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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Satan's Pony
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A patrol car was in front of the motel. (I couldn't get away from them.) Paul was at the desk, looking drained and frail. Marie was sitting stiffly on the sofa looking furious. No bikers. They were probably at the local bars getting an early start on Saturday night.
“What's up?” I asked.
“The police are searching room twenty-three, the one next to yours, for fingerprints,” Paul said wearily.
“I'm done with my shift, but they won't let me go home,” Marie burst out. “They say I cleaned that room too good.” She was indignant.
I had to laugh. “That's a backhanded compliment, Marie. You should be happy,”
She glowered.
“Is Peck here?”
“He's here,” Paul said.
“He's the one who told me I take my cleaning too seriously!” Marie piped up.
“I'll see what I can do.” I had a bone of my own to pick with Peck.
 
 
He was leaning against the doorjamb of room 23, supervising. Over his shoulder, I glimpsed two forensics, a man and a woman, working like beavers with an array of complicated equipment.
I confronted Peck. “What's the big idea?”
He turned and drawled, “Just doing my job.”
“I don't mean this. I mean arresting Pi.”
“Just doing my job,” he repeated.
“I thought you'd hold off at least till you checked out this guy.” I tapped the number 23 tacked to the door.
“Can't leave any stone unturned,” he said sanctimoniously.
I wanted to slug him. But I also wanted to find out the results of the search. I decided not to push it. “How's this going?” I asked.
He frowned. “Nothing so far. The maids are too conscientious in this dump.”
“Careful. You're speaking of my home.”
“Sorry.” He didn't look sorry.
“What about Stan?”
“We sent some people to Cherry Hill to pick him up.”
I felt better. “Arrest him?”
“We don't have enough evidence for an arrest. They're just bringing him in for questioning.”
“Will you be able to get his prints?”
“Not without his consent.”
Damn. “What happens next?”
“We'll be done here in a few minutes,” he said disconsolately.
“Then we go back to headquarters and wait.”
I wasn't the only one who had to wait, I realized. Suddenly I had an idea. “Excuse me.” I darted into my room, grabbed my box of surgical gloves, and headed for the basement.
The motel basement was an enormous cinderblock space used for storage: carpet remnants, insulating material, tools, etc. Paul had a workbench down here, where he and I had once concocted a scarecrow. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The end nearest the stairs was filled with dark green trash bags. At least thirty of them. Trash was
picked up Tuesdays and Fridays. There was no way to identify which rooms or even which floors the bags had come from. They weren't neatly labeled by room number—21, 22, 23. I groaned and attacked the nearest bag.
Sixteen bags and three pairs of surgical gloves later, I located the bourbon bottles. I lifted one carefully and set it on the bottom step. I refilled the last trash bag, retied it with a twistum, and clasping the bottle gingerly by the neck, returned to room 23.
They were just finishing up. The forensics were packing their equipment and Peck was watching them with a dejected expression.
“Try this.”
“Huh?”
I pushed the brown bottle at him. “I took it from one of Stan's trash baskets. I'll bet it's loaded with prints.”
He called the male forensic over and told him to test the bottle. He was annoyed at having to unpack again. Sure enough—a perfect set of prints emerged! The specialist handed the bottle to his female partner who wrapped it carefully in a paper sack and labeled it “evidence.” With a look that bordered on respectful, Peck said, “I'll be in touch.”
And he was. He called me an hour later and asked me to come to Headquarters to sit in on Stan's inquiry. He didn't have to ask twice.
Peck met me at the door and briefed me quickly on my role. This was to be an informal interview, not a formal interrogation. (I would not have been allowed to attend the latter.) He wanted me to sit as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, listen, and observe. Afterward he would ask my opinion of what took place.
Eager to take part, no matter how passive my role, I agreed to everything. He ushered me into a small, bland room with three chairs and a desk. He took the chair behind the desk and gestured for me to take the chair to one side. The chair facing the desk remained empty for Stan.
I was barely seated before I heard two pairs of footsteps in the corridor. One solid and firm, the other lighter and less sure. A police officer ushered Stan into the room. The officer stepped back, taking a place by the door, and Stan stood blinking uncertainly. When he recognized me, he looked puzzled, but he said nothing.
“Please sit down, Mr. Huntsburger,” Peck said.
So Stan had a last name.
“I apologize for the inconvenience of bringing you down here. I just have a few questions …”
Stan forced a smile.
“I've asked Dr. Banks to join us primarily because she is familiar with the motel's physical plant, the staff, and so forth, and I thought if you had any questions, she could answer them better than I.”
Stan and I stared uncomfortably at each other.
He was more dressy today than at the motel. Instead of shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers, he wore a light suit, sport shirt, and loafers. He must have come straight from work. I wondered what his work was. At the motel I had taken his flushed face for sunburn, but in the bright overhead lights, it looked more like the flush of the chronic alcoholic.
“Leave the door open, will you Mike?” Peck said to the officer who had been about to close the door. The detective folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Let's get this over with as quickly as possible,” he said. “Could you tell me where you were the night Robert”Sunny” Parker died?”
So Sunny had a last name, too.
“I was at the motel,” he said. “My wife and I were staying there. I think I told you that, Mr. Peck.” He was faintly accusatory.
“You probably did. But my mind is a sieve.” Peck spoke affably.
Stan relaxed slightly.
If Peck was the good cop, then, was I the bad cop?
“What I meant was,” Peck continued, “where specifically were you—say from six o'clock to midnight? In your room, the lobby, the parking lot?”
“All three. Fran and I grabbed a bite at the Clam Shell, a little place outside of Salem. Has great seafood. Then we came back to the motel to watch TV. There was some program Fran wanted to see. But the racket outside our window was so loud, we couldn't hear it. We shut it off and Fran picked up a mystery, but I went down to the lobby to see what was going on.”
“What
was
going on?” Peck asked.
“You know. Those bikers were all jazzed up—drinking and yelling. I wouldn't be surprised if they were doing drugs. It was a riot!” He looked nervous just talking about it.
“So what did you do then, Mr. Huntsburger?”
“Nothing. I just stood around in the lobby and the parking lot
watching them, trying to stay out of their way. Jack-the-Night-Clerk was on desk duty. A lot a good he did. Acted like a scared rabbit.”
“And what about you? Were you scared?”
“Of course not,” Stan huffed. “I was just annoyed that my wife couldn't watch her TV show. You pay good money for a room, the least you expect is a little peace and quiet.”
“Why
were
you staying in Bayfield, of all places,” Peck asked with a smile.
I marveled at Peck's easy-going manner. But he had said this was to be an informal interview.
“I was working on a deal for my storage company, looking for some cheap real estate to build new units. It was supposed to bring in big bucks. It's hard to keep a lady like mine in mink, you know.” He grinned. “Why else would anyone go to such a godforsaken place? The night life?” He risked a little joke.
“Why would you bring your wife to such a ‘godforsaken place'?” Peck pursued.
“She needed a little vacation—a change of scene. She doesn't do well cooped up in the house. Besides, I like to keep a close eye on her.” He winked at Peck. “She's a wild one.”
“Did you see the victim, Sunny, when you were hanging out in the lobby?” Peck adopted a more businesslike tone.
“Oh, sure. He was in and out. They'd stashed some of the booze there and they all came in for refills.”
“What kind of booze?”
“Beer, mostly. But there was hard stuff too. Vodka and bourbon. Some of them hit the soda machine for mixers.”
“About how long were you there?”
He shrugged.
“Approximately?”
“About an hour. Long enough to see Sunny carry the doctor off.” He snickered, glanced at me, then blushed.
“Did you see Mr. Canby nick Sunny's ear with an arrow?” Peck asked.
“Yeah. But I didn't know what happened at the time. The arrow
didn't make any noise and all I saw was a lot of commotion. Then one of the bikers rushed in and called nine-one-one. He asked for an ambulance. I thought things were getting too hot, so I went back to my room.”
A dispatcher stuck his head in the doorway and asked to speak to Peck. The detective excused himself. An awkward silence stretched between Stan and me, but I'd be damned if I'd break it. Finally Stan said, “What are you doin' in Bayfield, Doctor?”
“I live and practice here.” I said.
“I mean, what's a highly educated woman like you doin' at a two star motel in the boondocks?” He sent me a knowing look. “Hidin' out?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, sorry. I didn't mean anything.” He backed off quickly. “I just thought you might have some malpractice problems or something …” he trailed off.
I glared at him.
“Ok, ok.” He raised his hands in mock self-defense.
We sat in strained silence until Peck returned.
This time the detective went straight to the point. Looking directly at Stan, he said, “When you were in the lobby, did you ever, at any time, give Sunny something to drink?”
“What d'ya mean?” Stan sat up.
“I mean, when Sunny came into the lobby for a refill, did you ever hand him a beer?”
“No way. The bottles were sitting right there in the cooler.”
“Did you tamper with one of those beers? Twist open the bottle and introduce some toxic substance—”
“Now why would I do that?” His look of amazement seemed genuine, but bands of sweat were visible under both arms. “I didn't even know the guy.”
“Your wife did,” I interjected.
Both Stan and Peck looked at me, and Stan's face drained of color.
“Let's take a break,” Peck said abruptly. “How about a Coke, Mr. Huntsburger?”
Momentarily deaf, Stan stared at his shoe tips.
“A Coke?” Peck repeated.
He glanced up. “Uh … oh, sure.”
Peck rose and gestured for me to follow him into the hall. The police officer remained behind with Stan.
When we were outside, I said, “I'm really sorry. It just came out.”
“No harm done. What did you mean by that comment?”
“Remember, I told you. His wife took a long ride with Sunny on his bike and Stan was there when they got back. Did you notice how pale he was after I spoke?”
Peck nodded, and was thoughtful. “I think I'd better take it alone from here. You can go home—”
“Do I have to?” I was disappointed. The interview was just beginning to get interesting.
“'Fraid so.” He looked at me. “We have to go carefully now, stay within legal limits. He may be on the verge of a confession and I don't want any foul-ups. Go home and get some rest. I'll keep you posted.”
“But he was just about to break—”
“When I suggested a Coke, I did that because it's time for this interview to become official. I didn't expect things to move so fast. Your comment accelerated things. You were a big help.” He winked and headed for the Coke machine.
I lingered in the hall. I didn't like being dismissed so unceremoniously. But it was my own fault. I should have kept my mouth shut. But I wondered about Peck. I didn't trust him completely. He had broken his promise about bringing the law to the funeral. Maybe he didn't want a confession? Did he still think Pi killed Sunny? I walked to my bike—Pi's bike—head down, intent on my thoughts.
“Hi, Doc.”
“Mickey. What are you doing here?”
“A bunch of us came down to see if we could fix bail for Pi.”
“And?”
“No soap. No bail for somebody held on a murder charge.”
I knew that.
“What are you doin' here?”
“Uh …” Better not say too much. “Peck asked me to drop by and answer a few questions.”
“You ain't a suspect, are you?”
I laughed. “Hope not.”
“I thought I saw them bringing in that Mr. Milktoast from the motel. The one with the hot old lady.”
“Oh?” I played innocent.
“She sure was some chick. I'll bet that wuss has trouble keepin' her out of the sack—with other dudes, that is.” He snorted.
“Umm. Did you see Pi?”
“Naw. No visitors for twenty-four hours after an arrest. This place is a fuckin' concentration camp!” He slapped his leather glove against his palm. “Well, as they say, I'll see you back at the ranch.” Mickey ambled off to get his bike.
 
 
As I tried to fall asleep, a wave of nausea swept over me. I thought of Pi, alone, pacing a small brick cell, expecting me to rescue him.
“Get some rest,”
Peck had said.
Sure, Detective.
At least I didn't have to worry about Pi skipping town tonight. He was safely incarcerated. And
he
didn't have to worry about mosquitoes! As I said, even when life is the worst, there are sometimes compensations.
Stan's words bored in on me. “
What are you doin' in Bayfield, Doctor? Hidin' out?
”
Compartmentalize!
That compartment is closed and locked, if you plan to get any sleep tonight.
I sat up and turned on the light. In desperation, I picked up Jack's story and began to read. This time I finished it. Jack was a good writer, and I couldn't wait to tell him. I threw on my old wrapper and went down to the lobby. He was asleep, his head on the desk. I shook him gently. “Hey Jack!”
He looked at me, groggy. “What's up?”
I waved his manuscript at him. “This is good! Gotta send it out. Don't leave it in a drawer—or some filing cabinet.”
“You mean it?” He was wide awake.
“Absolutely.”
A serene smile spread across his face.
BOOK: Satan's Pony
2.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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