Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) (6 page)

Dee had seen him, too. He looked at me, raised an eyebrow in question. I shook my head and we continued to talk quietly. At some point I became aware we were being watched and glanced around. I saw the door of the center move slightly, as if nudged by the movement of air, but I knew it wasn’t that. There was no breeze that morning, and the door was held closed by a spring latch.

“Let’s take a look inside,” I suggested. Dee followed me into the center and we stood there for a moment, letting our eyes get adjusted to the dim light. Dee started to switch on the lights but I stopped him. Turning on the lights might draw more attention than I wanted at the moment.

As dark as it was, there was still plenty of light to show the layout of the center. One big room took up most of the space inside and this was divided into two equal sections. There was no ceiling in the room, only bare rafters with ceramic light fixtures strung down the center of each section. Wooden benches took up most of the space under the lights, but aside from those, that part of the room was bare.

At the end of the room opposite where we stood, there was a low platform with a wooden podium and four wooden chairs. To one side of the platform, in the corner nearest the outhouse, there was a door set at floor level, and an old piano stood facing the podium at the other side. There was a large blackboard directly behind the podium, but as far as I could see, there was no chalk nor any erasers. Except for the blackboard, we could have been in a traditional country church.

The sun must have been breaking through the clouds, for there seemed to be a little more light coming in through the windows. I walked to the center of the room and stood quietly. The light rain falling on the roof made a soft murmur, but I could hear nothing else. Nor was anyone there. I glanced at Dee, still standing by the door, and saw him nod toward the back corner.

The back door was open part way now. Against the light I could see the dark silhouette of someone’s head craned around the door. I couldn’t see the features or the eyes, but I was sure it was the boy I saw coming out of the store.

We stood like that for full minute, looking at each other and neither making a move. Then the door opened wider and the boy came into the room. He stopped a dozen feet away from me and looked at me gravely. I smiled but said nothing.

“Who you?” The words sounded like balloons popping in the still room.

“I’m J.S. Phillips,” I told him gravely. “This is Officer DiRado. Who are you?”

He ignored my question. “He police?”

“Yes,” I answered. “State Police. I’m just a guy who’s helping him out.”

The boy thought about this for a moment. “I got sumpin,” he said. I nodded, but didn’t reply. After a moment, he added, “Sumpin you wont.”

“What is it?” I asked, taking a seat on one of the benches.

The youngster moved a bit closer. “How much you give?” he demanded.

“That depends on what it is,” I answered. “If it’s something good, I’ll give you a dollar.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out some change.

“Three dollar,” he told me.

I put the change back in my pocket and shook my head. “No, if it’s really good, I’ll give you two dollars, one to look and one if I want it. But you got to show me first.”

He considered this for another long moment. Then he nodded and held out his hand. I could see what looked like a spent rifle shell casing. What caught my attention was the color. Brass dulls with age, turning green as it weathers. Even if it’s kept inside in its original box it changes color slightly, taking on a dull patina that grows darker over months and years. This casing the boy held out in his hand was still bright, which meant it was brand new. I felt a thrill of excitement, but tried to keep it off my face and out of my voice.

I took my time, as if I were giving the matter careful consideration. I reached for my wallet and took out two ones, holding them in my hand. I laid one of them on the bench in front of me and said, “All right I’m interested. Turn it around so I can see the open end. Again, he thought for a moment, then did what I asked.

The neck of the case was small and I nodded. “All right, I’ll take it,” I told him. I laid the other bill beside the first and leaned back. “What I really want to know is where you found that.”

The boy approached carefully. Then, in a flash, he grabbed the two bills and jumped back where he started. I carefully picked up the empty shell casing, using a wire I keep in my pocket for just this purpose. I looked at the base. “It’s a .223, all right,” I told Dee. “Remington commercial casing. Civilian issue, not military.”

Dee stayed where he was. I took out a self-sealing sandwich bag and put the shell in, tucking the whole works into a shirt pocket. Then I took a five out of my wallet and looked at the youngster. His eyes widened when he saw it was a five, but other than that, he showed no interest. “I was looking for that,” I told him. “Now I’d like for you to show me where you found it.”

The boy said nothing. He nodded toward the five I still held in my hand and pointed to the bench. “No,” I said. “You have to show me first.”

He looked at me gravely for a long moment, then shook his head. I put the five back into my wallet. After a moment, he walked back to the door, then stopped and looked at me. I sat for a moment, then took the five out again. His eyes grew even wider than before when I tore the bill and half. Then I laid one half onto the bench. “All right,” I told him. “You take this half now, and I’ll give you the other one when you show me where you found it.”

“Ain’t no good now,” he told me. I wondered if it was just my ear or if he was losing some of his rural Arkansas accent.

I didn’t think I would be able to convince him otherwise. So I picked up the torn bill and took two more ones out of my wallet and laid them on the bench. “All right. Two now and three more when you show me.”

He considered this for a moment, then nodded. This time he walked up to me and did not run back after he picked up the bills. “I’m Jazz,” I said, offering my hand. “What’s your name?”

He looked at my hand for a moment, then shook it. “My name is Robert,” he told me, his voice completely without accent now. His eyes were solemn.

“I bet your last name is Jones,” I told him.

“How much you want to bet?”

“A quarter.”

“You lose,” he replied. “It’s McNutt.”

“All right, Robert,” I laughed and tossed him a coin. “Why don’t you show us where you found it.”

Robert moved to the door and waved for us to follow. When we emerged, we found ourselves in a small clearing behind the community center. The tree line curved south from the corner nearest the road, making a hidden pocket in what looked like solid forest and brush. It was about fifty feet across at its widest and ran over the edge of the ridge. I looked around and saw we were not standing far from a line of photinias, the same one that gave the privy privacy. Yet, I could not see the outhouse from where I stood.

Robert stopped just outside the door and seemed to be lost in thought. Then he turned and walked to the west corner of the building. He stopped there a minute and looked out. Then he turned back to us and spoke in a quiet voice. “You wait until I’m across.”

I heard Dee snort softly, the way he does when he is getting impatient. “What’s the deal with him?” he asked so quietly I could barely hear.

I chuckled. “He doesn’t want to be seen with us.”

“So it’s not cool talking to PO-lice around here,” he murmured.

“Something like that.” I saw Robert wave to us from the other side of the road. “Or it may be he’s got a good deal going, and he doesn’t want his mama to spoil. Let’s move.”

As we crossed the road, it occurred to me that anyone seeing us would probably think we were chasing Robert. Nor did I think this concept was lost on him. This was what he intended, and it struck me we were dealing with a very sophisticated ten-year-old. I must have chuckled because Dee answered me in the same quiet voice. “You spot it, you got it!”

“You got what?” Robert asked. His ears were much sharper than mine. I hope he didn’t blast them away with loud music like so many of my generation did in the sixties.

“You got whatever you see,” Dee answered him. He smiled.

Robert looked from one of us to the other, then shrugged. Without a word he turned and walked down a game path I could barely make out. We were walking through heavy brush at the edge of what must have been a steep drop-off, because all I could see to our left was brush and the top of tall pines. We were moving too fast to step carefully, and I hoped the copperheads and rattlesnakes were already tucked in for winter.

Robert stopped so quickly I almost bumped into him. Looking over his shoulder I saw what I thought was the back of the store. There was a door there and two windows, but the windows were tightly boarded up with unpainted plywood. To our left there was another privy, about twenty feet from the back corner of the store, and I could see what looked like the back corner of the blacksmith shop.

After a moment, Robert darted out of the brush and crossed behind the blacksmith shop. He disappeared into the space between the smithy and a third building that was boarded up. I looked around and then followed.

When we got to the spot where Robert disappeared, we found him standing about six feet into a space almost wide enough to be a walkway between the buildings. Except for weeds and a few rusty cans, there was nothing between the buildings. Beyond where Robert stood, the high weeds looked like they had not been disturbed for years. Some were from last year, slightly weathered, but still standing in the protected space. Others were lighter yellow, this year’s crop, but only a few held any trace of green. Moisture from the soft day gathered on their leaves, dead and dying, turning some of them black and some deep gold.

“Right there,” Robert told us, pointing between his feet. The weeds had been trampled there, but not much. The disarray could have come from him retrieving the spent shell.

“All right,” I said. “I need you to stand over here behind us while we look around.”

“What about my five dollars?” he responded. I heard Dee chuckle.

“Sorry,” I said holding out three ones. I may have forgotten to pay him, but not the details of our deal. “This makes five.”

Robert slipped behind us but made no move to leave. He watched as Dee and I carefully searched the space. “I already looked there,” he told us.

“I know, but I have to be thorough,” I answered. “How did you spot it with all these weeds?”

“Lucky, I guess,” Robert said. I looked at Dee. He nodded. The kid wasn’t telling us the truth but I decided not to push it right then.

“May be we’ll get lucky, too,” I told him. He answered with a snort, letting us know he wouldn’t lay odds on it. I grinned at him, then noticed the privy behind him. It was very old, so old it looked like a good gust of wind could flatten it. I made a mental note to check it out when we were finished searching the space between the buildings.

“Yes!” Dee said. I glanced over at him just in time to see him frown.

“What do you have?”

“Looks like another casing, but this one’s tarnished.”

I moved to where he stood and looked over his shoulder. The shell was lying at an odd angle against the smithy. Weeds held its base up, but the light was too poor to see the marking stamped in the base. What I could see was that the primer was dented, telling me the shell was either empty or a misfire. “Let me get a picture,” I said, reaching into the small rucksack I was carrying. Nellie calls this my purse. I use it to carry the things I may need on a crime scene, like paper and a pencil, water, extra film, vinyl gloves, and a small tool kit. I even carry a couple of high energy bars for those times I cannot take to eat.

I hung the camera around my neck and took out a plastic bag. Using a pair of tongs, I carefully picked up the shell. It seemed heavier than I would expect, and I was not surprised to find the bullet still seated in the neck of the casing. Holding it up to the gathering light, I saw that it was a .223, the same caliber as the shell I got from Robert.

“Looks like military issue,” Dee said. “Could have cost someone his life.”

I nodded. Misfires are the last thing a soldier needs facing hostile strangers trying to kill him. Then I noticed something else. “Maybe not. Look at the pin mark.”

Dee leaned over my shoulder for a closer look. “I see what you mean. Looks like the pin barely touched the cap.”

“What pin?” said Robert.

I had forgotten he was there. Normally, I wouldn’t respond to questions like this. Cops keep what they find to themselves until the crime is solved, but Robert already knew about the shell, and I couldn’t see any reason not to answer. Good will now might turn out to be bread cast on the waters later. “Can you keep a secret?” I asked.