The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (4 page)

Toil flipped it open. It was thick with credit cards and cash, a student identification card, and miscellaneous papers with Arabic writing. The young man’s name was Amir Abadi. His driver’s license indicated he lived off-campus in Monticello. Hubbard recognized the address as being in an area where large homes were being renovated into high-end duplexes.

In the ID photo, Abadi displayed a shy smile and wore a yellow polo shirt. His brown eyes were directed away from the camera; eyebrows raised in amusement, as if someone were trying to steal his attention. Hubbard spotted the date on the license. It was issued in May of the previous year. He was twenty-one years old.
He was just a kid .
 . .
just a damn kid.

Eddie looked toward the highway. “What’s taking the state police so long? This is a crazy-long time to wait, even for them.”

Toil avoided eye contact with Eddie. “Well, there were certain delays in contacting them.”

“There were?” Eddie asked. His brow creased and his eyes shifted back and forth between Toil and Hubbard as if he suspected there was something going on that he wasn’t privy to.

Hubbard looked at the two policemen-farmers. They weren’t going to solve anything. Neither were the state police—crimes in rural and poor southeast Arkansas didn’t get the same focus as those committed in the more metropolitan central or northwest Arkansas. The killer would get away with dumping the body here and just walking away.

Hubbard’s father’s murderer did the same walk eighteen years ago. It was the summer that Hubbard turned twelve.

On the rare occasions old Sheriff Conklin agreed to discuss the killing with Hubbard, the grizzled lawman said he believed the killer was a local. Only someone from Hayslip could find the remote location and also know that Frank Hubbard would be there alone. Conklin was so sure of his theory he passed his certainty on to Frank Hubbard’s son. Hubbard never let it rest. For years, he pestered Conklin about the investigation or called the state police in Monticello, sometimes continuing all the way up the chain of command to Little Rock, trying to ensure that his father’s case was not forgotten.

Hubbard told himself he’d know the killer’s identity one day. In his dreams, he saw it play out. He would surprise the murderer, kill him, and leave him where he fell.

Some nights, the dark expectation of vengeance was all he had inside him. As he neared thirty, with so many years elapsed, even that hope was fading.

Police sirens were barely audible in the distance.

Toil looked at Hubbard. “You’d better get out of here.”

The sheriff turned north, in the direction of the highway. The view of the distant two-lane blacktop was obstructed by undergrowth and a thick line of pines. In unison, their heads tracked the wail of police sirens as they approached on their left, and continued past the approximate point where the caravan should have turned, and followed them as they sped on, sirens fading in the west.

Toil sighed loudly, “So much for GPS. Eddie, go up to the highway and guide them in. I’ll get on the radio and let those idiots know they missed the turn.”

Eddie ran to his patrol car and headed for the highway. Toil went to his vehicle to get on the radio.

Taking the opportunity to return to his truck, Hubbard knew he should be driving away now. It would be the sensible thing. He grabbed his camera bag, but paused to think about what he was doing. He wanted to see—no,
had
to see—how the state police would handle the murder investigation. He couldn’t leave here without knowing that justice would be done. He glanced at Toil talking on the radio to the police caravan. The officer took a deep drag from a cigarette that curled upward from the grip of his index finger. Dark circles under the sheriff’s eyes revealed his fatigue.
Why are you doing this job?

Hubbard returned the camera bag back to the truck. He would stay and risk the consequences.

After a few minutes passed, Eddie had the state police approaching. Hubbard joined Toil and they walked closer to the road.

Toil jabbed his thumb toward the ditch behind them. “You know, we get one week of training each summer to do this, just one damn week each year, to prepare us for that.” He took a deep breath, but released it in a shallow smoker’s cough. He looked directly at Hubbard, but struggled to find the words. “I’m so goddamn tired . . . Every night, I work under the lights in my fields past midnight, and then I can’t fall asleep when I get to bed . . . The next morning I’m back doing this. I can’t think straight anymore. But if I’m going to keep my farm . . .”

Toil faced Hubbard. “How did Conklin do it? He was sheriff for decades and kept working his farm the whole time. Before he died, he saved enough money to become part-owner of a radio station. How? How does that happen? What was his secret?”

“I don’t know,” Hubbard said. “Times were different.”

Toil’s expression turned sour, as if he taken a bite from a lemon. “Yeah that’s it—times were different. I can’t wait until the geniuses at the state police arrive . . . Please, don’t tell them your theory about the White River Killer. You don’t want to mess with Sergeant Connors.”

Eddie’s patrol car, followed by several state police vehicles, rounded the final bend. Their sirens, jarring on a normal day, were more like a sense memory from the past.

The shriek was chilling.

Toil’s voice rose in volume to compete with the clamor from the police caravan. “Connors better not make me look like a fool in front of those damn troopers of his again. I’ve had it. If he pushes me too far about how Eddie and I handled this, well, you just watch what I do.”

Hubbard’s mouth parted in surprise.

Toil pointed, as if he was marking a spot on the ground in front of them. “Right here, right now, I’ll clean his clock in front of God and everybody.” Toil chuckled with anticipation and pressed his right fist into his hand.

Hubbard glanced in the direction of the approaching sirens.

I’m standing next to a redneck that doesn’t have a clue about the trouble he’s about to make for himself.

4

Y
OUR
S
TATE
T
AX
D
OLLARS AT
W
ORK

S
IRENS BLISTERED THE AIR
as three white state police sedans, a black coroner’s van, and Eddie’s tan police cruiser crawled toward the crime scene, slowed by the bumpy, pockmarked road. For some reason, Eddie had added his own vehicle’s siren to the din. Hubbard hoped the deputy was displaying a previously unnoted sense of black humor. But most likely, Eddie was taking advantage of a rare opportunity to drive with it blasting loud enough to blow the bark off trees. Since other troopers were using their sirens, he could use his without fear of being rebuked by the sheriff. Hubbard covered his ears. Toil appeared immune to the pandemonium.

The procession fell silent as it rolled to a standstill. Troopers, technicians, and Eddie jumped out of their vehicles, grabbed equipment, and marched briskly up the rocky grade to the drainage channel. The uniformed group hesitated at the top of the modest slope, turning to look down at the only police car still occupied.

Hubbard regarded the unmoving team. “What are they waiting for?”

Toil followed Hubbard’s gaze. “I expect Connors treats them just like us. Dammed if they proceed without his blessing, and cursed if they wait for his instructions.”

Hubbard put his hand on Toil’s shoulder, trying to find a way to steer Toil away from a confrontation he would surely lose. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to start a dust-up with the sergeant. He’d slap cuffs on you so quick that . . .”

Toil’s eyes were focused on the narrow road. “Just look at him—Princess-Sergeant of the State Police,” he sneered.

Hubbard looked down the hill at the patrol car. So far, the pace of the investigation was providing little reassurance that things would change once the professionals arrived. Sgt. Connors’s placid features gave the impression he didn’t have a care in the world as he reviewed papers on a clipboard, taking time to rub his chin in slow reflection. At last, he pulled a microphone close to his mouth. His thick Delta drawl echoed through the air, relayed by every radio on the road. “Show us, ten-six, at location. I don’t have an address. Last mile-marker was one-four-eight.”

“Ten-four,” a garbled female voice responded through static.

Hubbard continued observing the officer, fascinated by the man’s self-absorption when a dozen lawmen were waiting on him to begin a murder investigation. In this moment of suspended activity, a purple martin announced its spring arrival at the top of a scraggily oak tree, a surreal opposition to the body in the ditch.

Connors came to life and reached across the seat to grab his “Smokey” hat. His foot pushed his car door open, and he stepped onto the road. Connors stood just over six feet, almost Hubbard’s size. In a ceremonial manner worthy of a Japanese admiral, he placed his hat like a crown atop his blond crew cut. Next, he adjusted the Sam Browne belt across his barrel chest. When he was done, he looked up. The members of his team waited expectantly, like hunting dogs straining upon the leash.

“Don’t stand around!” Connors snapped. “You know what you gotta do. Get goin’!”

The assembled troopers scattered to begin their work. Hubbard smiled as even Eddie sprang to attention, walking first one way and then another before slowing to a reluctant stop, a ship without a port. He stood uneasily with his hands at his side, strumming both sets of fingers against his legs, searching for some way to contribute.

Connors approached Toil and Hubbard with the grace of a bulldozer, stomping his way up the hill toward them. “So, this is Shanty Shacks?”

“Shanty Town,” Toil said.

Connors shook his head and rolled his eyes. “
Whatever.
After all the stories I’ve heard, I was expectin’ something more. What’s the matter, Sheriff? Did the spooks take one look at you and fly off?” He noticed Hubbard. “Toil, I see you’re expandin’ the Hayslip Crime Busters Squad.”

Surprised, Toil looked at Hubbard and turned back to Connors. The sheriff began to correct him, but the trooper didn’t wait for his response.

“Well, let’s see what you screwed up.” Connors headed for the ditch.

It took a moment for Hubbard to understand why Connors thought he was Toil’s second deputy. He glanced at Eddie who was wearing a non-regulation winter coat over his khaki shirt and badge. Eddie also had on blue jeans and boots, making him look similar to Hubbard in a superficial review. Toil’s badge was attached to his city-issued heavy coat. Both men probably left their police hats in their vehicles. The informality of the Hayslip law enforcement dress code was helping Hubbard slip underneath state police radar.

Toil shrugged. “Let him think what he wants.” The sheriff swung on his heel and followed Connors to the channel, folding his arms across his chest. With each step forward, Toil and Connors edged away from each other.

Hubbard followed several paces behind them, marveling at the apparent tension. He began to scribble notes as he followed.

At the rim of the ditch, several technicians were at work taking photos, starting on their reports and engaging in a variety of mysterious measurements. They had already inserted tiny red flags into the ground, forming a Lilliputian barrier around the body.

Connors glowered down at footprints in the mud surrounding the carpet roll. “Did my people do that?”

A young technician stood up. “No, sir. We’ve taken photos and we’re planning on making casings of those footprints.”

Eddie saw his opening into the investigation. He came up behind Hubbard and pointed to the incriminating tracks. “Those are our footprints. There weren’t any footprints when I found the body . . . Honest.” Eddie sounded like a little boy explaining where he was when the cookie jar was robbed.

“Ooo-kay,” Sgt. Connors said. “It appears like you boys had a dance lesson down there. You learnin’ swing dance, Deputy? Tell me, Sheriff, what part about securin’ the crime scene do you not understand?”

The words shot out of Toil’s mouth like bullets. “Eddie didn’t know it was a crime scene until he opened the rug and saw the body. Exactly how was he supposed to get down there without using his feet? Fly?” Toil folded his arms.

Hubbard turned to look behind him and tried to imagine Eddie’s patrol car on the road. How did Eddie spot the small part of the nondescript carpet that was visible? This was not adding up. He looked at the other troopers. No one seemed to be interested in the bickering between the two men.
Maybe they’ve seen Connors in action too many times.

Connors flicked a hand in Toil’s direction like he was sweeping crumbs off a table. “Deputy, what was it about this rug that made you want to get out of your vehicle and open it up?”

“I thought I could use it,” Eddie said meekly. “You know, at home.”

“This filthy thing?” Connors asked. “You were going to put this piece of shit in your home?”

Eddie’s ears glowed crimson. “Well, I was going to soap it down in the car wash. I bet it cleans up real good.”

“Yeah, if your home’s at the trash dump,” Connors said.

Eddie looked down at the ground and slunk away from Connors like a frightened cat.

Toil’s right hand balled into a fist.

Hubbard noted Toil’s reaction. He shook his head.
Don’t do it.

Pacing back and forth, the sergeant monitored the team’s work. He stopped, taking a long look at the body.
“Jesus.
How close does a shotgun need to be to make that tight of an entry wound?”

An older man with gray-streaked hair and a black windbreaker with the word “Coroner” applied to its back stood, his hand pressed against his back. He was so portly that he couldn’t close the jacket around his mid-section. “Point blank. No more than an inch away. I’ve seen people killed by shotguns, but not once when the killer pressed two barrels right up to the victim’s chest and let him have it. And I’ve been doing this for thirty years.”

The heavy-set man began changing into a new pair of latex gloves.

“So, what do you—” Connors’s question was interrupted by a call on his radio. He returned to his car.

Hubbard felt a palpable decrease in the tension among the team of troopers when Connors was gone. Toil and Eddie were called away to provide statements to a trooper making notes on a clipboard. Hubbard looked down at the coroner; he was examining some substance between his thumb and index finger before sealing it in a plastic bag. He handed it to a younger technician with a bad case of acne, who was probably his assistant. “Number it and write in the notes ‘gathered from quadrant one of the rug’.”

The assistant nodded and took the sample.

Hubbard couldn’t contain his curiosity. “What was that?” He called down to the coroner.

The coroner didn’t look up. “Sawdust. Doesn’t look like pine. I’ll find out later. Traces of it are all over the rug. I guess some of it was too deeply embedded to get washed off by the rain.”

“Was this a suicide?”

The coroner took his time before looking up at Hubbard and seemed to be evaluating him. Evidentially, Hubbard passed inspection because he answered the question. “You can’t commit suicide with a shotgun. The barrel’s too long. Your fingers can’t reach the trigger on the gun. You can do it if the barrel’s sawed off or you remove a shoe and use your toe to pull the trigger, but . . .” He indicated the Arab’s—Abadi’s—two dress shoes. “And after you kill yourself, you don’t wrap yourself up in a rug and drive to . . . whatever you call this place.”

“Yeah, good point” Hubbard grimaced at his dumb question. “It’s called Shanty Town, by the way.”

The coroner nodded and surveyed the abandoned shacks on the road. “Uh, yeah, I can see why.”

Hubbard forced himself to examine the corpse. Amir Abadi’s hands were professionally manicured and looked unmarked. “But it’s a natural reaction to push a shotgun away before it gets anywhere near your chest, to fight like hell to survive. Was he unconscious? Were his hands tied?”

“No marks or other indication that his hands were restrained. He could have been drugged. We’ll check for that. But I can tell from the entry wound he was standing. And he stayed upright for at least two heartbeats after he was shot and then he just fell backward like a cut tree. There’s a significant contusion on the back of his head.”

“Was he hit?”

“Nope—it was made by a fall. His head landed on something hard—like concrete. I might be able to pick up a trace of what he hit when I put him up on the rack at my shop.”

“Up on a rack?” This all seemed more like an exercise in record keeping than a true investigation.

The coroner waved his hand. “Not really, just my way of talking . . . Yep, I’m guessing he stood there for a moment with one hell of a surprised look on his face. A shotgun only knocks you down in the movies. Two faltering heartbeats and he tipped over like a giant redwood—dead.”

“How do you know it was only two heartbeats?”

“Thirty years’ experience.” The coroner arched his eyebrow. “You got thirty years to spare? Jump down here and I’ll tell you all I know about corpses.”

“No offense. Just curious.”

The coroner nodded. “We’re all new once, but this is the last question. After the heart stops beating, you stop bleeding. You drain out some, but the amount of blood and its trail is different. A wound of this size would’ve created a gusher of blood—if he had lived long.” The coroner pointed at Amir Abadi’s chest. “See how it’s a tight semi-circle, with stuff that looks like wet mud? Most of the blood you see beneath the wound is just drainage.”

Hubbard felt his stomach turn over. He took a deep breath.

The old man had his second pair of gloves on. “Yep, I’ve seen more blood than the Red Cross.” He seemed amused by his own joke. “It talks to me.”

It was a struggle to stay, but Hubbard needed to know that this investigation would lead somewhere. “Does it give you an idea about who the murderer was?”

The coroner’s face lost any trace of humor. He glanced at the corpse and then back to Hubbard. “Yeah, it does. It tells me that the murderer must be one sick, smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch. I think he somehow conned this boy into not defending himself.

Looking at the corpse was beginning to drain Hubbard.

You okay, kid?” the coroner asked.

“Sure. Thanks for the info,” Hubbard said. He left the water conduit, taking deep breaths. The memory of another blood stain, the one on his father’s blue denim shirt seventeen years ago, invaded his thoughts. Hubbard leaned over, putting his hands on his knees, trying to breathe.

Things were quiet on the hill while Connors was gone and the crew worked in peace. Upon returning, however, he resumed his routine of criticizing his team’s performance.

Eddie continued to try to help the technicians, only to be shooed away each time. Toil remained on the sidelines, glowering at Connors. Hubbard hadn’t met Sgt. Connors until this morning, but his own animosity toward the man had risen as quickly as an August thermometer. The lead trooper was not only baiting Toil and Eddie, but also members of his team. Protected by his rank and uniform, he was nothing but a bully.

Hubbard was too aware of his own weaknesses to not realize his precarious position here. When someone pushed him, he always pushed back. It was only a matter of time before Connors tried something with him. He was turning his life around, and didn’t want it to take a detour here. He made his first step to leave when Connors decided to return to his performance.