Dead Body Language (9 page)

“Dept. of Corrections. Sgt. Bruce Taylor. GA.”

You can often tell when a hearing person is using the TTY as opposed to a deaf person. The deaf tend to use all capitals, omit punctuation, and use common abbreviations. Hearies type more formally, as if writing a business letter. I adapt to the caller.

“This is Connor Westphal from the
Eureka!
newspaper, Calaveras Co., CA. We’re interviewing an applicant for police beat position and need references verified. Was a Daniel Webster Smith in your employ recently? GA.”

I typed as quickly as I could and kept it brief, but the TTY was still a relatively slow process taking sometimes four to five times longer. And it cost more than a long-distance call because of the time delays.

“Hold on …”

The cursor flashed for a few moments, then came to life with more electronic letters.

“Daniel Webster Smith worked for the Dept. for 8 years, until June of last year. Job title was ‘Instructor, Dept. of Corrections.’ GA.”

Instructor. What did he teach the prisoners? I wondered.

“Could you tell me what courses he taught? GA.”

Another delay. “According to the file, law. GA.”

Law? “Is he an attorney? GA.”

Pause. “Says ‘Instructor.’ That’s it. GA.”

“Does the file give a reason for his resignation? GA.”

Another delay. “Didn’t resign. Says here, ‘Employment terminated. Conflict of interest.’ GA.”

“Does it say anything about next of kin or who to call in emergency? GA.”

“Nothing here. GA.”

I thanked the sergeant and keyed off.

Dan Smith was terminated from his job at the correctional facility for conflict of interest. What kind of conflict?

Was this guy Boone’s brother or not? I tried to imagine the two of them side by side, but the contrast was too extreme. Dan was tall, well built, with arms you wanted to capture in photographs and hang on your walls. Boone was short, mostly paunch, with hairy arms and ruddy red hands. Dan had a well-trimmed blondish beard, hair a little too long to work in law enforcement, and blue eyes that probably glowed in the dark. Boone had chins where a beard should have grown, a scalp like a crystal ball, and red-rimmed green eyes that looked especially appropriate at Christmas time.

Siblings. My thoughts moved to Lacy Penzance and the sister she had been trying to locate with the newspaper ad. Risa Longo. Who was she? Shouldn’t she be notified of her sister’s death, even if she didn’t know she had a sister? And where was she?

I set the receiver in the TTY handset again and placed a call to Sheriff Mercer, who also had a TTY.

After a few moments, “C.W.? GA.” appeared on my screen. He must have known my ring. Either that or I’m the only deaf person who calls him.

“Hi, Sheriff. Got a question for you. Know anybody by the name of Risa Longo? GA.”

“LOngo. YEah. HOw do yuo know her? GA.”

I ignored his question and his typing skill. Like father, like son. “What can you tell me about her? GA.”

“I’m not so surre I shoudl.” There was a pause. I waited it out. “All I can say is, taht’s the name written on the back of a business card found in LAcy Penzance’s purse. RIsa LOngo. NOw, wanna tell me who she is?”

I loved the way he typed—omitting letters here, throwing extras in there, hanging onto the shift key a little too long. I waited for the GA, thinking this might be another pause. Half the time the sheriff forgot to add the “Go Ahead” signal. After a few more seconds I gave up and resumed keying.

“Not sure, Sheriff. Just heard her name mentioned recently. What kind of business card was it? Did it say anything else? GA.”

“THat was all. IT was a busines card from MEmory Kingdom. WITY? Whos this Longo woman? GA.”

WITY. What’s It To You. One of his favorite abbreviations. “I really don’t know yet. Memory Kingdom—the one in Flat Skunk? GA.”

“Whiskey Slide. WHat are you nott elling me, Connor Westphal? Spit it out. OR should I say spell it out? GA.”

“Nothing yet. Just trying to write a decent story about Lacy’s death for the paper. Was there anything else in her purse? GA.”

“JUst a bunch of makeup, a roll of tickets to the frog-jumping contest, acouple more business cards, ssome cash, women’s stuff, you know. Thats about it. GA.”

“Did the other business cards have anything written on them? GA.”

“NOpe. 1 from a dr. Reed NIemi in Whiskey slide. 1 from dr. Enid SChantz here in town. 1 from a dr. KRistin Larsen in Sac. 1 from Beau’s B & B. Nothig on the back of them tho. Whats this all abuot? GA.”

“I’m not sure. I’ll tell you if anything comes of it. Thanks for the info. GA. SK.”

“COnn …”

I hung up before he could continue. I was more than a little puzzled. Risa Longo’s name was written on a business card for a Memory Kingdom outlet in Whiskey Slide. The same town Dan Smith was headed for in search of his brother. The brother that Lacy hired to find her sister. The town that was written on the empty file folder.

Risa Longo and Memory Kingdom?

Maybe Risa Longo was dead too. Maybe Lacy Penzance discovered somehow that her sister had died—saw an obituary notice or something in one of the papers, and located her through the funeral home in Whiskey Slide. Maybe Lacy was overcome with grief at losing her only known relative and—

Oh, get real, Connor. Lacy Penzance is not going to kill herself because of a sister she’s never known. Still, I had a feeling the sister had something to do with her
death. And the only connection I had was the Memory Kingdom funeral home in Whiskey Slide.

It was noon by the time I stopped puzzling over all the loose ends. So what was all this to me? I was curious, naturally. I am, after all, a newspaper reporter. And if I could find out something that wasn’t already common knowledge to the entire town, it would make an interesting story. Hell, let’s face it. I loved a mystery.

But most of all I felt I had a little unfinished business. Yesterday I was taking Lacy Penzance’s ad. A few hours later I was seeing her on television—dead.

I stretched my back, shook my hair, bent my fingers back to release some tension, and decided all this thinking was making me hungry. Time for a lunch break. I left a note for Miah, then stopped off at the Nugget for a BLT and a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

On my way out I picked up the Tuesday edition of the
Mother Lode Monitor
to scope out the competition. I was halfway across the street when I saw Mickey Arnold coming out of Gold Dust Drugs wearing a new pair of motorcycle-cop sunglasses. I supposed he wanted to look the part of a tough cop, but the price tag dangling by one ear tempered the effect.

“Deputy Arnold,” I said cautiously, after seeing his face light up. He was a likable kind of guy, but I didn’t want to lead him on. He wasn’t the type you’d want to French kiss in front of the fireplace. Still, he had his appeal—the enthusiasm for his work, the awkwardness of his flirtation, the genuine love for his hometown.

The Terminator wannabee waved when he saw me, removed his glasses, and twirled them in his fingers while he played nervously with his gun belt. But the twirling was too great a task for his coordination and he fumbled them to the ground.

After a quick rebound, he stiffly finger-spelled, “Hi, Connor,” then signed, “What’s new?” At this point he began to talk. “Learn anything more for your story?”

“Not much. Just filling the pages with the same old fluff—ground-breakings, fund-raisers, frog profiles, cemetery suicides. The usual.”

Mickey laughed, making one of those gagging motions that remind me of watching a cat choking on a furball. He brushed back a few wisps of moussed hair that had become dislodged from his slicked-back style.

“Thanks for the guided tour through the cemetery this morning. Any news on Lacy yet?” I asked, as coyly as I could muster. Shame on me.

“Not much.” He checked over his shoulder and stepped in closer, as if someone might hear us. “The report from the medical examiner came back. They don’t think that knife actually killed her.” He looked pleased with himself.

“Really? You were right! So what do they think it was?” I leaned in too, even though I didn’t need to. Deputy Arnold looked around again for spies. No KGB in sight.

“Well, this is strictly off the record so you can’t print it in the paper yet, but the M.E. couldn’t identify it. Said it was something …” He whipped out a tiny notebook, flipped a few pages, and read his scribbling. “… long, thin, and sharp.”

“But not a knife.”

Mickey shook his head and pursed his lips, dramatically.

“What do you think it was?” I pumped away.

He tried to look casual, dropping one shoulder and placing a hand on his gun belt. “Well, here’s what I think, but it’s only a theory I’m working on. She was found at the cemetery, right? There wasn’t a lot of blood, just that dark stain on her blouse and some on the stone, right? A person holds about five pints of blood, you know. And the thing that killed her was something long and sharp—”

“Like an ice pick?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Something thicker, more like a …” He looked around. “… a knitting needle or maybe one of those things they use at the hospital—a catheter. But—” He pressed his lips together then mouthed the word so firmly his lips turned white. “The sheriff is fairly certain it’s not a suicide.”

“What about the note they found?” I asked, leaning closer still. I hated myself when I used my feminine charms. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

“I found it, actually,” he said humbly. “Anyway, it just didn’t sound right, you know. All that stuff about—well, I better not say. You know.”

No, dammit, I didn’t know! Come on, Deputy, out with it!

I waited but he said nothing more on the subject. “I gotta get back to work. Going to the Jubilee for a little frog-tasting this weekend?”

It was hopeless. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said with a sigh, and climbed on my bike.

Mickey Arnold pointed to his eye, then to me. “See you,” he signed, crudely. I had to smile.

“Oh, great!” I said, scanning the headline of a special edition of the competition when I got back to the office.

Another winning slug from those masterful wordsmiths at the
Mother Lode Monitor
. They even had a photo. The sheriff looked like a dweeb.

The article was overwritten, ungrammatical, and full of hyperbole, but it had sure scooped the hell out of the
Eureka!
How did they manage to print the story so fast? The by-line read Harmony Blaine.

Damn! Beat out by a throwaway bird-cage liner. I rolled up the paper and tossed it into the trash. It was time for a little old-fashioned newspaper war.

I stopped down the hall at Miah’s comic book shop. Miah looked up from his
Batman: The Death of Robin
special edition and signed, “What’s up?” by shaking an upturned hand in the air.

“Miah, I’m going to Whiskey Slide for a little while and I probably won’t be back until late. I need to finish that story on gourmet frog fare by tonight. Think you could do it for me?”

I signed at a moderate speed and moved my lips to help him understand. He seemed to follow every word. I can tell when beginners don’t understand my signs. They just nod their heads rhythmically, then give me a blank stare at the end of my speech.

Miah brushed his index finger up the front of his chin, for “Sure,” then shook his head while signing “problem,” meaning “No problem.”

Since he owed me, I gave him two more assignments—one about the frog play given by Mrs. Stadelhofer’s fourth grade class, and one about the history of the Frog Jubilee in Calaveras County. In appeasement, I promised to look for a couple of
Dark Man
and
The Stranger
comics at Whiskey Slide’s Comic Central store.

“By the way, someone called while you were out, but they hung up when I said hello. Happened twice,” Miah said, his fingers illustrating his statements.

I responded with face language—a frown.

“Oh,” he continued. “And that guy staying in Boone’s office left a note. It’s on your desk.”

I returned to my office and picked up Dan’s note from the desk.

“
Connor, forgot to ask a favor. Would you feed my cat while I’m gone? Food is in the microwave. Thanks. Dan
.”

I tossed the note into the garbage can and gathered up a few things before heading out.