Still Life With Crows (3 page)

The sheriff dropped his arm. “My deputy, Tad Franklin, and myself will give a statement and answer questions. Let’s all behave like civilized people. What say?”

The crowd shuffled in place. Lights went on, mikes were boomed forward; there was the clicking of cassette recorders, the fluttering of camera shutters.

“Tad, let’s give these good folks some fresh coffee.”

Tad looked at Hazen. Hazen winked.

Tad grabbed the pot, peered in, gave it a quick shake. Then he reached for a stack of styrofoam cups, stepped out the door, and began doling out the coffee. There were some sips, a few furtive sniffs.

“Drink up!” Hazen cried good-naturedly. “Never let it be said we’re not hospitable folks here in Medicine Creek!”

There was a general shuffling, more sipping, a few covert glances into the cups. The coffee seemed to have subdued, if not broken, the spirit of the group. Though it was barely dawn, the heat was already oppressive. There was no place to put down the cups, no trash can to drop them in. And a sign outside the door to the sheriff’s office read
NO LITTERING: $100 FINE
.

Hazen adjusted his hat, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked around, his shoulders squared to the crowd as the cameras rolled. He then addressed the group. He told in dry police language of finding the body; he described the clearing, the body, and the spitted birds. It was pretty vivid stuff, but the sheriff managed to handle it matter-of-factly, throwing in a folksy comment here and there, in a way that neutralized most of the gruesome aspects. It amazed Tad how easygoing, even charming, his boss could be when he wanted to.

In the space of two minutes he was finished. A flurry of shouted questions followed Hazen’s speech.

“One at a time; raise your hands,” the sheriff said. “It’s just like in school. Anyone who shouts goes last. You begin.” And he pointed to a reporter in shirtsleeves who was enormously, spectacularly fat.

“Are there any leads or suspects?”

“We’ve got some very interesting things we’re following up. I can’t say any more than that.”

Tad looked at him with surprise. What things? So far, they had nothing.

“You,” said Hazen, pointing to another.

“Was the murder victim local?”

“No. We’re working on identification, but she wasn’t a local. I know everyone around these parts, I can vouch for that myself.”

“Do you know how the woman was killed?”

“Hopefully, the medical examiner will tell us that. The body was sent up to Garden City. When we get the autopsy results, you’ll be the first to know.”

The early morning Greyhound, northbound from Amarillo, came rumbling up the main street, stopping in front of Maisie’s Diner with a chuff of brakes. Tad was surprised; the bus almost never stopped. Whoever came or went from Medicine Creek, Kansas, anymore? Maybe it was more reporters, too cheap to provide their own transportation.

“The lady, you, there. Your question, ma’am?”

A tough-looking redhead poked a shotgun mike at Hazen. “What law enforcement agencies are involved?”

“The state police have been a big help, but since the body was found in Medicine Creek township, it’s our case.”

“FBI?”

“The FBI doesn’t get involved in local murder cases and we don’t expect them to take an interest in this one. We’ve put some pretty heavy-duty police resources on the case, including the special crime lab and homicide squad up in Dodge City, who spent the whole night at the site. Don’t you all worry that just Tad and me are going to try to solve this on our own. We’re good at hollering, and we’re going to holler loud enough to get what we need to solve this case, and quick, too.” He smiled and winked.

There was a roar as the bus pulled away in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. The sound temporarily drowned out the press conference. As the fumes cleared, they revealed a lone figure standing on the sidewalk, small leather valise sitting on the ground next to him. He was tall and thin, dressed in dead black, and in the early morning light he cast a shadow that stretched halfway across downtown Medicine Creek.

Tad glanced at the sheriff and noticed that he’d seen the man, too.

The man was staring across the street at them.

Hazen roused himself. “Next question,” he said briskly. “Smitty?” He pointed to the well-lined face of Smit Ludwig, the owner-reporter of the
Cry County Courier,
the local paper.

“Any explanation for the, ah, the strange tableau? You got any theory on the arrangement of the body and the various appurtenances?”

“Appurtenances?”

“Yeah. You know, the stuff around it.”

“Not yet.”

“Could this be some kind of satanic cult?”

Tad glanced involuntarily across the street. The black-clad figure had lifted his bag but was still standing there, motionless.

“That’s a possibility we’ll be looking into, for sure,” said Hazen. “We’re obviously dealing with a very sick individual.”

Now Tad noticed the man in black taking a step into the street, strolling nonchalantly toward them. Who could he be? He certainly didn’t look like a reporter, policeman, or traveling salesman. In fact, what he most looked like to Tad Franklin was a murderer. Maybe
the
murderer.

He noticed that the sheriff was also staring, and even some members of the press had turned around.

Hazen fished a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He resumed talking. “Whether it’s a cult, or a lunatic, or whatever, I just want to emphasize—and Smitty, this will be important for your readers—that we’re dealing with out-of-town, perhaps out-of-state, elements.”

Hazen’s voice faltered as the figure in black stopped at the edge of the crowd. It was already well into the nineties but the man was dressed in black worsted wool, with a starched white shirt and a silk tie knotted tightly at his neck. Yet he looked as cool and crisp as a cucumber. The gaze from his silvery eyes was directed piercingly at Hazen.

A hush fell.

The black-clad figure now spoke. The voice wasn’t loud, but somehow it seemed to dominate the crowd. “An unwarranted assumption,” the figure said.

There was a silence.

Hazen took his time to open the pack, shake out a butt, and slide it into his mouth. He said nothing.

Tad stared at the man. He seemed so thin—his skin almost transparent, his blue-gray eyes so light they looked luminous—that he could have been a reanimated corpse, a vampire fresh from the grave. If he wasn’t the walking dead, he could just as easily have passed for an undertaker; either way, there was definitely the look of death about the man. Tad felt uneasy.

His cigarette lit, Hazen finally spoke. “I don’t recall asking your opinion, mister.”

The man strolled into the crowd, which parted silently, and halted ten feet from the sheriff. The man spoke again, in the mellifluous accent of the deepest South. “The killer works in the blackest night with no moon. He appears and disappears without a trace. Are you really so sure, Sheriff Hazen, that he is not from Medicine Creek?”

Hazen took a long drag, blew a stream of blue smoke in the general direction of the man, and said, “And what makes you such an expert?”

“That is a question best answered in your office, Sheriff.” The man held out his hand, indicating that the sheriff and Tad should precede him into the little headquarters.

“Who the hell are you, inviting me into my own damn office?” Hazen said, beginning to lose his temper.

The man looked mildly at him and answered in the same low, honeyed voice. “May I suggest, Sheriff Hazen, that that equally excellent question is also best answered in private? I mean, for
your
sake.”

Before Sheriff Hazen could respond, the man turned to the reporters. “I regret to inform you this press conference is now over.”

To Tad’s absolute amazement, they turned and began shuffling away.

Four

T
he sheriff took up position behind his battered Formica desk. Tad sat down in his usual chair with a tingling sense of anticipation. The stranger in black placed his bag by the door and the sheriff offered him the hard wooden visitor’s chair that he claimed would break any suspect in five minutes. The man settled into it with one smooth elegant motion, flung one leg over the other, leaned back, and looked at the sheriff.

“Get our guest a cup of coffee,” said Hazen, with a faint smile.

There was enough left in the pot for half a cup, which was quickly passed.

The man accepted it, glanced at it, set it down on the table, and smiled. “You are most kind, but I am a tea drinker myself. Green tea.”

Tad wondered if the man was weird, or possibly a faggot.

Hazen cleared his throat, frowned, shifted his squat body. “Okay, mister, this better be good.”

Almost languidly, the man removed a leather wallet from his jacket pocket, let it fall open. Hazen leaned forward, scrutinized it, sat back with a sigh.

“FBI. Shit-fire. Might have known.” He glanced over at Tad. “We’re running with the big boys now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tad. Although he’d never actually met an FBI agent before, this guy looked exactly the opposite of what he thought an FBI agent should look like.

“All right, Mr., ah—”

“Special Agent Pendergast.”

“Pendergast. Pendergast. I’m bad with names.” Hazen lit another cigarette, sucked on it hard. “You here on the crows murder?” The words came out with a cloud of smoke.

“Yes.”

“And is this official?”

“No.”

“So it’s just you.”

“So far.”

“What office are you out of?”

“Technically, I’m with the New Orleans office. But I operate under, shall we say, a special arrangement.” He smiled pleasantly.

Hazen grunted. “How long will you be staying?”

“For the duration.”

Tad wondered,
For the duration of what?

Pendergast turned his pale eyes on Tad and smiled. “Of my vacation.”

Tad was speechless. Did the guy read his mind?

“Your
vacation?
” Hazen shifted again. “Pendergast, this is irregular. I’m going to need some kind of official authorization from the local field office. We’re not running a Club Med for Quantico here.”

There was a silence. Then the man named Pendergast said, “Surely you don’t want me here
officially,
Sheriff Hazen?”

When this was greeted with silence, Pendergast continued pleasantly. “I will not interfere with your investigation. I will operate independently. I will consult with you regularly and share information with you when appropriate. Any, ah, ‘collars’ will be yours. I neither seek nor will I accept credit. All I ask are the usual law enforcement courtesies.”

Sheriff Hazen frowned, scratched, frowned again. “As for the collar, frankly I don’t give a damn who gets the credit. I just want to catch the son of a bitch.”

Pendergast nodded approvingly.

Hazen took a drag, exhaled, took another. He was thinking. “All right, then, Pendergast, take your busman’s holiday here. Just keep a low profile and don’t talk to the press.”

“Naturally not.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I was hoping to receive the benefit of your advice.”

The sheriff barked a laugh. “There’s only one place in town, and that’s the Kraus place. Kraus’s Kaverns. You passed it on the way in, big old house set out in the corn about a mile west of town. Old Winifred Kraus rents out rooms on the top floor. Not that she has many takers these days. And she’ll talk you into a tour of her cave. You’ll probably be the first visitor she’s had in a year.”

“Thank you,” said Pendergast, rising and picking up his bag.

Hazen’s eyes followed the movement. “Got a car?”

“No.”

The sheriff’s lip curled slightly. “I’ll give you a lift.”

“I enjoy walking.”

“You sure? It’s almost a hundred degrees out there. And I wouldn’t exactly call that suit of yours appropriate dress for these parts.” Hazen was grinning now.

“Is it indeed that hot?” The FBI agent turned and reached for the door, but Hazen had one more question.

“How did you learn about the murder so quick?”

Pendergast paused. “By arrangement, I have someone at the Bureau watching the cable and e-mail traffic of local law enforcement agencies. Whenever a crime within a certain category occurs, I’m notified of it immediately. But as I said, I’m here for personal reasons, having recently concluded a rather strenuous investigation back east. It’s simply that I’m intrigued by the rather, ah, interesting nature of this particular case.”

Something in the way the man said “interesting” raised the hairs on the back of Tad’s neck.

“And just what ‘certain category’ are we talking about here?” The sarcasm was creeping back into the sheriff’s voice.

“Serial homicide.”

“Funny, I’ve only seen one murder so far.”

The figure gradually turned back. His cool gray eyes settled on Sheriff Hazen. In a very low voice he said, “So far.”

Five

W
inifred Kraus paused in her cross-stitch to gaze at the very strange sight out her parlor window. She felt vaguely frightened. A tall man in black was walking down the middle of the road, carrying a leather valise. He was several hundred yards away, but Winifred Kraus had sharp eyes and she could see that he was ghostly-looking, thin and insubstantial in the bright summer light. She was frightened because she remembered, as a child many years ago, her father telling her that this was the way death would arrive; that it would happen when she least expected it: just a man strolling down the road, coming up the steps and knocking on the door. A man dressed in black. And when you looked down at his feet, instead of shoes you’d see cloven hooves, and then you’d smell the brimstone and fire and that would be it and you’d be dragged screaming into hell.

The man was approaching with long, cool strides, his shadow eating up the road before him. Winifred Kraus told herself she was being silly, that it was just a story, and that death didn’t carry a valise anyway. But why would anyone be dressed in black at this time of year? Not even Pastor Wilbur wore black in this heat. And this man wasn’t just wearing black, but a black suit, jacket and all. Was he selling something? But then where was his car? Nobody walked on the Cry County Road—no one. At least not since she was a little girl, before the war, when the drifters used to come through in the early spring, heading for the fields of California.