kansas. Thousands of criteria were used. We are now in phase three of the study, determining the final choice for the project. We have already struck agreements with the appropriate agribusinesses for possible access to their land. All we need now is to make a decision between the two towns. And that is why I am here: to make that final decision and announce it on Monday.”

Ludwig wrote it all down, all the while realizing that when you really parsed what the man had said, he in fact had said nothing.

“But what do you think of the
town?
” he asked.

There was a brief silence, and Ludwig could see that this was one question Chauncy did not have a ready answer for.

“Well, I . . . Unfortunately there’s no hotel here, and the only place where I could stay had already been booked by a man, a difficult man it would seem, who took the entire floor and categorically refused to relinquish a room.” His lips pursed, bristling the short hairs around his mouth. “So I’ve had to stay in Deeper and make an inconvenient drive of twenty-five miles every morning and evening. There isn’t anything here, really, except a
bowling
alley and a diner . . . No library, no cultural events, no museum or concert hall. Medicine Creek really hasn’t got anything particular to recommend it, frankly.” He smiled quickly.

Ludwig found himself bristling. “We’ve got good, solid, small-town, old-fashioned American values here. That’s worth something.”

Chauncy shuddered faintly. “I have no doubt of that. Mr. Ludwig, when I make the final decision between Deeper and Medicine Creek, you will no doubt be among the first to know. And now, if you don’t mind, I have important business to tend to.” He rose.

Ludwig rose with him and grasped the extended hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sun-reddened, stubble-headed form of Dale Estrem and two other farmers looking at them through the glass front of the bowling alley. They had seen Chauncy inside and were obviously waiting for him to come out. Ludwig suppressed a smile.

“You can fax or e-mail the piece to the KSU public relations department,” said Chauncy. “The number is on my card. They will vet it and return it to you by the end of the week.” He snapped his card on the table and stood up.

By the end of the week.
Ludwig watched the little prick walk stiffly past the bowling lanes, his head up, his back very straight, his small legs moving as briskly as machinery. Chauncy pushed open the door to the street and now Dale Estrem was striding toward him, his big farmer’s arms swinging. The sound of his raised voice was enough to penetrate even the inner sanctum of the Castle Club. It looked like Chauncy was in for a verbal mauling.

Ludwig smiled. Dale Estrem: now there was someone who was always willing to speak his mind. Screw Chauncy, screw Ridder, and screw the sheriff. Ludwig had a paper to publish.

The dog would stay.

Twenty

T
ad walked back out of the Wagon Wheel into the blast-furnace heat. So far, no luck, no Willie Stott sleeping it off in the back room. Still, Tad was mighty glad he’d taken the time to check. He popped a mint into his mouth—his second—to cover up any possible beer breath from the ice-cold Coors Swede had slipped him under the bar. It sure tasted good on a day as hot as this one. Swede Cahill was one hell of a nice guy.

Tad’s cruiser was sitting outside the sheriff’s office, baking in the sun, and Tad made a beeline for it. He slid inside and started the engine, careful to let the minimum amount of back and buttcheek come in contact with the blistering leatherette. If he could land a desk job in Topeka or Kansas City, he wouldn’t have to spend his days hopping in and out of the suffocating heat, forced to drive a cruiser that carried its own little hell around inside it.

He switched his radio to the frequency of the county dispatcher.

“Unit twenty-one to Dispatch,” he said.

“Hiya, Tad,” came the voice of LaVerne, who worked the day shift. She was sweet on Tad and, had she been maybe twenty years younger, perhaps he might have felt the same way.

“LaVerne, anything new?” he asked.

“Someone at Gro-Bain just reported a vehicle parked by the side of the approach road. Seems abandoned.”

“What’s the model?” Tad didn’t have to ask for the make. Except for Art Ridder’s Caprice and the police ’91 Mustangs, bought secondhand from the Great Bend PD, just about every car in town was AMC. It had been the only dealership within an hour’s drive. Like so much else, though, it had closed down years ago.

“Hornet, license plate Whiskey Echo Foxtrot Two Niner Seven.”

He thanked LaVerne before slipping back into more formal jargon. “Unit twenty-one, moving,” he said, replacing the radio.

That would be Stott’s Hornet. No doubt the guy was sleeping in the back, like he had the last time his shitbox broke down outside of town. He’d curled up and made a nice little evening out of it, just the two of them, him and Old Grand-Dad.

Tad put the cruiser in gear and pulled away from the curb. It was the work of fifteen seconds to leave the town behind. Four minutes later, he turned into the plant road. There was a huge semi-load of live turkeys lumbering ahead of him, laying down a stink of turkey shit on the road so thick you could almost see it. Tad overtook the semi as quickly as he could, glancing over at the stacked cages full of terrified turkeys, their eyes bulging.