Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) (17 page)
Read Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) Online
Authors: Ben Rehder
“You want anything? Maybe a Coke...” Marlin slid the Red Man toward Corey. Time for the test. Was Corey a tobacco user or not? “Or a chew?”
Corey glanced at the package. “Naw, not right now. Maybe later.”
“All right, Jack,” Marlin said.
Marlin had finished dinner and was headed out the door when Bobby Garza called. The sheriff said, “Listen, if you’ve got a minute, I wanted to talk to you about Jack Corey.”
Marlin glanced at the clock. Six forty-five. Inga’s assembly started in fifteen minutes. “What’s up?”
“Well, Wylie is right in the middle of this thing, but I just wanted to hear your thoughts. You talked to Corey this morning?”
“For about fifteen minutes. Went over it with Wylie on the phone.”
“Well, you know how he is. He didn’t share much with me. What was your impression?”
“Corey seemed a little nervous about being arrested, and damn pissed off at Wylie. But to be straight up with you, I think he’s wrong for it. Gut feeling, but I’ve known him for a long time.”
“Yeah, me too, but I never really got close with the guy. You probably know him better since y’all were in the same class.”
“Could be. Anyway, he said that he was more than ready to have his truck and home searched and I told Wylie—”
“That’s where he is as we speak,” Garza cut in. “First thing he did—just a couple of hours ago—was compare the tire prints to Corey’s truck. If you can believe it, Corey had four different brands of tires on that old heap. And one of them looked like a pretty good match. So then Wylie started going though the house, looking through all of Corey’s work boots and hunting boots. He found a pair of Red Wings on the back porch, covered with mud. I hate to say it, but those look like a match, too.”
“That’s a pretty common brand of boot.”
“That’s true,” Garza conceded. “Anyway, we’ll know more when we get the results back from DPS.” The Texas Department of Public Safety performed most of the forensic testing and analysis for smaller law-enforcement agencies throughout the state. Garza said, “We sent the tire, the boots, and the plaster casts down there. Asked ’em to put a rush on it, but we’ll see about that. Those guys are up to their eyeballs around the clock nowadays.”
“What about a DNA test? That would be the clincher.”
“Yeah, I almost forgot. He went for that, too. We took some blood and a buccal swab and sent it all to the lab. I imagine that’ll take a couple weeks. By the way, if I haven’t said it already: Thanks for talking to Corey. He sure got a lot more cooperative when you were done with him.”
Marlin looked through the kitchen window at a passing bluejay. “It must be my charming personality. Plus the fact that I didn’t hit him with a nightstick.”
“Ouch,” Garza said. “Low blow, and Wylie isn’t even here to defend himself.”
“Which brings up another thing,” Marlin said. “How come Wylie didn’t just ask Corey for permission to search?”
“Judgment call. He didn’t want to make Corey jittery, give him a chance to destroy evidence. Hey, he had a hard enough time just asking you to talk to Corey. You know how proud he can be sometimes.”
“Pigheaded is more like it.”
Garza chuckled. “And that’s what makes him such a good cop. If nothing else, give him that. But we’re getting off-topic, aren’t we?”
“All I’m saying is that he’s always the last to admit when he’s wrong. So if Corey comes back clean, you know I’m gonna have to ride him a little about it.”
“Yeah, yeah. But right now, that’s looking like a pretty big ‘if.’” He lightened his tone. “You know, I’m glad we had this little chat, John. You’ve got a sharp mind, even for a redneck. You sure you don’t want to come work with me at the sheriff’s office?” Garza had asked Marlin that question several times in the last year.
“I prefer hanging around with animals,” Marlin deadpanned. “They’re much nicer than people.”
“This is insane, you know that?” T.J. asked, killing the engine on his boat. Darkness was settling over the water now, the surface of the lake as smooth as glass. “You know how deep this water is? And besides—you’ve never even scuba dived.”
“How hard can it be to find a fuckin’ car?” Vinnie replied as he pulled on the wetsuit.
T.J. took a hit from his ever-present joint. “Speaking of cars, I hear there’s catfish as big as Volkswagens down there. Swallow you whole. Better watch your ass.”
“Just shut the fuck up, will ya? I don’t need you psychin’ me out with that shit.”
Vinnie was feeling a little nervous, on edge, his guts tumbling around inside him. He had never scuba dived before. But when he had stolen the gear from the scuba shop—a little mom-and-pop operation up by Lake Buchanan—he had found a brochure with a checklist for scuba beginners. It said something about remembering to breath normally, especially on your way back up. And you were supposed to come up slower than your slowest bubble. Sounded pretty easy.
“Gimme the rope.”
T.J. handed him the end of a hundred-foot line, which Vinnie cinched around his waist.
Vinnie said, “Keep it tight, but don’t yank on it, for chrissakes. Might be the only way I’ll know which way is up.”
“Gotcha.”
Vinnie pulled the scuba mask on and adjusted it for comfort. A few seconds later, he tugged his flippers on, gave T.J. a thumbs-up, and dropped backward off the boat into the cold water.
Marlin slipped through the side door of the gymnasium just as Inga Mueller was taking the microphone, standing on a small stage underneath one of the basketball goals. There was a much larger crowd than Marlin had expected—probably close to three hundred.
“Ladies and gentleman, I want to thank you for coming tonight.” Marlin spotted Phil Colby waving at him from the lower row of bleachers and took a seat next to him.
“Howdy, stranger,” Marlin said.
“I figured you’d show up,” Colby replied. “She’s just getting started.”
Marlin turned his attention to the stage. Inga was wearing a short black skirt, low-heeled boots, and a clingy gray turtleneck.
Man, if her goal is to get attention, she’ll definitely succeed,
Marlin thought. It was like dropping a supermodel into the middle of a PTA meeting.
Inga strolled slowly around the stage as she spoke into the handheld microphone. “I would like to talk to all of you tonight about a sensitive topic, one that requires serious thought from every citizen in Blanco County. Now, I know that many of you don’t know me, and that’s because”—she slipped into a Texas accent for a moment—“I’m not from ’round these parts.”
Mild laughter rippled through the audience.
“I wish I was, though, because Texas looks like a beautiful place to live. The people are so friendly, and proud, too. I met a man yesterday who showed me a picture of his new baby. He told me the baby weighed ten pounds, but he used to weigh twenty. I asked him what happened, and the man said he had him circumcised.”
Marlin smiled. He hadn’t even seen that joke coming. For a brief moment, the crowd was silent, maybe a little startled, as if everyone was taking a moment, waiting to see if it was okay to laugh at such an off-color joke. Like: Did she really just say that? Then the chuckles began and rolled quickly through the crowd. Some guy yelled “Everything’s bigger in Texas, honey!”—which produced another round of laughter.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Inga replied with a coy smile, letting the laughter slowly fade away. “And I can see that when you do something around here, you do it in a
big
way. Like all the cedar-clearing that’s taking place in Blanco County...which is what we’re here to talk about tonight. The cedar tree, and its effect on the water supply…among other things.”
Inga knelt at the front of the stage and flipped the switch on a slide projector. A large square of light appeared on the wall behind her.
She pulled a device from her skirt pocket and punched a button. “This,” she said melodramatically, “is the evil cedar tree.”
A scrubby Ashe juniper—commonly called a cedar in Texas—appeared on the screen. Inga playfully gave the tree a thumbs-down sign and hissed loudly. The audience chuckled, and many members joined in with a chorus of boos.
Marlin shook his head and smiled. Yesterday, he’d figured Inga would offend the audience—either by not being very tactful or simply by being an outsider. But now she had them in the palm of her hand. Clever gal.
“Now we all know what a pain in the, uh, derriere these things can be. They choke out all the hardwood trees, ruin your pastures, and hog all the water. I’ve read that an average-sized cedar uses about thirty-five gallons of water a day. And that seems to be the biggest complaint around here.”
For the next ten minutes, Inga went on to discuss the water shortage in Blanco County, and the continuously low level of the aquifer. Marlin thought she was doing a great job; she obviously had a knack for keeping the interest of large groups, and her looks certainly didn’t hurt.
As Inga continued, Marlin glanced around and saw a mixed crowd of people he knew: rural residents and city dwellers, schoolteachers and day laborers, Realtors and ranchers, young and old alike. Everyone appeared to be listening intently.
“... so I understand the need for brush-clearing,” Inga was saying. “I mean, protecting the aquifer just seems like a smart move. But I wanted to talk to you about the impact the brush removal is having on the wildlife in the area.”
She turned toward the screen as she punched a button. A rather unattractive black bird appeared on the screen.
“Can anyone tell me what this is?” she asked the audience.
Someone shouted that it was a crow. Someone else said a raven.
“Not quite.” She flipped to the next photo. The same bird, but photographed from behind. Now you could see a faint ruby-colored half-band on the back of its neck. “Does that help?”
In the front row, a young girl—probably a student, Marlin guessed—said, “Red-necked sapsucker?”
“Exactly right!” Inga said. “Take a good look, because it may be the only time you’ll ever see one. These birds used to be found throughout the Southwest, but now they are found mostly in Central Texas, especially in Blanco County, and they are extremely rare. Nobody knows exactly how many are left, but the latest studies show there could be as few as just a couple hundred. Even more of a problem, the last dozen or so sightings have all been females. For whatever reason, the male population seems to be dwindling more rapidly than the females. Right now, biologists are hoping to locate and trap a male so they can try to breed the birds in captivity. So far, no luck. See, the females don’t need a male in order to lay eggs. But they do need a male to lay a
fertilized
egg—that is, one that can hatch a young bird. The women in the audience might say that’s all the males are good for.”
Once again, the audience chuckled.
“But here’s the biggest problem the red-necked sapsucker is facing: Unlike most birds, they are extremely picky when it comes to the materials they use for building nests. In fact, they chiefly use the long, stringy bark from cedar trees. It’s one of those unfortunate cases when nothing else will do. They have to have cedar bark or they can’t make nests, they can’t produce offspring, and the species will gradually fade away. In other words, without plenty of cedar trees around, the red-necked sapsucker will become extinct—it’s that simple.”
Marlin thought: Here’s where the audience either sides with her or against her.
“My question is,” Inga said, “is it worth it? Is the water situation serious enough to justify wiping out an entire species? I’d like to make this a group discussion, so would anyone care to comment?”
Heads turned and looked at neighbors, and a woman holding a toddler meekly raised her hand. “What are we supposed to do for water? I mean, if we don’t clear the brush.”
“Well, I’d like to suggest a combination of two things: conservation and rainwater collection. Now, by ‘conservation,’ I don’t mean anything drastic. Just take shorter showers. Cut the water off when you’re brushing your teeth or shaving. Water your lawn by hand instead of with a sprinkler. Stuff like that. It’s amazing how fast the gallons you save can add up.
“And secondly, harvesting rainwater. Some residents in this county already have elaborate systems that provide all the household water they need. I saw one home over off Miller Creek Loop that had two enormous cisterns that probably hold ten thousand gallons each. That’ll last a pretty long time between rainshowers.”
A middle-aged man held up his hand and remarked that that kind of system was very expensive.
Inga nodded her head slowly. “Yeah, you’re right, they can be pricey. Most systems pay for themselves in the long run, though. And you don’t necessarily have to do anything that elaborate. You could simply attach a hundred-gallon barrel to your rain gutter and use it to water your garden. You don’t need a pump, a filter, anything like that.”
An elderly woman—Marlin recognized her as a retired biology teacher from the high school—stood up. “What are this bird’s chances if we quit cutting cedar? Won’t it die out anyway? If they’re already having a rough go of it with plenty of cedars still around, it sounds like they’ll be in pretty bad shape regardless of what we do.”
Inga nodded. “The only answer is, nobody knows for sure. Sometimes, it’s easy to pinpoint the reason why a species becomes endangered. It’s usually something like hunting pressure or habitat destruction. But here, the red-necked sapsucker is almost extinct and that’s regardless of the brush-clearing. But what we do know for sure is, if all the cedar is cleared, they will definitely vanish. And in my opinion—”
She was interrupted by a muttered comment from another person in the crowd. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Please stand up and join the discussion.”
A large dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit stood up. “I don’t see what the problem is,” he said, waving his hands emphatically. “I mean, one little bird? Fuhget about it. How important is dat? We gonna hold up progress for dat?”
Marlin couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he had seen him around town. A new guy, only in Johnson City for a couple of years. The guy had a thick accent, something like Robert De Niro’s in his gangster pictures.
“I appreciate your comment, sir.” Inga said. She cocked her head and gave him a momentary stare. “I believe we’ve met before. May I have your name?”
The man looked around warily, then said, “Salvatore Mameli.”
Now Marlin remembered. He had caught a Vinnie Mameli—no doubt this guy’s son—four-wheeling in the park a few months back. Had given him and his friend, T.J. Gibbs, a citation.
“Thank you, Mr. Mameli. I understand your attitude, but it’s not really a matter of progress. We’re not holding up something as important as a housing development or a shopping center.”
Marlin wasn’t sure if anybody caught Inga’s sarcasm in that last remark. She seemed to have her hackles up a little now.
“Ya don’t think it’s holding up progress, huh?” Mameli said. “Let me ask ya somethin’. Without water, how’s the county gonna grow? How we gonna build homes for our families, hospitals, new schools for our kids, things like dat? Gotta have water for all dese things. Don’t tell me you think dis bird, dis sapsucker, is more important than our kids’ futures?”