Sudden Life Part 2

 SUDDEN LIFE Part 2

Mr Doherty had died in Elysium county, county seat Elysium City, which had been settled by one of the more resolutely anti-government sects of the nineteenth century. Later settlers had diluted their numbers and zeal. Copies of The Elysium Despatch & Advertizer, the town’s weekly newspaper, were available in the library. I located the breathless account of the accident. It had been reported by a following driver who had seen the north-bound car veer left off the highway while rounding a curve to the right. The car had rolled about 50 yards down the rocky embankment, and burst into flames. By the time the police and the fire department arrived, there was not much left to see. Two of its four occupants had been thrown clear, and the fire had inflicted a few scorch marks, but they were too dead to notice. The other two were carbonised beyond easy recognition. One of these more severely damaged bodies was presumably Mr Doherty.

Having absorbed the facts, I made a few notes, and returned the bound volume of newsprint to the librarian. She was a round-faced woman of about my age, with large glasses, brown hair, and a guarded smile. She wore a loose heather-toned cardigan over a white blouse and a rust-coloured skirt. The name plate on the desk informed the curious that she was Miss Matheson.

“Thank you,” I said. “I wonder if you could direct me to the police station.”

“Yes, indeed, “ she smiled. “Turn left when you leave here, left at the next block, then left again. The station backs onto this building.” She glanced at the clock over the door. “This time of day the deputies are out on patrol. Sheriff Booley will be having coffee in about five minutes. If you miss him, you’ll find him at Turner’s café, half a block past the police station.”

She smiled again, this time expectantly.

“Thanks,” I said, “I may be back for more information after I’ve spoken with him.” I didn’t wait to see whether that satisfied her curiosity.

The day had started cool and cloudy. It had been a pleasant early morning drive from the city, but now the mid-morning sun glazed the scene with heat. By mid-afternoon even the trees would be asleep. The police station was a low brick and concrete box with small windows under a flat overhanging roof. I knocked on the open door and saw a large red face under an astonishingly white Stetson.

“Sheriff Booley?” I asked. “Miss Matheson at the library said I would find you here.” Sheriff Booley agreed that he was he, and asked my business.

“I’m a private investigator,” I said as I handed him my licence. “A Mrs Ruth Doherty has hired me to look into her husband’s death. She has reason to believe that he may not be dead after all.”

Booley compared the photograph on the licence with my face. “OK”, he said, “come have coffee with me and tell me about it.”

He was an inch or two over six feet tall, and around 250 pounds. His bulk looked to be considerably more muscle than fat. He grinned at me. “I hope there’s a good case in it,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “It’s kinda quiet around here. Small town like this, the most excitement most days is a bunch of kids driving under the influence. Then I have to go negotiate with their folks and hope they’ll lay off the booze for a while.”

Turner’s café had bright yellow walls with white trim and touches of blond wood. The air-conditioning worked. Booley ordered a coffee and a cherry Danish. I contented myself with a coffee. It was hot and strong. Booley cooled his cup with a generous dollop of milk, and took a bite out of his Danish. His brown eyes gazed at me with as close to a blank expression as his natural friendliness could muster.

“OK McCann, what have you got?”

I gave him a summary of my conversation with Mrs Doherty. “It’s not much,” I said, “but it could be Doherty is still alive. The body identified as his was pretty badly burned, and only the tattoo was used to identify him. The newspaper story confirms my client’s information.”

“True,” said Booley. “The newspaper story didn’t have all the facts, though. Three of the four deceased were known members of the mob. Mr Romero’s crew. We weren’t too unhappy about their untimely demise. Romero is as slippery as a greased eel in butter sauce.”

He took another bite of his Danish and chewed thoughtfully. I think he was enjoying the flavour.

“Romero has gone legit, setting up franchises. The McGraths signed up.” He pronounced it M’graw.

 “Seems Romero was checking up on their paperwork. Doherty was a straight one,” he said. “I don’t know why he was riding with them. But that’s just one of a lot of loose ends, some of which I surely would like to tie up in a nice bow and maybe present to the D.A. If there’s a case in it.”

He gazed at me speculatively.

“It would help my re-election, too,” he said, and took another bite out of the Danish. I decided I could trust him.

“Here’s how I figure it, “ I said. “If the voice on the phone is Doherty, then he has good reasons to be dead, and the crash gave him a chance. There must’ve been five people in that car, not four. Doherty is thrown clear in the crash, but not badly injured. He either wakes up before the people in the following car get to see the wreck, or he’s hidden by the brush. Anyhow, they don’t come down to check on the car, so they don’t see all there is to see. So he can crawl away. By the time the emergency crews and your people get there, he’s gone. He lays low, but now he’s in a fix, so he phones his wife.”

Booley took another swallow of coffee, and another bite of the Danish. He nodded.

“That’s one possibility,” he said. “And the other is that someone else escaped from the wreck. Maybe he’s been pretending to be Doherty wherever he got to. Now he needs some help, and he figures on Doherty’s wife. In which case he knows, or thinks he knows, something that we don’t know.” He took another bite. “Something that’ll give him some leverage.”

“That’ll work only if he doesn’t know her that well. Or if he has something on Doherty and thinks she knows about it too. Either way, it sounds like he’s someone you would like to know about. And maybe the D.A. too.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s Doherty or someone pretending to be him,” said Booley. “He’s someone with a secret he doesn’t want to share with us.”

He grinned again, and this time I saw the predator in him. His prey was crooks.

“OK, McCann, come back to the station with me, and I’ll give you the files on the deceased. Could help you find out who this joker is. But I expect you to give me whatever you find first. All of it. I’ll decide what to give to Mrs Doherty.”

His gaze was now pure hunter. I could tell he had smelled a fresh spoor on a cold trail that he was eager to get on himself. But using me wouldn’t cost him a dime, and he could take the credit when and if the case was cleared up. I wasn’t too happy, but I needed his help. He didn’t need me. If I ran into nothing but dead ends, he wouldn’t lose a thing. If I ran his quarry to ground, he’d have everything he wanted.

“OK,” I said, “that sounds fair enough.”

Booley finished his coffee. “Don’t take it hard, McCann,” he said. “I know you think this could be a win for me without any effort. But we’ll both win or both lose on this one. I’ll give you as much help as I can.”

We walked the half block back to the station chatting about the front gardens that we passed. Booley was a gardener with a weakness for roses. It’s amazing how much you can learn about roses on a half-block walk.

Booley motioned me into the small squad room, went into his office, and returned with four olive green folders. “Here. You can make as many photocopies as you want. If there’s anything that’s missing or that you don’t understand, details and such, just ask Chet Green when he comes back. He put these files together. In fact, I think you should have a good long talk with him after you’ve done reading.”

“Thanks, sheriff.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chet Green was eager to talk. We had driven north of town to The Blue Barn, a roadhouse in a converted barn, painted blue. I guess the owners experienced a jolt of creativity. It was almost empty at noon, and we had enjoyed a modest but excellent lunch of steak in mushroom sauce, with small roast potatoes, and fresh peas in butter. Apple pie with a slice of sharp cheddar rounded off the meal. As we sipped our coffees, we got down to business.

“Way I figure it”, said Chet, “Somebody fixed that car so it would miss that curve. Or if not that one, the next one. There’s a lot of ‘em. A small nick in the brake line, the fluid leaks out, the brakes fail, the car skids off the curve, and that’s that.”

“Was the car examined for evidence of tampering?”

“Yes, but what with rolling over fifty yards or so of rock and scrub bush, and burning down to the frame, there wasn’t much evidence of anything. Doherty was ID’d because he’d wedged in behind the front seat on his left side, so his arm was protected enough that you could still make out the tattoo.”

“Mrs Doherty said it was a picture of a mermaid and a dolphin.”

Chet Grinned. “Yup, and they were getting it on. I guess Vern had gotten it very recently up in Fenton. Met an old army buddy, got hammered, and did some foolish things. Mrs D. dropped a couple of hints long-sleeved shirts most of the time, so there wasn’t that many people knew he had that tattoo.”

“What company did Vern keep?” about her displeasure. But it was more about the company he kept than the tattoo as such. Vern wore

“Well, he liked the strippers, of which we have none here, but there’s several clubs in Fenton and Vallejo Verde. Romero franchises, or so we believe. He went up there regular, not often, but regular.”

“Gambling?”

“Yeah, he was a gambler, too. Mrs D. dropped a couple of hints about how she was unhappy about that, but she didn’t have to cover any debts. So I guess he knew when to fold ‘em. See, she had the money, she’s a McGrath. They own the GM dealership here and a few other businesses. And a Romero franchise. You want the names of the bookmakers he visited?”

“Thanks,” I said, and copied down the names Chet gave me.

“I think Vern wasn’t above a tumble or two on the side,” he added. “There was talk that him and Marina Webster had some affection for each other. She’s a recent widow, in no hurry to get married again, though. If Mrs D. knew or suspected, she never let on. Anyhow, Marina lives well, and we think she has other sources of income than her husband’s life insurance payout.”

“This is adding up to quite a number of questions,” I said. “If you had the time to follow up this case, where would you start?”

“Marina Webster. But I’d be careful of what she says. She has a habit of confabulation.”

“Confabulation?”

“Yeah, you know, making up tales out of a few hard facts and a lot of soft guesses.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

I picked up the check and followed Chet out to the black-and-white.

Chet turned right onto a tree-shaded street. He slowed, and pointed. “Number 42, Mariposa Boulevard,” he said. “Just knock on the door.”