A Little Death in Dixie, page 13
Overton slid across the booth. “You look tired, son. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“I have to say, I can’t believe Lou’s gone. Old P-D-Q. Mr. Pretty Damned Quick. He’ll be missed.” The judge stood. “I’ll just slip out the back.”
Billy watched Overton go out the back door. It had been an odd conversation. First of all, Lou had never mentioned knowing Overton, much less being his friend. Second, why did the judge lose his cool when he mentioned stepping up the investigation?
He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror. One too many beers was making it hard for him to concentrate. He needed to get out of here but didn’t want to have to squeeze past Sam and Terri on the dance floor. Overton had the right idea about using the back entrance. He took the judge’s exit route.
Outside, SUVs and pickups packed the parking lot. Streetlights barely illuminated the back steps. He smelled rain-soaked cardboard and rotting garbage from the Dumpster. The night, a cool one for August, was a gift of last night’s storm.
Waters had put his finger on it; Billy told himself he should’ve seen this train wreck coming. He’d known Lou was in trouble yesterday, but he’d been too pissed off to do anything about it.
Down the street, the neon Sputnik ball rotated over the liquor store. It reminded Billy of the tilt-a-whirl ride in the carnivals that came through town when he was a child.
He watched a Cadillac back out of its parking space into the alley. Judge Overton was the driver. The taillights dipped as he pulled out onto the street.
The world looked the same tonight as it did every night. Except tonight Lou Nevers was no longer in it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dr. Jimmy had changed from his jumpsuit into slacks for Lou’s wake; a fresh white shirt and the Stetson he’d managed to keep in pretty good shape over the past twenty years. He considered adding his turquoise bolo tie out of deference to the occasion but decided against it. The tie would cause questions from his wife, Evie. There was a lot of respect for each other’s privacy in their marriage, but sometimes she pushed it. Tomorrow he’d be able to talk to her about Lou. Discussing it with her now would make the loss too real.
It was Sunday evening. He was driving to Lou’s wake, and he was dog-tired. His hands on the steering wheel ached with arthritis that was cutting into his knuckles like baling wire. A few years ago he could put in a day at the clinic, followed by a couple of autopsies, and never skip a beat. Not true anymore, especially after a day like today.
Holding the dead heart of his oldest friend in his hand had taken its toll.
August twenty-eighth would be his last day as Henderson County’s coroner. His friends warned him he’d regret walking away, but Evie’s health wasn’t good, and she’d always talked about taking an Alaskan cruise. Last week he’d put a Canadian-bred Charolais bull in the field to see if he could get a prize-winning calf for next year’s Mid-South Fair. That was all the challenge he needed now, matchmaking for the bull and heifers.
Besides, retirement made sense. He’d witnessed enough stupidity and meanness to last ten lifetimes.
He crossed the long river bridge into Memphis and spotted the rotating Sputnik ball, candy-colored against the black sky, his guidepost to The Western. Odds were good Able would be at the wake. He wanted to talk to him face to face.
In the alley flanking The Western, a tall, lean figure stood outside the back door, left hand in his jeans pocket, a gauze bandage poking out of his cuff. Dr. Jimmy rolled down his window. “Evening. Are you Billy Able?”
The young man stooped to look in the window. “You a friend of Lou’s?”
“Lou ever tell you about the time he seeded the sheriff’s yard with cow pies?”
“Nope.”
“The sheriff didn’t watch where he was stepping. Smelled like shit all day.”
Able grinned. “Story he told me was on an old boy named Dexter. Almost got kicked out of medical school for working on a cadaver with cow shit under his fingernails.”
Dr. Jimmy laughed. “That’s about right. Lou could tell it.”
They shook hands through the window. Despite his grin, Able looked exhausted. His dilated pupils reflected the streetlight, and he swayed, reeking of beer and grief, an odor Dr. Jimmy knew well. He started to mention that alcohol and a concussion don’t mix, but a few drinks under the belt might make what he had to say to this young man go down easier.
“I got your message and headed over.” He pointed at Able’s bandage. “I heard you got pretty banged up.”
“Nothing a case of BC Powder won’t cure.”
“You’re lucky. Those young snakes can’t staunch their venom. Must’ve been a granddaddy that hit you.”
“Old as Methuselah. Big too,” Able said.
“I figured after what you’ve been through, some answers would be your best medicine. You got time to talk?”
Able stared into the darkness. “All I’ve got tonight is time.”
“Hop in.”
Dr. Jimmy parked and turned the radio down so he could still hear his gospel station while they talked. He pulled out the single cigarette he carried in his shirt pocket and lit it. Smoking calmed him. In the early days he’d used the smell of tobacco and the taste of whiskey to clear his sinuses of the stench of putrefied flesh. After he’d married Evie, a hard-shell Baptist, the whiskey went down the drain. He’d pretty well kicked the tobacco habit until yesterday.
A stream of smoke curled out the window. “I’ve cut down to a single smoke after supper. That’s the extent of my sins these days.”
“Sin is in the eye of whoever wants to pin something on you,” Able said.
“You said a mouthful. A while back, Lou and I were a couple of wildcats. Used to tear up the honkytonks till morning, sleep a couple of hours and head for our jobs at seven. Weekends we’d see the sun rise over the bare breasts of the willing ladies of Henderson County. Lou was one live son-of-a-buck. I hate how it’s ended.”
“How did it end?” Able said.
Dr. Jimmy took a moment to consider where to begin. “I drove over so I could put your mind at ease. I was told you thought Lou drowned when the truck got away from you. That you blame yourself for not getting him out. I’m here to tell you he was in the water a while, but he didn’t drown.”
“What killed him?”
“A bad decision, probably a whole string of them put him in the water, but it was a heart attack that got him. It’s easy for an old man to get off in the high weeds and lose himself.”
Mahalia Jackson belted out Peace in the Valley on the radio. He watched Able’s eyes close, probably picturing Lou’s panic as the water rose and the pain seized his chest.
“I suppose he suffered,” Able said.
“Not for long. The shock of the cold, the alcohol poisoning—”
Able’s head jerked toward him. “Lou quit drinking last March.”
“Maybe so, but last night he was Dixie-fried. His level tested .22, high enough to trigger a heart attack in a young man much less a salty dog like Lou. I saw two empty fifths of Jack on the truck’s floorboard.”
“You’re telling me Lou got drunk, swerved off the bridge, and had a heart attack.”
The statement hung between them. Dr. Jimmy could let it go at that, and they’d both sleep easier. Or he could tell the rest of it.
Able must have read the uncertainty on his face.
“Tell me exactly what happened, Doc. Don’t sugarcoat it.”
He blew out a slow stream of smoke. “I found items in that truck I couldn’t explain until I started adding things up.”
“Like what?”
“First off, Lou was wearing his seatbelt.”
Billy shook his head. “No way. Lou considered it his constitutional right to go through the windshield.”
“I unbuckled it myself. That’s why you couldn’t get him out of the truck. And I found these.”
Dr. Jimmy reached down and pulled three chrome handles—two door and one window—out of the paper bag resting on the console between them. He turned over a door handle in the dim light so Able could see the bent rim above the crank. “They were all popped off. The fourth must have washed out of the pickup. I had these checked for prints. Nothing but Lou’s.”
“You’re telling me Lou couldn’t get out of the truck?”
“He locked himself in so he couldn’t change his mind. He got drunk then drove off the bridge. It was no accident.”
Able looked at him like he was crazy. “Just one damned minute. You’re saying it was suicide.”
“‘Self-execution’ would be more accurate.”
Able shifted in his seat, then shook his head. “No. If Lou had a tumor making him act irrational, maybe I could buy your theory. Otherwise, Lou was no suicide.”
“His brain looked normal. I can run tests for a degenerative condition, but I don’t think I’ll find anything.”
“Run them anyway,” Able said quietly.
The door to The Western banged open. Two guys stumbled out, spilling light into the parking lot, so that Dr. Jimmy caught a glimpse of Able’s stark profile and sunken cheeks. He’d made the decision to drive over, knowing it wouldn’t be easy to convince Able of his findings. No cop lets his partner’s death go with a simplistic explanation, even if it was the truth.
The door closed, and they sat in darkness again.
“Homicide is way more likely than suicide,” Able said.
“But there were no tire tracks other than yours and Lou’s, no cigarette butts to show another person on the scene. Between the storm and the crew recovering Lou’s body, you’d be hard pressed to find much evidence on the ground. I can’t even tell you what triggered Lou’s heart attack—fear, the alcohol, the exposure. But I got a funny feeling when I opened the truck door and saw the seatbelt.”
“What feeling?”
“Like Lou had killed himself. Like he did it because he hated himself.”
“That’s bullshit,” Able said.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, son. Maybe he confronted something he couldn’t live with.” He crushed out his cigarette. “I’ll run those tests, see what comes up.”
He was feeling guilty about hedging. He knew of one possible reason for Lou to hate himself, but it was only an outside hunch. Bringing it up without proof was reckless, not to mention betraying an old friend with groundless accusations.
“Someone could have forced the whiskey down Lou, strapped him in and busted off the handles,” Able said. “So why do the facts add up to suicide instead of homicide?”
Dr. Jimmy pulled a walnut nightstick from the bag and handed it to Able. “Recognize this?”
Able inspected it. “It’s one of Lou’s. He has three.”
He clicked on the overhead light. “Look it over.”
Able held the stick to the light. “Fresh dents in the finish.”
“Dents that match the rims on the door handles. Check it yourself.”
Able turned a handle so the crimp in the rim lay against one of the dents. He studied the handle and the nightstick a while longer, then slipped the handle back into the bag. “You know where Lou keeps his nightstick?” Dr. Jimmy said.
“Between the car door and seat.”
“Of his pickup?”
“No.”
“Ever see it in his pickup?”
“No.”
“I found it wedged beside the seat of Lou’s truck.”
“This could’ve been stolen out of his car or house. It proves nothing,” Able said.
“You’re working hard for an explanation, when the simple one always works best.”
They sat in the dark while the jukebox inside The Western throbbed. They had reached a stalemate. Able spoke first.
“Have you made out the death certificate?”
“I ruled natural causes.”
“Then you falsified the report.”
“Not at all. He died from myocardial infarction complicated by atherosclerotic heart disease and alcohol poisoning. Technically there was no suicide because his attempt failed. Lou was a walking hero. I can’t come up with a good reason to change that. He chose that bridge because he knew I’d be the one to handle the scene. Lou expected me to cover for him, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
The door clicked open. Able got out, shut the door and walked around to Dr. Jimmy’s half-opened window. “I don’t know a single reason Lou had to commit suicide, but I do know some bad people out there will be happy to know he’s dead. Any one of them could have killed him.”
“I understand your reasoning, son; I just don’t agree.”
“I’m going to find out why my partner died. I’d appreciate it if you’d get back to me with those test results.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sunday, 11:45 p.m.
The entrance to the twenty-four hour Crosstown Mart blazed with enough candlepower to simulate high noon in July. Buck Overton grabbed a shopping basket from the rack inside the door and strolled past the lone female cashier checking out the purchases of two hulking, teen-aged boys. He passed a Day-Glo beach ball display. After the velvety darkness of the Elvis Booth at The Western, the store’s cellophane glare assaulted his sensibilities. He hated discount stores, but the coupons in his pocket were good only at this Crosstown Mart.
His bailiff periodically warned him against late-night stops in the Crosstown area. Seven percent of the city’s crime occurred there; however, the Mart was the only store close to Midtown and still open at this hour, where he could pick up what he needed. He overlooked the nastiness of the place, feeling almost jaunty, buoyed by the prospect of equilibrium returning to his life.
The last two days of stress had peaked when he saw Detective Able talking to Sam Waters. The two men knew Lou Nevers best. Between them, they held the majority of the puzzle pieces that could reveal what had happened. Buck noticed their truculent expressions and stiff body language when the girl had shown up; they were like two fighting cocks about to spar over the plump piece of ass who’d seated herself at their table. Neither man had the gumption to concentrate on the death of a partner and friend.
How predictable—sex had scuttled the best of intentions.
Fortunately, Able and Waters worked in different squads and functioned at different levels of command. That left little chance they’d bump into each other, and Buck believed he had successfully dissuaded Able from contacting Waters by creating doubt in his mind about the other man’s motives.
He felt a surge of satisfaction as he turned down the toiletries aisle. Able was vulnerable without Lou, his mentor. Lou had been unable to make a last-minute confession revealing either his or Buck’s roles in Sophia’s disappearance. That was critical. Also, Buck had counted on Lou to shut down the investigation. When Able mentioned stepping it up, Buck nearly lost his temper. He wondered if Able had noticed. Probably not.
For the most part, people only see what they expect to see, even a detective.
As a kid, after being caught at small mischiefs, Buck had become adept at covering his deeds with an innocent poker face. When a neighbor’s cat was found strangled in the garden or a potting shed caught fire, he could appear completely blameless, often shifting culpability elsewhere. His mother, his greatest teacher, was a master of easy lies and manipulations. Remorse had never once entered her mind. By example, she’d taught him to operate within societal bounds to get what he wanted.
And what he wanted were the finer things in life.
He craved success and social position. He wanted control of his life and power over the lives of others. Becoming a prominent judge had provided all he desired except for great wealth. If nothing else, Gloria had that to offer.
There was, however, one niggling loose end involving Lou that, if left unresolved, could bring his plans to a halt. Able could help him or hurt him with that situation. Thanks to the investigation, Buck could stay in touch with the detective and learn anything he’d dug up about Lou without appearing suspicious. Yes, his plans were unfolding nicely, but there were still challenges ahead.
His attention turned back to his shopping. He scanned the shelves for brands matching coupons in his pocket from the store’s mail-out flyer. He detested using coupons, but two forces were compelling him to do it. First, he was operating on cash because his credit cards were over their limits. His mother had drilled the other reason into him.
Despite her pretensions of grandeur, she’d taught him to pinch money hard enough to bend a dime. She never bought without coupons, never bought until the second markdown. She was witty, beautiful—everyone said so—but also totally selfish and demanding. She wouldn’t waste money on comic books and ball games for him or even electricity, at times. Countless nights he’d sat in the dark and the cold, waiting for his mother to come home from her dates.
He’d known, even then, that his mother was a society whore, although she never would have seen herself in that light. She had an illustrious Tennessee family name; she was educated but too class-bound to work a menial job in an office or shop. By the time he was seven, he suspected that the wealthy men who escorted her almost nightly were receiving her sexual favors in return for money or gifts she would later hock. She kept some of the small appliances. They had two toasters and the first Waring blender on the market.
A tiny trust fund left by her father paid their rent. But the rest—food, clothing, Buck’s school tuition—were paid for with money she earned from the men she fucked—most of them married.
He understood perfectly well why his mother had never married. She enjoyed her power over men far too much to give up her freedom.
He’d developed a cynical worldview because of his mother and a need to manipulate and control everyone and everything around him. Sophia had tried to use sex to gain an edge on him, but he kept her in line by getting inside her head and playing games until she didn’t know which way was up.
Unfortunately, in the end, he was forced to dispose of her.
