A Dead Man's Tale (3 page)

Laying Down the Law

About six seconds flat after Charlie Moon had almost called him, Chief of Police Scott Parris—who knew about his Ute friend’s financial troubles and was well aware of the back pay the county owned his part-time deputy—made up his mind to do something about it. And
right now
.

About two hundred heavy boot-stomps later, the angry chief of police marched into the County Council Chamber, where the mayor was conducting a breakfast meeting with a half-dozen cronies. This six-plus-one committee, whose average weight was in excess of two hundred pounds, was known derisively by disappointed voters as the Seven Dwarves.

Scott Parris was not present to play Snow White. The big-shouldered cop raised a meaty palm to command silence. “I don’t have any time to waste, so I’ll have my say and hit the bricks.” He waved a finger at the mayor and six council-persons. “Every mother’s son of you knows that Charlie Moon—with verbal approval from the mayor—has served as my deputy on several occasions during the past several years. You also know that despite all the paperwork I’ve filed to make things ‘legal and proper,’ and all the hours I’ve spent reminding you fine community leaders that it ain’t right to let Charlie go unpaid for his efforts in keeping the citizens of this county safe from murderers, burglars, arsonists,
grafting politicians,
and other felons—you still ain’t paid him one thin dime!” Seeing the mayor about to open his mouth and make another in a long line of inane protests that would make his blood boil, Parris—who was getting madder with every racing heartbeat—snapped, “Shuddup, Bruce!”

The mayor shudduped.

The chief of police gulped in a deep breath. “Now here’s the deal. Either you cut Charlie a check for full payment right away,
or else.
You guys hearing me clear?”

A recently elected councilman, who had a Yale law degree mounted on his office wall, was not intimidated. Not yet. He cleared his throat. “That sounds very much like a threat.”

“You’re damn right it is!” Parris banged his big fist on the table, spilling six cups of coffee and the new councilman’s green tea. His red face inches from the lawyer’s gray mask, the burly cop bared his big teeth in a wolfish grin. “If you politicians don’t do the right thing, there’s gonna be ten kinds of hell to pay. You want to hear the one that’ll really make your day?”

It was clear that not one of the Seven did.

Which was why the chief of police enjoyed telling them. Parris watched seven pale faces blanch chalky white, arteries thumpity-thumping on seven flabby necks. When he’d had his say, the Dwarves got down to some serious business. There were concerned murmurings, hoarse whisperings, exchanges of knowing nods.

Bottom line?

A solemn promise was made that sometimes-deputy Moon would be paid in full. (The county’s top cop asked when.) Not to worry. The check would be cut right away. (Parris demanded specificity.) Sometime today. Tomorrow at the latest.

“Tomorrow is not an option,” he roared—and stormed out of the room.

As he hit the street, the chief of police realized that this was probably the latest in a long line of broken vows.
But if they don’t keep their word this time around, I’ll get even with every one of those miserable egg-sucking sons of bitches!

An overdose of anger tends to distract a man from what’s going on around him, and the furious chief of police took no notice of those citizens he met on the sidewalk. Including the soft-spoken pastor of the Wesleyan Methodist Church, who said, “Good morning.” Also Ms. Janey Bultmann (owner of Bultmann Employment Services), who was already lighting her twenty-fourth cigarette of the day.

Scott Parris was also unaware of the dapper middle-aged man in the three-piece suit. The one with the thin mustache who carried an ivory-knobbed cane. Like the kindly cleric and the chain-smoking businesswoman, Samuel Reed could not help but notice the big, buffalo-shouldered cop with blood in both eyes and murderous mayhem brewing in his heart.
My—the brutish fellow looks like he’s anxious to strangle someone with his bare hands.
It occurred to him that if push came to shove, a man would want Scott Parris on his team—which idle thought planted the germ of a notion in Professor Reed’s fertile mind. Within a few minutes it would produce a tender green sprout that would leaf out and bloom. Though pleasing to Samuel Reed’s biased eye, the blossom would not be especially fragrant.

Where Sam Reed Makes His Millions

The third floor of the Cattleman’s Bank building consists entirely of offices leased to local businesses. The current occupants include two insurance representatives, three realtors, a thriving partnership of dental surgeons that specializes in endodontics (a euphemism for root canals), a dispensing optician (her logo is a yard-wide pair of spectacles suspended over the door), a defunct crisis-intervention center whose automated telephone message advises anxious inquirers to “call back during our regular business hours.” A short hallway on the northern side terminates in a solid oak doorway which has neither printed sign nor mail slot. Most who notice the unmarked entrance assume that it conceals the janitor’s storage room, an electrical closet, or the like.

Behind the door is an L-shaped inner sanctum that comprised three rooms and a full bath. One of the smaller rooms serves as Samuel Reed’s kitchen, the other as his occasional bedroom. The kitchen and bedroom are satellites to a strikingly spartan corner office. The hardwood floor is uncarpeted; the room’s sole furnishings are a knotty-pine desk, a comfortable armchair, a maple floor lamp with a green velvet shade, and a wicker waste basket.

When the office is unoccupied, the desktop is bare. On those occasions when serious business is conducted, a laptop computer is placed on the oiled surface.

A pair of large plate-glass windows face north; their twins look to the west. These are the views that the lessee prefers, and Professor Samuel Reed never settles for second best. The desk is positioned so that the man seated behind it can enjoy a panoramic view of blue-gray granite mountains snugly capped with last winter’s snow.

This space is occupied by a venture incorporated under the name Do-Wah-Diddy Investments, Ltd. The corporation’s semilyrical moniker was selected because the owner-manager of the firm sometimes muses about retiring to that mythical southern community that is neither town nor city, and also because he likes Phil Harris’s lively song.

The enterprise has no clients, but not to worry. D-W-D-I, Ltd.’s net income exceeds that of any ten businesses in the county, and by a comfortable margin. Aside from a few tight-lipped employees of the Internal Revenue Service, the sole owner of the “small business,” and Reed’s Denver accounting firm, no one knows that Do-Wah-Diddy’s scrupulously accurate federal returns document the fact that his annual tax payments are
never
less than seven figures.

The entrepreneur also turns a nice profit by placing bets on sporting events, and this aspect of Sam Reed’s business has its own peculiar hazards. More about that in due time.

The burning question of the moment is: how does he do it?

To those country-club cronies who dare ask him outright, Reed merely smiles and taps a finger against his temple. This gesture is generally interpreted as “I’m smarter than you are” or “I know more than you do.” How smart the entrepreneur is remains to be seen, but the latter is certainly true. Reed does know more. Not a few of his envious peers are convinced that D-W-D has access to insider information. Perhaps. But is it the usual kind? Those SEC investigators who have tried to untangle some clue from Reed’s activities have noted something odd. For longish periods of time, Do-Wah-Diddy is virtually inactive. For more than a month of Mondays, only a few thousand dollars’ worth of stocks and bonds are bought or sold. Perhaps a dozen bets are placed. During the hiatus, D-W-D may make a modest profit, or dip into the red. Then, for no apparent reason, Samuel Reed will suddenly begin working like a demented beaver, which is when he sleeps over in his in-town office bedroom and prepares all his meals in the well-stocked kitchen. Just as suddenly, the feverish activity will cease. The office will remain quiet until the next frenzied session begins. During these lengthy downtimes, Sam Reed will catch up on
Physics Today,
read fabulous tales about lusty mountain men and crafty Indians, sing frequently and loudly with the local barbershop quartet, and polish his impressive mandolin skills.

On this morning, Sam Reed is gearing up for the first day of an extended buying-selling, bet-placing session. If he appears not to be enjoying his work with the usual gusto of a man who believes that life is The Game and the player’s bank balance is his score, it is understandable. The entrepreneur is somewhat distracted from the pleasure of his sport by the knowledge that Death is waiting.

The Countdown

The digital clock that Samuel Reed had programmed on his laptop was refreshed every ten seconds on the upper-left-hand corner of the screen:

31 Days, 14 hours, 21 minutes, 50 seconds
31 Days, 14 hours, 21 minutes, 40 seconds

And so on.

After signing off from the Las Vegas Online connection, Reed blinked at the readout, which was ticking his life away.

31 Days, 14 hours, 20 minutes, 10 seconds

Suppressing a cold shudder, he pushed himself up from the cushioned chair and approached the north window. The fact that he had made a profit in the pleasant neighborhood of thirty-six thousand dollars in less than thirty minutes did little to cheer the investor. He could have made three times as much, but Sam Reed was one smart cookie and he knew that if a man in his line of work was
too
successful, the Securities and Exchange Commission might take an intense interest in his activities. Not to mention those hard-eyed, coldhearted characters who ran the casinos. Unlike the SEC attorneys, the gaming kingpins who had mob connections neither launched formal investigations nor sought indictments. Mess with those bad boys and they dispatched Guido the Knuckle Dragger to stop your clock permanently. Which was why—to balance his sure-thing wins—Reed always placed a bet or two that would lose. Likewise, in hope of keeping the SEC off guard, he would buy a couple of stocks that would take a dive tomorrow.

Sam Reed watched a chill breeze whip the budding trees. With the comfy satisfaction of one who is snug inside, he enjoyed the out-of-doors entertainment. Pedestrians holding on to skirts and hats. Vehicular traffic buzzing along this way and that.

A raven settled expertly on a nearby maple branch and cocked her head. The rakish creature looked Reed straight in the eye and made a rude
gaaawwwking
croak. As if to say, “Your number’s about up, bub.”

Samuel Reed smiled at his morbid feathered friend. “Perhaps.” While he had been buying, selling, and placing wagers, Reed’s subconscious had been hard at work on the urgent issue of how to keep body and soul together. This subliminal effort had not been wasted. The owner of Do-Wah-Diddy Investments, Ltd., was a man with a plan.

He addressed the wind-ruffled raven thusly: “I shall approach the authorities and request their assistance in protecting my life.”

The blue-black bird cracked her horny beak and made a series of cackling sounds. The imaginative entrepreneur interpreted this response as a chuckle. A
derisive
chuckle.

If the raven was suggesting that Reed’s plan was a rather mundane result for an investment of considerable subconscious cerebration, her conclusion would have been understandable. After all, asking the cops for help is a remedy that even the meanest intellect is capable of. A person who believes every word they hear on “talk radio” knows enough to call 911 when a three-hundred-pound maniac with a bloody machete is hacking his way into her (or his) flimsy dwelling.

But do not underestimate that most remarkable thinking machine on the planet. When a keen human intelligence is pitted against a mere bird-brain, the wingless biped will come out on top. Well…more often than not.

Say seven times out of ten.

A Welcome Windfall

Columbine Ranch and personal business took Charlie Moon to town two or three times a week, and after the rancher had paid calls on Jeppson’s ABC Hardware, Pine Mountain Lumber & Building Materials, and Fast Eddie’s Barbershop, he dropped by the GCPD station to visit his best friend on the surface of this rocky planet. After saluting dispatcher Clara Tavishuts, who was taking a call about the latest big brouhaha over at the Mountain Man Café (where a two-hundred-pound waitress who called herself Momma Sha-Na-Na was beating up a couple of long-haul truck drivers), the long-legged Ute ascended the stairway to the second floor, opened the door to Scott Parris’s corner office and poked his head in. “Please tell me I’m disturbing some serious police business so I’ll know I didn’t come all the way over here for no good reason.”

The chief of police allowed as how it was
fortuitous
that his Indian friend had dropped by. Scott Parris’s girlfriend had given him a list of one hundred respectable expressions. She had urged him to pick a word that he liked, use it till he owned it, and then proceed to a new challenge. “I just called the Columbine to let you know I had something you’d be happy to see.”

Happy
wasn’t halfway there; when the town cop pushed a rectangle of blue-green paper across the top of his desk, the Indian caught his breath.

“There it is, Deputy Moon.” Parris glowed like a 120-volt bulb plugged into a 240-volt socket and about to pop. “You’re paid in full.”

A long moment passed before the hard-up rancher got the words past the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome as spring rain.” The beefy cop snorted. “You earned every dime and then some.”

Moon stared at the numbers on the check. “How’d you manage it?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Parris’s toothy grin split his big face. “I hinted to the mayor that if the county didn’t pay up, my buddy Charlie was going to sic his junkyard-dog lawyer onto them.” The way Parris saw it, this had been one of those occasions when a plausible falsehood was preferable to the truth.

Charlie Moon laughed at the thought of turning Walter Price loose on the mayor and his town-council cronies. “Nothing like a terrorist threat to galvanize the local government into action.”

“Damn right.” The overweight public servant enjoyed a belly-shaking chuckle. “Most fun I’ve had since my eighth birthday, back in Indiana.”

“If I recollect correctly, that’s when your daddy gave you a Red Ryder BB gun.”

“Yes it was. Also when Mom made me a three-layer chocolate cake with pink candles, and Granddaddy took me fishing on the banks of the wide O-Hi-O and I landed me a five-pound carp.”

Moon had heard the story a half-dozen times. “What’d you use for bait?”

“Granddaddy’s secret-recipe bacon-grease doughballs on treble hooks. That was the worst-tasting fish I ever put in my mouth.” Almost overcome by nostalgia, Parris enjoyed a wistful sigh. “But Miz Carp was a beauty and the biggest fish I’d ever caught.”

“I appreciate the back pay, pardner.” Charlie Moon folded the check and slipped it into his shirt pocket. It wasn’t a fortune, but the years-overdue payment would be enough to take care of the Columbine’s electric and telephone bills and about six months of back taxes. Nothing to sneeze at.

A Man of Action

Feeling about as tip-top as a man looking Mr. Death in the empty eyeball sockets can, Samuel Reed kicked off phase one of his daring plan by barging through the GCPD headquarter’s front door. The sprightly fellow sprinted up the stairs two at a time. Like Moon, who had preceded him, Reed’s destination was Scott Parris’s office, where the grumpy boss-cop could generally be found during the midmorning hours.

Approaching the closed door marked chief of police, Reed raised his ivory-knobbed cane to rap—and paused. He heard voices behind the door. The loudest words boomed from Scott Parris’s lungs, but who was the other fellow, who spoke so softly?
That sounds like the Indian cattle rancher.
It was common knowledge that Charlie Moon and Scott Parris were close friends, and that from time to time the tribal investigator dabbled in matters of serious crime. Samuel Reed, who had intended to speak privately to Parris, paused to consider the pluses and minuses of the situation. Though loath to delay his dramatic entry into the lawman’s office, he realized that the town cop and his Ute friend might well be discussing some highly confidential matter.
It would be rude to break in on a meeting in progress.
A gentleman had no choice.
I must wait until an opportune time to knock.
Fortune tends to favor the courteous soul, and Reed’s impeccable good manners would provide a fine opportunity to eavesdrop on the cops.

Quiet as a church mouse wearing tiny sheepskin house slippers, he moved closer to the door. And listened.

As it happened, Samuel Reed would hear no succulent secrets, merely run-of-the-mill conversation. But for an inquisitive fellow such as himself, no tidbit of information was deemed entirely worthless. As he often reminded his lovely wife, the mark of a successful investor was the ability to recognize value in the seemingly commonplace—and to spend that coin to his advantage. The extraordinarily successful entrepreneur enjoyed another advantage. One that he did not share with his spouse.

Charlie Moon leaned back in his chair and crossed one long leg over the other. “So what’s going on in the local law-enforcement business?”

“Nothing that’d interest you.” Parris turned in his chair to gaze at a live motion picture of downtown Granite Creek that was neatly framed in this office window. “Some halfwit is roaming around town at night, prying people’s back doors open.” He shot a sideways glance at the Southern Ute tribal investigator. “But I suppose you’ve heard all about that.”

The busy stockman shook his head. “I’ve haven’t been paying much attention to the local news.”

“You’re better off.” Parris watched a scruffy-looking raven settle on a sycamore limb. (Yes. The very same uncouth bird who had carried on a conversation with Samuel Reed. Such coincidences are not so remarkable in a small town.) “Local rag’s calling the perp ‘the Crowbar Burglar.’ He doesn’t steal all that much, but once he gets inside, the rascal vandalizes the house.”

“Anyone hurt so far?”

Parris shook his head. “But it’s only a matter of time.”
With a little luck, somebody’ll shoot the bastard stone cold dead.

Moon read the hopeful thought on his friend’s face.

A worry frown furrowed the white cop’s sunburned brow. “Last night, Mr. Crowbar broke into a residence that was occupied by an eighty-year-old widow. Scared the poor old soul half to death, but she got out the front door with her walker and hobbled over to a house next door. The neighbor called the cops, but by the time we got officers on the scene, the bad guy was long gone.”

Charlie Moon realized that his friend had not heard the footsteps coming up the stairway. The tribal investigator would have given a shiny 1959 silver dime to know who was loitering outside the office door. “The elderly lady get a look at the burglar?”

“Yeah, but all she remembers is the crowbar.” Scott Parris grunted. “She describes the suspect as about average height, neither short nor tall, and she wouldn’t classify him as either fat or thin. Age? Oh, somewhere between thirty and sixty.” He was tiring of this dismal subject. “How’re things out yonder on the range, where the buffalo roam and the antelope canter about?”

Moon shrugged. “Tolerable.”

“From what I hear, half a dozen ranchers in the county have been forced to sell off their herds at rock-bottom prices.” This remark provoking no response from the Ute stockman, he added, “There’s talk that the Columbine’s about to dump a few hundred purebred Herefords.”

“Bad news sure travels fast.”

“That’s a fact.” Parris scratched at his itchy left ear.
Momma always said that meant somebody was about to knock on the door
. “I guess times is tough all over.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Scott Parris noticed that the raven was no longer in the sycamore. The feathered creature had taken up a precarious perch on the cop’s windowsill. Cocking her head this way and that, the bird was apparently taking in every word.

The men jawboned about one thing and another until their conversation was interrupted by something that might have gone unheard.

A gentle rapping.

A mere
tappity-tapping.

Parris arched a bushy eyebrow.
Must be the plumbing acting up.

Moon grinned.
I guess our spy has heard enough.

A portentous silence, then—

A tentative rapping.

Rappity-rap-rap.

The Ute pictured a tiny peckerwood pecking on the office door.

Scott Parris was not amused. “What’n hell’s that?”

A voice in the hallway responded crisply, “The properly framed question, is—‘
who
in Hades is that?’” The knob turned and the door opened just enough for a well-peeled eyeball to peek inside. “The longed-for answer is, ‘It is my own jovial self, come to pay a courtesy call on the finest chief of police in Granite Creek.’”

The object of this dubious flattery rolled his eyes. “Sam Reed.”

“Indeed.” The scientist-entrepreneur entered the office with a flourish of his ebony walking stick. He tipped his gray homburg to salute the Ute. “Greetings and salutations, my good man—and if I may paraphrase Leigh Hunt’s “Abou Ben Adhem,” ‘May your tribe increase and prosper.’”

The Indian nodded a hello at the jolly fellow.

“You working-class stiffs are no doubt wondering, ‘Why are we blessed with a visit from such a distinguished and beloved citizen as Professor Samuel Reed?’” He tapped his cane on the hardwood floor. “I will not keep you in undue suspense. It’s like this: from time to time I respond to an overwhelming urge to apply my considerable talent to some admirable civic service. Last week, I helped an elderly nun jaywalk across our fair city’s busiest thoroughfare. Never mind that the old darling did not hanker to get to the other side; that is an immaterial detail. The point is that I was motivated to do good unto one of my fellow human beings. And today”—he aimed the cane at Parris—“you will be pleased to know that I have come to do my favorite constable an enormous favor.”

“
Pleased
don’t even come close, Sam.” Parris drilled his visitor with the gimlet eye. “I am thrilled plumb to death.”

“As you should be! And do not assume that I am here on some such pedestrian objective as to assist you in the capture of the notorious Crowbar Burglar. Perish the petty thought. On the contrary, I intend to add some essential spice to the insipid broth of your dreary life.” Sensing some slight doubt, Reed proceeded to flesh out his intentions. “What a jaded fellow like yourself needs now and then is a fresh challenge. A blinding flash of cerebral stimulation, a heady rush of adrenaline. Given your chosen vocation, the specific remedy for your doldrums is as obvious as the bulbous nose on your face.” He fixed Parris with a benevolent gaze. “What you need is an interesting crime to solve.”

The lawmen exchanged glances. And thoughts.

PARRIS:
The guy’s a nutcase.

MOON:
Maybe. Maybe not.

PARRIS:
No maybe about it. I’m going to kick him outta the door and down the stairs.

MOON:
Don’t go making a boot print on his butt before he’s had his say.

PARRIS:
Okay. But you’ll be sorry.

Having a facility for reading expressions, Reed nodded his thanks to the Ute. Straightening his red bow tie, he said, “I do not think a warehouse arson would be quite right for what ails you. On the other hand, a brazen, broad-daylight bank robbery by a carload of brutish thugs would surely do the trick. Or the kidnapping of a rhinestone-studded rock star whose gaudy tour bus just happened to be passing through Granite Creek. But, sad to say, arranging such events would press even my considerable resourcefulness to the uttermost limits. So what
can
I do to help you?” Reed tapped his cane against the toe of his immaculate shoe. “Oh, here’s a nifty idea.” He smirked. “How about I deliver up a cleverly planned homicide?”

The Ute slipped on his high-stakes-poker face and reached for the peanut jar on Parris’s desk.

GCPD’s top cop got up from his chair and glared at the impertinent man through slitted eyes. “Read my lips, Reed. In this neck of the woods, we don’t make jokes about any kind of crime. Armed robberies get our dander up. Kidnappers get strung up on the nearest cottonwood. And there ain’t
nothing
funny about murder.”

“I quite agree, Chief Parris.” Samuel Reed nodded with vigor. “And if you do not wish to accept my assistance in preventing a homicide, that is certainly your prerogative. I will detain you no longer from your urgent official duties, not the least of which is chasing after some slope-browed misfit who is bent on vandalizing local real estate with a crowbar.”

Reed was putting the handsome hat on his head when the bulldog cop bristled and barked, “Siddown!”

Standing ramrod straight, the professor of physics assumed the role of grade-school teacher addressing a slow-witted seven-year-old. “Let us be clear about something, Mr. Parris. You do not intimidate me. Not in the least. One more snappish order to sit and you will see the back of me!”

Oh boy, this’ll be good.
Moon helped himself to another handful of peanuts. Munch-munch.

Sam Reed and Scott Parris stood eyeball-to-eyeball.

The dapper dandy stroked his neatly clipped mustache.

The brawny ex-Chicago cop glowered. Ground his bicuspids.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Something had to give.

The wall clock tocked.

Charlie Moon was enjoying the face-off.
My money’s on Mr. Fancy Pants.

Parris blinked. “Now what’s all this bull-hockey about a homicide?”

Raising his nose in the air, the visitor twirled the fancy walking stick. “If you wish to question me in a civilized manner, I am prepared to cooperate. Otherwise, I advise you not to waste your onion-scented breath—or my precious time.”