Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (25 page)

When the case came to trial neither the defense nor the prosecution had a preponderance of evidence. No one had been with
Bodine when he received the alleged call from Spitz requesting the meeting, and he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. On the other
hand, Spitz, who testified in exchange for immunity from prosecution, claimed he’d financed the drug buy on his own, even
though he was known for being chronically short of funds. It seemed suspect that a shrewd man like Bodine would agree to meet
a rival in the isolated open-hearth shed in the middle of the night, but he was also streetwise and capable of taking care
of himself. The anonymous phone tip to the police department weakened Spitz’s contention that he’d acted alone, but he had
a reputation for talking too much, so it was possible he might have bragged about the deal to the wrong person.

In the end, it all came down to which man the jury believed. Spitz came across as attractive, articulate, and remorseful;
Bodine came across as unattractive, poorly spoken, and defiant. The jury believed Spitz.

I closed the file, pushed back from the desk, and went to the door of Koll’s office. The chief sat in her swivel chair contemplating
a studio portrait of two little girls that hung on the wall. I knocked on the doorframe, and she started, then motioned me
inside. “I’m waiting for the department of corrections to get back to me,” she said. “They’re checking to see if Bodine had
any dental work done while he was in prison.”

“Care to answer a few questions while you wait?”

“Sure.” She waved at the chair across from her.

I asked, “What happened to Jim Spitz?”

“Left town right after the trial. Hastily, and driving a new Buick. I hear he’s living down at Charleroi now, has set himself
up as a small-time dealer.” She laughed harshly. “They say he siphoned off some of the coke that was meant to be used to frame
Bodine and used it as a stake for his business.”

“So you knew all along that Bodine had been telling the truth?”

“Of course,” she replied calmly. “I said as much to Bodine’s lawyer, but he never did anything with it. Guess they bought
him, too.”

“And you didn’t bother to investigate any further?”

Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “Ms. McCone, this is a poor town. We don’t have the funds or the manpower to conduct that kind
of investigation—particularly when a big-money fix is in.”

“I see. Another question: if a person were to make a major drug buy here, who would he contact?”

“Back then, you mean? Ray Wilmer.”

“Where can I find him?”

“You can’t—he’s dead. Somebody blew him away. Most folks think it was a drug burn, but my opinion is that the KKK was responsible.
Wilmer was black, came over from Wheeling. His gaudy lifestyle brought him a dangerous kind of attention.”

“I didn’t realize the Klan was active in this area.”

“God, yes. Has been for decades, but it’s even more open now, ever since whites started to lose ground economically. The race
hatred goes all the way back to the thirties when blacks were brought in as strikebreakers. Now it’s part of the culture.
Ironic thing is, most of the haters don’t even remember how it got started.” Her eyes moved back to the portrait on the wall.

“Who’re the little girls?”

“My grandchildren. Their father was one of the ones who up and left after the mill closed.” She shook her head. “It’s a hell
of a legacy we’re leaving the next generation.”

I nodded in agreement. “To get back to Jim Spitz, you say he’s dealing around someplace called Charleroi?”

“Yes—town on the river midway between here and California, where the college is.”

“Can you find out his address for me?”

Koll’s eyes narrowed. “You want to talk with him?”

“Yes.”

“He won’t admit anything.”

“Maybe not, but he’s been bought once, and I suspect he can be bought again.”

She hesitated, then shook her head decisively. “Ms. McCone, I probably could get an address for you, but I’m not even going
to try. You came here as a representative of the Esmeralda County Sheriff’s Department to get a lead on the man they turned
up in the desert out there. You’ve accomplished that—maybe—and it’s time for you to go home.”

“But—”

“No buts. Talking to Jim Spitz would only stir up a lot of trouble that this town doesn’t need. We’ve got enough problems,
and I don’t want to top them off with a scandal about political and judicial corruption.”

The phone buzzed. Koll looked distractedly at it, then picked up the receiver. “Chief Koll here. … You do. That’s good. Here’s
where you send them—Fed Ex, please.” She reached for a scratch pad, read off the address of the Esmeralda County crime lab.
As she hung up, she said to me, “Bodine’s dental charts’re as good as on the way. I’ll call Deputy Westerkamp, let him know.”
She dialed, held a brief conversation with the deputy, then handed the receiver to me.

From his tone I could tell that Westerkamp was having difficulty containing his elation at the news. “Ms. McCone, thanks for
your help with this.”

“Well, nothing’s solved yet. Has the autopsy on the August man been completed?”

“We’re not backlogged the way they are in your city; report was on my desk this morning. Was shot in the heart once, nine-millimeter
weapon. Our killer was either very lucky or a very good marksman.”

“Have you picked up Walker and Deck yet?”

“Nope. We’re dealing with a great big desert.”

“What about Walker’s phone-company records? Did you subpoena them?”

“Now, there’s a problem. Couldn’t get the judge to issue the subpoena or a search warrant for Walker’s house. He said we didn’t
have any evidence she was involved in that body getting buried on the land where her brother’s squatting. And he’s got a point.”

“I suppose.”

“Are you planning on coming back to Lost Hope?”

“I’m not sure.” I glanced at my watch. After three, and I hadn’t even eaten yet. “With luck, I may be able to wrap things
up here and catch a late-evening flight. Why don’t I check in with you when I get back to the coast? Will you be around?”

“I’ll be here until this thing’s wrapped up and tied in ribbons.”

“Then we’ll talk later.” I said good-bye and handed the receiver back to Koll, who had been listening with interest.

“Get things wrapped up here?” the chief repeated.

“Well, I have to pack, and I promised Amos Ritter I’d stop by before I left. The two of us hit it off very well.”

Her skeptical expression made it clear that she didn’t believe my plans were so innocent.

“Really,” I added, “you’re right: my business here is finished. I’m going home.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course. I have an open reservation, so I’ll drive up to Pittsburgh and see if I can get on a westbound flight.”

Koll nodded, still looking skeptical. “Well, have a good trip.”

* * *

The first person Koll would check with to verify that I’d left town was Jeannie Schmidt, so I went back to the guest house
and told the landlady I would be leaving. Jeannie, who was on her way to the market, expressed dismay until I said she should
keep the money I’d prepaid for that night’s rent. Then she perked up some, said she was sorry we’d had such a brief acquaintance,
and went down the hill toward town, her aluminum shopping cart trailing in her wake. I threw my things into my bag and made
a quick call to Amos Ritter.

I cut through the writer’s questions about what I’d been doing all day with a question of my own. “Where do the drug dealers
hang out around here?”

Ritter didn’t even hesitate. “River Park.”

“How do I get there?”

“It’s right off River Street, three blocks south of Herb Pace’s place. If you follow Elm downhill, you’ll come to a railroad
trestle on the embankment. Cross under it and you’re in the park.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait—are you going there now?”

“Yes, but if Chief Koll calls and asks where I am, tell her I’ve left for the airport.”

“Sharon, I don’t think you should go to the park alone, even during the day. That’s a pretty rough crowd down there. Let me
go with you.”

“Thanks, Amos, but that won’t be necessary.”

“At least don’t go unarmed. You can borrow one of the guns from my collection.”

“I’d rather not, but I may need the use of your phone later on. Okay to stop by?”

“Any time. I’ll be here. And be careful.”

* * *

Long afternoon shadows were falling when I reached the foot of Elm Avenue. The weed-covered railroad embankment blocked my
view of the river, and a black iron trestle spanned a sloping dirt track that looked to be a boat launch. I followed it under
the trestle, avoiding discarded cans and bottles, to a narrow beach. The river was fairly wide at that point, the opposite
bank forested in brilliant fall colors. A flock of ducks immediately noticed my presence and swam toward shore, making expectant
little noises.

Monora’s version of a riverside park wasn’t much: a flat dirt area fringed to the north by a grove of willows. Somebody’s
abandoned bicycle lay half submerged in the water; trash overflowed onto the ground from a metal drum. I saw no evidence of
the rough crowd Ritter had warned me about, only two men sitting at a broken-down picnic table. When they noticed me, one
stood up, spoke briefly with his companion, then moved along the beach, hands stuffed in the pockets of his shabby denim jacket.
The other—thin, with wispy white hair and pale skin—watched me silently. As I walked toward him, he pulled his blue knitted
cap down low on his forehead.

I stopped opposite him, the picnic table between us. “Nice afternoon,” I said.

He hesitated, still sizing me up, then nodded curtly.

“You come to the park often?”

Shrug.

“The reason I ask is that I’m looking for somebody I’m told hangs out here—Jim Spitz.”

Flash of recognition, followed by another shrug.

“He lives down at Charleroi. You know him?”

“If he lives down at Charleroi, why’d he be hangin’ here?”

“Business reasons.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You got business with him?”

“I might.”

He studied me some more. “You’re not heat.”

“No.”

“Not buyin’, either.”

“Not what Spitz usually sells, no.”

“What, then?”

I shook my head. “That’s between him and me.”

“Well, I can’t help you.”

I took a twenty from my bag and showed it to him. “This is yours if you get in touch with Spitz and ask him to call me at
the number on this piece of paper.”

He glanced at the twenty, then looked away.

I took out another. “And this’ll be waiting for you with the bartender at McGlennon’s Pub after I hear from Spitz.”

He ran his tongue over his upper lip, focusing on the twenties. Then he held out his hand. I gave him one bill and the piece
of paper on which I’d written Amos Ritter’s phone number; he stood up and stuffed them into his jeans pocket.

“Can’t guarantee Spitz’ll call you,” he said.

“I know that, but there’s a good chance he will if you tell him that I work for T. J. Gordon.”

“T. J. Gordon,” he repeated. The name didn’t seem to mean anything to him. He turned without another word and walked toward
the dirt track that led under the trestle.

I watched him go, then looked back toward the river. An empty barge was passing, churning the water; waves moved toward shore
and lapped softly at the pebbled beach. I remained there until the barge moved around the bend where the defunct mill sprawled.
This place was completely foreign to me, and yet it felt familiar. …

A railroad overpass … two people, or maybe it was three … heat lightning on the water …

Impossible.

Why?

Too much of a coincidence.

Coincidences happen.

I had asked Anna about those images, and she said they didn’t mean anything to her. But Anna was here in Monora.

And she lied about that.

Yes, she did.

I ran back under the trestle to my rental car and headed for Amos Ritter’s.

* * *

“You the one who was talking to Whitey at River Park?” The voice was wheezy, the question ending in a cough.

“Yes. Mr. Spitz?”

“What’s this about T. J. Gordon?”

“I’m working for him. He wants to send some money your way.”

“What’s he need me to do this time?”

“I’d prefer to explain that in person. Can we meet?”

Another spasm of coughing; it reminded me of Herb Pace. No wonder people here had respiratory problems, though: for decades
they’d had to contend with serious pollution from the steel mill.

Spitz finally asked, “How much’re we talking about here?”

“How much money? Two hundred dollars.”

Rasping laugh. “Gordon’s got
millions.
Couple of hundred’s nothing to him.”

“But it’s something to you, Mr. Spitz.”

Silence.

“Mr. Spitz?”

“Look, how do I know you’re on the level?”

“You don’t, but what have you got to lose?”

“Plenty.”

“I’m not a cop, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Ask Whitey—he knew that right off. And I’m working for the man who fronted
your original merchandise for you.”

Spitz’s breath wheezed. “Okay, make it five hundred, and it’s a meet.”

“Done. Where and when?”

“River Park, eight tonight. I’ll be at the picnic table where you talked to Whitey. Come alone.”

“I’ll see you then.” I replaced the receiver.

Amos Ritter came up behind me, frowning. “That was him.”

“Uh-huh. I’m meeting him at the park at eight.”

“I don’t like that.”

“I’ll be okay.” I hesitated. “Seems I keep asking you for favors, and now I need a couple more. Spitz wants five hundred dollars,
and I don’t have that much cash. My ATM card’s good for two hundred; can I write you a check for the balance?”

“Sure. What else do you need?”

“I want to take you up on your offer of the loan of a gun.”

My appointment with Spitz wasn’t for two hours, so after Amos had given me the cash and I’d chosen a small, lightweight Smith
and Wesson .38 from his collection, I borrowed a phone book. In reading the files on the Bodine case, I’d noticed that Ed’s
father had also lived in Monora; he was still listed, and I decided to pay him a visit. When I left Amos’s house, he was standing
in front of one of his gory stained-glass windows, shading his worried eyes from the setting sun.