‘I ordinarily kept lots of stuff quiet, but as I mentioned, on this occasion Doc took the extra precaution of swearing me to secrecy anyway. Then – and this is the most interesting part – he swore me to secrecy a second time. Brought it up right out of the blue a couple of weeks later. I took that to mean the procedure was done when I wasn’t in the office. I’d only overheard the consult.’
‘Yet you’re violating that oath now?’
‘Only because you’ve created an extreme situation. I’d like to stop things before they get out of hand, reputation-wise.’
An impossible thought flitted in Mac’s mind. ‘Are you implying Fred Dean, Junior murdered his sister?’
White offered another sly smile.
Mac spoke slowly, hesitant to even say the words. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting young Fred contracted an STD from his own sister…?’
‘I’m suggesting this entire matter ought to be dropped,’ White said.
‘Fred Junior got his warts from Betty Jo? Her own brother killed her in rage?’
White leaned across the booth so he could whisper. ‘They were Pinktown, pure and simple. It’s best to leave all that alone, so people don’t get to conjecturing like you’re doing now.’
It was too fantastic. ‘You actually heard no such thing, did you? You merely heard Fred Junior questioning Doc Farmont about confidentiality in general?’
‘Best leave all this alone, Mr Bassett.’
‘What about the autopsy you and Farmont did on Betty Jo?’
Randall White took a sip of Coke and wiped absently at his brow. ‘That was Doc’s show at Wiley’s. And it wasn’t just me in there with the Doc, anyway…’
‘Who else was there?’
‘I don’t think I remember.’
‘The coroner?’
White made a snorting sound. ‘Another damned politician. Most he was good for was signing death certificates, when he got around to it.’
‘Tell me about the autopsy.’
‘That’s confidential, on account of it was police business.’ It was the same excuse Doc Farmont had hidden behind.
‘Are you saying there was nothing unusual about that autopsy?’
‘What was done was necessary.’
It was a strange statement. Mac decided to throw a hard curve. ‘Why wasn’t Bella, the older sister, shown Betty Jo’s face when she was asked to formally identify the body?’
Randall White pushed himself out of the booth so fast he nearly knocked over the pitcher of Coke. Standing over Mac, he said, ‘I’m trying to make you understand the sensitivity of this case. My God, man, Betty Jo’s older sister and younger brother are still alive. If they were to get even a whiff of what I just told you, their memories of their departed sister and brother would be ruined forever. The autopsy was necessary. Betty Jo’s deep in the ground.’
And with that, Randall White, a sweating man in slick skin, walked out of the restaurant.
Mac sat for a moment, reached for a clean glass from an adjacent table and poured himself a couple inches of Coke.
He’d struck nerves – big, throbbing nerves. He’d asked questions all over town, and even been caught hiding a voice recorder at the Willow Tree. Messengers had been dispatched to stop him. First, Jimmy Bales had showed up with Reed Dean, to spout a story about two mysterious brothers. Then others had come to break a window and scorch a wall. Now Randy White had come to deliver a sick story about a brother who was no longer around.
After a moment, or maybe ten, he got up and walked back to the bar. The cash drawer had been emptied; the side doors and back door were all locked. The kitchen lights had been turned off.
He came back into the dining room. As he turned off the last of the lights and the room darkened, pulsing red flashes came in through one of the side windows from the highway. He hurried out of the front door.
The flashing lights came from a sheriff’s car and an ambulance, parked at the shoulder of the road. There’d been no siren.
He ran across. A body, zipped in a black nylon bag, was being loaded into the ambulance.
‘Randy White?’ he yelled at the emergency technician.
‘Randy White?’ the man asked, confused.
‘Is that Randy White?’
‘No. This here’s Farris Hobbs.’
FORTY-FOUR
‘What the hell, Mac?’ Rogenet mumbled on the phone, coming out of sleep. ‘It’s two in the morning.’
‘Farris Hobbs talked to me, and now he’s been killed across the street. No sirens, just nice and quiet; something else that’s going to go away. A waitress disappeared before him, just up and gone. The sheriff maybe got murdered. And before him, Betty Jo and Pauly, and Laurel and Dougie, of course. People are coming at me with strange stories about everything, and they’re all lying. Someone tried to set fire to the restaurant – they only burned a square onto the back.’
He knew he was babbling, his voice skittering high and tight, but he had to get the words out. He gulped air, and went on: ‘Someone broke into the Bird’s Nest. It had to be someone sent by Wainwright, Ryerson Damned Wainwright-’
‘Whoa!’ Rogenet yelled, having finally had enough. ‘First of all, who just got killed?’
‘Farris Hobbs. He drank here every night. He lived across the street.’
‘He died leaving your place?’
‘Nobody from the ambulance would talk to me. Just whisked him away, cold meat.’
‘He was drunk?’
‘Maybe. Probably. He gets – got – comfortably mellow, is all.’
‘OK, now we’re getting somewhere. You’re in shock, worrying about being sued for overserving him.’
‘No, damn it. He got killed for talking. It’s a message to everybody in town: steer clear of me.’
‘The sheriff got murdered tonight, too?’
‘No. That was years ago. They passed it off as a heart attack, but it was a gunshot wound to the head.’
‘You want me to believe Ryerson Wainwright is somehow involved in all these crazy things?’
Mac made his next words come out slow. ‘Of course not, but I think he hired someone to break in, to see what I’d pulled together for my defense.’
‘Well, he can sure as hell relax. You’ve done nothing to keep yourself from prison.’
‘Maybe I’m too high profile to kill, but the others – Pam and Farris…’
‘Start at the beginning, but slowly,’ Rogenet said easily, as he would to a hysterical child.
So Mac did, from the beginning.
‘You really think you put yourself into some trick bag with those old killings?’ Rogenet said when Mac was done. ‘That this recent stuff goes back to all that?’
‘Sure.’
‘Let me make a call. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.’
‘Don’t be blowing me off on this, Jim.’
‘You mean like you’ve been blowing me off to work on some old murder case that no one except you seems interested in?’ He hung up.
Mac looked out the dining-room window. The ambulance and the sheriff’s cruiser were gone. The highway was dark. He poured himself a Scotch.
Rogenet called back. ‘Good news. April said you’re not as crazy as you sound. She’s quite aware of your obsession with those old murders, and that you’ve been pissing time away playing detective instead of working the restaurant and, oh, yeah, giving any thought to keeping yourself out of prison. But she also said you’re acting, and I quote, “absolutely no frickin’ crazier than you’ve ever been.” It’s good enough for me, Mac. Here’s what you do. If you’re sober enough, drive home and go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow morning after I’ve made more calls. And Mac?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t talk to a soul.’
But of course, Mac already had.
Rogenet called at ten the next morning. ‘I just spoke to Jimmy Bales, your beloved sheriff. I started to pass off my interest in Farris Hobbs as concern for any liability the Bird’s Nest might have, but he brushed that away. He wanted to talk about the trouble you’re stirring up. He doesn’t like you, Mac.