The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (5 page)

Connors looked like a one-man parade as he swaggered across the length of the marked area. “Boys, this has been another outstanding performance by the Hayslip Police Department. This crime scene is so corrupted by the locals, if we found a written confession from the killer it wouldn’t hold up in court.”

Toil’s head jerked backward, as if he had taken a blow straight to the chin.

If the other troopers found the sergeant funny, they didn’t react. Hubbard could see their sideward glances but none of them looked up. He was surprised to discover that his right hand had become a fist of its own volition.

“I think this here mess calls for a contest. The man who can list the most procedure violations made by the locals wins a free breakfast at City Café. Sheriff Toil here will be our impartial judge.”

“You goddamn son-of-a-bitch,” Toil roared back. “Why don’t you come over here and say that to me?”

The crew stopped their work, and stood to witness the altercation. None of the troopers interceded, probably hoping the sheriff would land a lucky punch on their boss. Eddie’s mouth fell open and he looked to Hubbard for his help.

Hubbard shrugged his shoulders.
What do you want me to do?
hemouthed.

Eddie tilted his head and his eyes turned doleful like a beagle in distress and he mouthed back
please
.

Hubbard’s brow furrowed. The deputy must think Hubbard had some of his uncle’s magic ability to order people around, but his first instinct was only to insert himself into this fight—which would only serve to land him in jail.

Ten or fifteen years younger than Toil, Connors didn’t seem to have any reservations about using the out-of-shape sheriff as a punching bag. The son-of-a-bitch was closing in on the sheriff with a challenging, sadistic grin. After the fight was over, the state police version of events would become the official account. Connors’s team might hate him, but they wouldn’t contradict his story to avoid the taint of perceived disloyalty and ostracism from their fellow state troopers. Any conflicting testimony offered by the locals, Eddie and Hubbard, would be ignored as biased. Toil couldn’t win this battle. He would be finished as sheriff and might end up spending time in jail.

Think of something.

Perhaps a different target for Connors’s ridicule would do the trick? He couldn’t believe he was about to utter these words:

“So, Sergeant, do you think the White River Killer was behind this? Should the paper warn the folks in Hayslip that a serial killer is on the loose?”

Hubbard knew this was not the smooth conflict resolution that Eddie was expecting, but it was the best he could come up with. The deputy swung his arms back and forth in front of his chest, waving Hubbard off. Toil’s shoulders flew up as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him. The local lawmen had warned him not to mention the White River Killer theory to Connors, but Hubbard thought the idea was bizarre enough to disrupt the encounter. He was right.

Connors turned back, a sour expression on his face, to examine Hubbard. “The White River Killer? And I thought it was Jack the Ripper all this time.” He glanced at Toil. “I should have known one of your deputies would crack the case. Toil, how long has
this idiot
worked for you?”

“He’s not my deputy,” Toil said.

“Then who is he?”

“He’s a reporter,” Eddie said.

Connors’s face twisted as if he wanted to spit out the words. “A reporter! Jesus. What the hell is a reporter doing here? How did somebody from the Little Rock media get here before we did?”

“Not Little Rock; the
Hayslip Union Democrat
,” Hubbard said.

Connors shook his head in confusion. “The—The weekly shopper?”

“No, it’s a real newspaper,” Eddie said. “They’ve got stories on anniversaries, high school sports, spelling bees, crop reports, and more.”

Hubbard offered the sergeant a pleasant half-smile, but he was burning inside. “Even better, every story is written on the sixth-grade level—you’d like it.”
Settle down. Two years. Don’t throw it away.

The sergeant’s back straightened and the belt tightened across his chest. “Boy, how’d you like to spend tonight in county lockup?”

On the other side of the road, doves rose from their hiding place in the tall grass and took flight.

“Connors, have you met
R.J. Hubbard’s
nephew?” Toil interjected. He enunciated R.J.’s name carefully as if he was talking to a foreigner. “This is John Riley Hubbard,” he concluded, his head tilted toward Hubbard.

“What? Who? Ah . . . um.” Connors looked pained, as if he had just brushed against an electric cattle fence. “Mr. Hubbard is your uncle? Hubbard Farms? . . . Um . . . respectfully, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The troopers and technicians masked their smiles. Only the old coroner, standing by the body, laughed outright.

Connors stared at his crew, and they made a quick show of their intense concentration on their tasks. The coroner kept his smile; arms folded in relaxation. The old guy continued to stand there, as relaxed as a man standing at the ocean shore, until the sergeant gave up trying to stare him down and he returned to his work.

Connors angled his head toward the ground, closed his eyes, jaw muscles visibly twitching. He raised his head and opened his eyes a second later, forcing a smile to appear on his face. “Nice guy, Mr. Hubbard. Nice guy. I helped him with that trouble he had with his girlfriend.”

Hubbard’s brow furrowed. “What trouble? . . . What girlfriend?”

Connors grimaced and looked at Toil. Toil bent down and energetically plucked the tops off tall weeds as if he had just been appointed the official gardener of Shanty Town. Eddie spun on his heel and left to pull up a section of tape that had fallen down.

Connors held up the index finger on his right hand. “Um, wait, I got that wrong. I was thinking about another Hubbard down in Pine Bluff.”

There was a long awkward pause. The convenient Hubbard in Pine Bluff sounded like a lie. So what if his uncle had girlfriend troubles? What’s the big deal? How could Connors help with that? Hubbard sighed. Why would they think he was interested in any of this?

The whine of a diesel truck echoed up from the interstate. Connors’s eyes seared at Hubbard from under the bill of his hat.

“I’ve got everything I need,” Hubbard said. “I guess I’ll be going.”

He’d only made it a few steps when Eddie called out to him. “All the
Do Not Cross
tapes are up, if you want to get some more photos before you leave.”

“Eddie.
Oh
,
Eddie
.” Toil rubbed his forehead and then looked up at the sky. His tone reflected a disappointment going all the way down to the bone.

Eddie bit his lower lip.

“Photos?” Connors almost choked on the word, but it had the same effect as spurs on his sides. “Hubbard! Stop right there. You can’t leave here with that camera.”

“Eddie, step this way.” Toil gestured for Eddie to follow him. They walked a short distance and then huddled together, heads bowed, Toil’s hand gripping Eddie’s coat lapel.

Hubbard pressed the outside pocket on his coat as he pleaded. “Sergeant, I really need these photos. Andrews specifically asked me—”

“Corporal Thomas, will you come here?” Connors called. His eyes bore into Hubbard.

The corporal trotted up.

“Yes, Sergeant Connors?”

“Stay with me. I may need a witness on this. I want this to go by the book.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two troopers approached him, Connors in the lead. “Young Mr. Hubbard, you have taken unauthorized photos of a crime scene and I am confiscating your camera in accordance with Arkansas state law. Please surrender it now, or face the consequences.”

“Can’t we talk about this?” Hubbard pleaded. “I need these shots. I can’t give them up.” His hand remained on his coat pocket.

“Mr. Hubbard, you leave me no choice but—”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Hubbard said, reaching into his coat. “Don’t get excited. Here it is.”

Hubbard handed the camera to Connors, who tossed it to Thomas. He began to pat down Hubbard’s other pockets. The sergeant pulled out Hubbard’s notes, extra batteries, and a second lens. He glanced at them and handed them back.

“Empty your front pockets.”

With an exasperated sigh, Hubbard drew out the contents: a set of keys, a white handkerchief, and a pocket knife. He displayed them in both hands.

“If that knife was a couple inches longer, I could arrest you for carrying a concealed weapon,” Connors said.

“That’s good to know.”

Connors chin raised a notch. “Thank you,
young Mr. Hubbard
. I hope you have a very nice day. Tell your uncle that you’ll get it back at the end of the investigation.” Connors took Hubbard’s camera from Thomas. “You can leave now.”

Hubbard remained there for a moment and then walked to his truck, shoulders lowered. He kicked the mud off his boots, got behind the wheel, nodded to Toil and Eddie, tried to suppress a smile, and drove away.

Eddie turned back to the sheriff, shaking his head, keeping his voice low. “Why did Hubbard provoke Sergeant Connors? That’s risky business.”

Toil was surprised that Eddie didn’t see it. “The way he handled himself, did he remind you of anyone just now?”

Eddie shook his head. “You mean like on TV?”

“Blood will tell, Eddie,” Toil said. “At the end of the day, blood will tell.”

“Whose blood? I don’t get it.”

Toil sighed. “Okay. Ask the other troopers if they need anything from us and let’s get out of here.” While Eddie made the rounds, Toil watched Connors high step back to his crew. The capture of Hubbard’s camera seemed to inflate the trooper’s ego to the size of a Macy’s parade balloon. His chest was extended, and his walk was a bantam strut. “And that’s how you deal with rich boys. Did y’all see him run with his tail between his legs?” He raised Hubbard’s camera above his head like it was his trophy. “Too bad he had to leave his camera behind. I hope we don’t lose it.”

Connors lowered the camera and turned to the sheriff. “Toil, you and Hubbard should’ve known better than to try a stunt like this on me. I may not be able to prove it, but I know you tipped Hubbard off.” Connors twisted the lens back and forth as if he was trying to crack open a safe.

“Hey, don’t break the camera,” Toil said, trying to grab it from Connors. “It’s not a toy.”

“Can’t the Hayslip paper get something better than an old Nikon?” Connors peered through the viewfinder. “It may have been something in its day, but film cameras are obso—”

“You should see the other camera he used,” Eddie said. “It’s digital and got all the bells and whistles. I saw the picture he took of us. We looked sharp!”

“Oh, Eddie,” Toil moaned. “Can’t you just shut up for once? Just once?”

“What do you mean?” Connors said. “This
is
Hubbard’s camera. This is the one he . . . gave me . . .” He lowered the Nikon to his side.

A technician behind Connors whispered something. Several other troopers turned away, their backs trembling with suppressed laughter.

Connors face turned red. He took a few paces, stopped, and hurled the camera like a fast ball toward a large rock standing a few yards from the ditch. The camera shell shattered on impact, throwing bits of casing and broken lens glass in all directions. The back cover sprang open, tossing a yellow film roll onto the ground.

“No one plays the Arkansas State Police like that. I don’t care what his last name is. I’m gonna make the
young Mr. Hubbard
regret the day he tried to make a fool out of the law.”

Toil snorted. “The law? I don’t think
the law
looked like a fool.”

Several troopers laughed outright, ignoring Connors’s glare.

As the laughter died down, everyone’s eyes were drawn to the scattered remains of the old Nikon and one yellow film canister.

5

B
ROKEN AND
E
NTERED

S
TART.
S
TOP.
S
TART.
S
TOP.
Damn these school buses. Hubbard’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his index fingers tapping away to release pent-up frustration. Each of his attempts to pass the lumbering yellow transports that were clogging 281 was thwarted by heavy morning traffic. His eyes traveled restlessly from the road, to the side view mirror, and back again, expecting to see a state police cruiser’s blue lights any moment.

How long before Sgt. Connors uncovered his bait-and-switch? Seeing an opening, he gunned the truck’s V-8, waving to the children in the bus windows as he passed

Finally reaching town, Hubbard turned onto Main Street and headed for the town square which consisted of an expanse of clover-filled lawn with a small concrete pad hosting a granite memorial to Hayslip’s fallen and a couple of park benches. The Hayslip business district surrounded the green space, looking much as it did mid-century, when Hayslip proclaimed itself the “Tomato Capital of the World.”

Main Street split off into a circuit around the square. Hubbard slowed for several City Café customers who had stopped to greet friends in the middle of the street. Reluctantly, they moved to the sidewalk. He made quick turns around the square and parked in front of the
Hayslip Union Democrat
offices. He retrieved the digital camera from the bag and got out of the truck.

Most of the businesses on the square were yet to open, but he knew he could rely on the formidable Mrs. Welsh, his former English teacher, now grandly-titled as the Editor-in-Chief of the
Union Democrat,
to be at work. When Hubbard tried the front door he found it unlocked as he expected.

Buoyed by his successful arrival with the photos, Hubbard breezed into the office, camera in hand. “I’m here!” he called out, as if he was the last arrival at a party coming to a boil.

Just beyond the bunker-like sales counter at the entrance, Mrs. Welsh was sitting at her desk, which was surrounded by eight smaller desks. All the other work stations were unoccupied. The oak office furniture, small and utilitarian, combined with the pressed tin ceiling, gave the workplace the Spartan feel of a 1920s operation. The plaster walls of the large room were lined with framed
Union Democrat
front pages from the past—last year’s flood, bumper crops, twenty-pound tomatoes, and President Franklin Roosevelt’s motorcade driving past Hayslip on his way to Louisiana in 1936.

Mrs. Welsh glanced up from her computer and examined Hubbard over the top of black-framed glasses. She slowly twisted around to check the time on the wall clock behind her and then back to Hubbard. “Are you just getting here?” she asked, in a manner that could be interpreted several different ways. Was she tepidly welcoming him? Incredulous that he might have been in the office before this moment without her noticing him? Or hinting subtly at his unaccountable tardiness?

Probably all three, Hubbard decided, as he nodded and said. “Yes, ma’am.”

She leaned forward and commenced a series of pointed questions. “You know Mr. Andrews would like to include your story in the paper—for this week?
Not
next week?
And
today is Monday?
And
our deadline to send your story to complete the paper’s layout is noon today? Those young men who are waiting in India for your story have only so much time to lay out the paper before they have to e-mail their files to the Little Rock printer. Then the printer has to meet the mail drop deadline. Everything depends on you finishing this story in a timely manner.
You know that
.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is your story done?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then how do you plan to submit your assignment?”

“Don’t we have until the noon deadline?”

“
I
have until noon, yes. You do not.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Brinkmanship, Mr. Hubbard. Haven’t I cautioned you about brinkmanship?”

“Yes, many times. Don’t worry; I can knock something out fast. So here’s the camera. Can you download the photos and see if I got anything you like?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she replied in an irritated voice. Her attitude seemed to indicate that she doubted finding anything acceptable.

Hubbard glanced toward the rear of the building where Andrews’s office was situated. The Boy King’s executive space bore no resemblance to a place where work was actually done. The walls showcased bizarre tribal masks, meant to scare evil spirits, that he had purchased during a trip to Africa. The globe-trotting Andrews never sought out the typical tourist destinations. After a trip to the Amazon, Andrews once whispered that he had learned the “how to” of making shrunken heads and other lost arts from the “holy man” of a river tribe. Hubbard refused the offer to view his examples. Andrew’s interest in the macabre might explain his hope that the recent murder had some connection to the White River Killer.

“Did the Boy King make it to the highway commission meeting in one piece?”

“Please, don’t call Mr. Andrews that. He knows everyone uses that hateful term behind his back. Please remember, words can hurt.”

Hubbard recalled the same three-word slogan on a poster hanging in her classroom years ago. “Yes, I’m sorry. I should be more thoughtful.”

“What did he tell you about the meeting?” Her brows knitted in casual interest, but her voice lowered like they were sharing a secret.

“Nothing. Why? Just that he had a meeting.”

“Oh, only that.” Mrs. Welsh nodded. “He’s going through so much right now. At the very moment when he was going to prove to that family of his . . .” She connected the camera to her computer, shaking her head.

“What’s his big problem? Does one of his race horses have a cough?” Hubbard said.

“Shouldn’t you be writing your story?”

In was a mystery how the erratic Andrews found a tender spot in the heart of the invulnerable Mrs. Welsh. Perhaps it was because Andrews needed her continual supervision to be a fully functional adult and she never lost her love of teaching. Whatever the reason, they had a very unique relationship that resembled a stern mother and her wayward son.

“Did the state police tell you they had any leads at this point?”

Hubbard shook his head and flipped open his notes. At the top of the first page was Amir’s address. “I don’t have a lot of hope in those guys in the Smokey hats—especially Sergeant Connors—”

“Sergeant Connors!
Oh no, not him
. Why did they ever give that awful man a badge?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, the victim wasn’t from around here so there won’t be any locals nipping at their heels to keep the case open. They’ve got too many open cases in Pine Bluff; I think they’ll just finish their work here and work the local cases that will keep everyone happy.”

Mrs. Welsh took his arm and tried to turn him toward a computer. “Well, when you finish your job, everyone will be happy with you too.”

Hubbard took a step and stopped as a bitter realization crashed down on him. Why was he complaining about the state police and Sgt. Connors? He didn’t want to do any more work than they did—just the minimum and collect a paycheck.
If he cranked this article out like a Timberjacks’ game summary, he’d be no better than any of them.
Years ago, the state police blew off his father’s death despite Hubbard’s relentless badgering for justice. It couldn’t happen again. He raised the notebook and looked at Amir’s address once more.

He made a decision.

“Well, just a couple of things you need to know, Mrs. Welsh. The state police may be barging into this office in the next few minutes to confiscate the camera you’re holding—” Hubbard raised his hand to calm her. “Everything’s okay. There’s just something about newspaper photos and crime scenes that don’t play nice. If you want to have any pictures in the paper, you mustn’t dawdle getting them downloaded.”

“I never dawdle,” Mrs. Welsh said, although she quickened her efforts. “Dawdling slows the mental faculties. I don’t know why we want to waste the entire front page on a dead body in Shanty Town. Someone should burn those filthy buildings to the ground. They’re empty and nothing but a breeding ground for snakes, rats, and disease.”

Hubbard nodded. “Yeah, good idea—I wouldn’t object to seeing them burn.” He headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“That’s the second thing. I have to make one more stop before I can write the article.”

Mrs. Welsh’s voice rose sharply in surprise. “
What’s that?
I thought you were fully prepared.”

“Um, no, I have to go the victim’s apartment. See if there’s a next-of-kin and get a statement. You know, the Boy . . . um . . .
our
Tony
is always interested in the human angle.”

“But he didn’t say anything about—”

“Now, isn’t that just like him?” Hubbard waved goodbye to a confused Mrs. Welsh. He let the door bang shut behind him. As he walked away, he thought he heard her muffled voice: “brinkmanship.”

Why was he doing this? He sighed in frustration.

Even if you somehow catch the killer, even if you lynch him from the war memorial in the town square for all to see, it won’t change the past. No ripples of justice traveling backward through time to make things right. The dark corners never go away. Grow the hell up.

Hubbard exited Main Street and was quickly on his way to Monticello. Unlike 281, the road to Monticello was an undivided four-lane. Hubbard interpreted the speed limit as a mere proposal for consideration. Barreling down the highway, he skidded to another frustrating delay when traffic stopped to allow a highway department gravel truck drop its load. Hubbard glanced at his Timex.
Will Connors be as late to the victim’s home as he was to the crime scene?
Less than a minute later, he was waved through.

He passed through a cleared right of way, which extended on either side of the Monticello highway as far as the eye could see. Designated as the route for the future extension of the Pine Bluff interstate, it perpetually waited for state funding to be completed. If this road project was finished, it would reverse Hayslip’s fortunes. The town was situated at the mid-point of the nascent route, and would reap an economic windfall from new restaurants, hotels, and other retail businesses.

Andrews’s appointment to the state highway commission, almost three years ago, had been Hayslip’s best hope for shifting the gears of the commission from park and into drive and getting the new route to Shreveport, Louisiana, constructed finally. The Boy King’s term on the state board was coming to an end, and as he had told Hubbard on the phone this morning, he was “still pitching” in his efforts to get the project going.

Hubbard was forced to slow as he approached Monticello’s town square. Amir lived on West Fifth Street, a right turn at the end of the square. Hubbard pulled onto a street of refurbished Victorian homes, all freshly painted, displaying lush lawns thanks to automatic sprinkler systems at work despite the recent rain. If the college student was living here, he must have come from a wealthy family. Saudi Arabian oil money? Kuwait?

Hubbard cruised by the front of Amir’s building, a dusty red-and-cream frame residence with a large turret—a former mansion now finding new life as expensive apartments. He scanned the street and driveway for police cars or the vehicles of possible tenants in the house. He couldn’t spot any sign of movement along the row of large homes basking in the morning sun.

At the corner, he turned and parked a short distance down the block. He got out of his truck and checked the address in his notes. Since the home was a duplex, the entrance to Amir’s apartment, “B”, would be probably at the rear or side of the house. Hubbard walked down the narrow alleyway that split the block lengthwise.

The dark rose turret of Amir’s Victorian home became visible over the top of the brick privacy fence to his right. The back gate was unlocked. He hesitated, looking around at the multiple rear windows of the surrounding houses to see if anyone was watching from any of them. He knew that he would look plenty suspicious to any neighbor peeking at him from behind a curtain. He took a deep breath and pushed open the gate.

Once he entered, things weren’t as simple as he hoped. There were more entrances into the house than he anticipated. Two unmarked doors were at the rear of the house, opening to a large wooden deck that extended the length of the structure. These doors weren’t identified in any way and didn’t seem to be intended as primary entrances. Hubbard strode to the side of the residence nearest the driveway. He saw a door with a mailbox marked “C” next to it. No luck. He retraced his steps, glancing furtively at the windows of the surrounding Victorian homes and went behind the house to the other side, where he found another entrance with a mailbox marked “B”.

Splintered wood surrounded the door handle and frame, and a small pile of ragged wood chips spread across the door mat. Above the mat, the round lock had been crudely pried off. He paused four feet away from the door and surveyed the area.
A break-in?
He examined the front of the mahogany door and pushed his hair off his forehead.