‘Died of what?’ Mac remembered Milner’s name from Jen’s article.
‘Heart attack, almost right after he was called to where Betty Jo was discovered.’
Mac set down the Rockford reports and picked up a few of the loose, handwritten notes. One, written in black fountain pen ink, reported that Pribilski had met Betty Jo Dean at the Constellation, a bar Mac had never heard of, the night of the murders. Several others also referenced the Constellation, and a bartender named Dougie Peterson.
‘Dougie Peterson?’ he asked Bales.
‘He imagined himself a sort of expert in the case, constantly coming up with new theories. A real pest, I heard.’
‘He still around?’
‘Drowned.’
Jen Jessup inhaled sharply and leaned forward. ‘When?’
‘End of that July, I think. That summer was hot. Damned fool must have been cooling off under the bridge. That’s where they found him, bobbing, his head bashed up against the cement.’
Another sheet, this one pink and torn, summarized a rambling interview with a boy Betty Jo had dated once. Mac flipped through a dozen more notes. Most were soiled, like they’d been handled often, and equally vague. He set them on Bales’s desk. ‘Worthless,’ he said.
‘Nothing that’s usable now,’ Bales agreed, settling comfortably back in his chair.
‘Why weren’t these notes catalogued, taken better care of?’
‘Lots of people pawed through them over the years, trying to solve the case.’
‘Crap,’ Jen said.
‘Whoa, now, miss,’ Bales said.
‘It’s true. What little is in your file has been treated like trash paper.’
‘That photo?’ Mac asked, pointing to the black-and-white picture that Bales had kept at his side of the desk.
The sheriff slid it across. ‘Betty Jo Dean, as she was found.’
She lay face down in tall grass. Her blouse was hiked up, exposing the white back strap of her bra. The top two inches of her white panties showed above a tangle of weeds. Her right hand was outstretched in front of her, as though she’d tried to crawl away. The fingers of her left hand peeked out from beneath the right side of her body.
Her neck and head were completely obscured by the leaves.
Mac set the photo down. ‘Where are the rest?’
‘That’s it, just the one,’ Bales said.
‘Only one crime scene photo?’
‘Horace only took the one.’
‘Horace Wiggins? The publisher of the Democrat?’
‘Saved us a fortune over the years, not having to hire someone else.’
‘Surely he was told to take more than one photo.’
‘Why? Everybody knew who was lying there and how she’d died.’
Mac stared at the fool, but Bales wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Mac pushed the Rockford sheets, torn notes and lone photograph back across the desk. ‘This file has been gutted.’
‘Ya think?’ Jen Jessup said.
Bales ignored her sarcasm. His round face was calm. ‘Betty Jo Dean got killed a long time ago. Things got lost.’
It was time to fire into the dark. ‘I’ve heard talk there was a cover-up,’ Mac said.
Bales’s face flushed. ‘Who the hell said that?’
‘I heard some of the town’s heavy operators put a lid on things.’
Bales stood up, fast as a rocket. ‘We… we’re done,’ he stammered.
Jen Jessup followed Mac up the stairs. ‘Nice bluff,’ she said when they got outside.
‘Nice rage, yourself, about that empty file. And nice gasp when you heard the Constellation’s bartender drowned so soon after the murders. What’s going on?’
‘Are you going to ask Wiggins why he took only one picture?’ she asked, dodging his question.
‘Did you, when you wrote your article?’
‘Wiggins said what Bales just said: one was all they needed.’ She looked across the highway at what once was the phone company building. ‘Old-timers will tell you this town used to be full of gambling, hookers, lots of drunks brawling on the sidewalks. Clamp Reems ran all that out. The heavy operators, as you call them, were respectful of him and of his investigation back then. Maybe they simply accepted that not all cases can be solved.’
‘Or he was too respectful of them?’
‘Meaning Clamp knew to keep quiet about their dirty laundry?’ She nodded. ‘Of course. It’s a symbiotic relationship. They feed well off each other.’
‘You think he knows more than he’s told about Betty Jo Dean?’
‘A good cop always does. There have been so many stories about who killed that young man and Betty Jo.’
‘Your article reported couples, former boyfriends, former girlfriends and a peeper.’
‘I could have mentioned dozens more. For instance, there was a teenage boy who had a reputation for sneaking up on cars parked along Poor Farm Road, for a little look-see at what was transpiring inside. Supposedly, this kid made no secret of being in love with Betty Jo. She wouldn’t give him the time of day because, essentially, he was a twerp.’ Jen arched her eyebrows. ‘Know who that kid was?’
Mac shook his head.
‘Jimmy Bales,’ Jessup said.
‘Jeez.’
‘Jimmy wasn’t the only one. Betty Jo had other admirers.’
Mac thought back to the check-marked photos in the Chamber of Commerce booklet. ‘How about the heavy operators themselves, guys like Horace Wiggins, Bud Wiley or Doc Farmont?’
‘And Luther Wiley, who took over the funeral home after his uncle Bud drank himself to death. Heck, I even heard that Clamp Reems himself had a thing for Betty Jo Dean. I’m not saying any of them were involved with her, but one thing’s for sure: they were and are powerful men, and rumors bloom like flowers in fertilizer in this town. When it came to Betty Jo Dean, there were more flowers than most.’
‘She must have been something.’
‘They were young and ripe with life.’
‘“They?” Aren’t you just talking about Betty Jo Dean?’
She looked again at the old phone company building. ‘I hope you don’t give up on this, Mac Bassett.’
‘There’s nothing I can think to do.’
‘Then think harder,’ she said and walked quickly away, as though she’d said too much.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was eleven o’clock. His stomach was doing loops from not having breakfast, perhaps. Or from too much Betty Jo Dean, more likely. The Willow Tree was just down the street. He took his usual booth but the usual waitress didn’t come over.
‘Where’s Pam?’ he asked the red-haired woman who came with coffee. The pin on her uniform said she was Alta.
‘She quit. She’s moving. Something about her mother being sick. Strange, though…’ She paused.
Something fluttered in his stomach. ‘Strange?’
‘She told me both her parents died when she was young.’
‘You remembered wrong?’
She gave him a look that said she’d done no such thing. Ever.
‘You think there’s something wrong about her leaving?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said quickly.
‘You’ve lived in Grand Point for a while, right?’
‘My whole fifty-one years.’
‘Remember 1982?’
‘Betty Jo Dean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw you talking with Pammy last time. Don’t know what set her off, but all of a sudden she got goofy about those old killings. Boss had to tell her to stop pestering everybody.’
‘You knew Betty Jo Dean?’
‘Not well. She was Pinktown and I’m regular Grand Point. I was a year ahead of her in high school. And, of course, I graduated.’
He caught the inference. ‘Pinktown? Trashy houses, trashy people?’
‘Some say.’
‘Betty Jo was a little trashy, too?’
‘She liked the boys, and gave them reason to like her.’