Medieval Murders (15 page)

34

On her way to Branch County, Pascoe stopped at the home of Elmer Jayson, the engineer who had witnessed the shooting and stopped the train. Jayson’s house was just off the highway, its shape suggesting a style of farmhouse built in the early years of the century, but extensive additions and modernizations had been appended to the original footprint. Jayson saw Pascoe pull off the road and met her in the circular drive at the side of the house. He escorted her through a back entrance into the kitchen, a bright, airy room that occupied the addition that had been tacked onto the back of the house. Jayson’s wife, a tall, pretty woman in her late fifties, served them coffee and then disappeared.

Pascoe pulled a recorder and note pad from her brief case. She placed the recorder on the table, keyed it on, and opened a pad to a new page.

Jayson pulled his glasses off and laid them on the table. He rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on. He, like Pascoe, had been up most of the night.

After a few minutes of small talk, Pascoe began the interview. “I’ll be going over the things you told me last night. This time I’d like to go slowly and make careful notes. It’s most useful if you talk about what you saw in sequence.”

He nodded his understanding as he started, “We bring the train down to limits before we get to the edge of town and then speed up when we get to the other side. I’m always extra careful when I run through the university. Seems like the train draws them. We’ve had suicides, drunks, even doped-up kids stumble onto the tracks. I’ve never hit anyone, and I don’t want to.”

“Last night I was just beginning to add power when I saw someone in the headlight. He’s running toward me. I lay on the horn. Then I see a second person. It looks like he’s following the first guy.”

“Can you describe him, the first person?”

“Well, he was running fast, and I was speeding up. I don’t know what you know about trains, but it takes a long time to get’em going and a long time to stop’em. I let go of the throttle and got ready to apply the brakes. I was mostly watching, hoping they’d stay off the tracks.” He paused and stretched, arms back, then yawned. “The first guy was in black, all black.”

“How about his face?”

“Face too. He had some kind of mask on. You know, like one of the knit things.”

“Was it open around his eyes, nose, and mouth like a balaclava, or just holes like a ski mask?”

“I think it was more like the second, I couldn’t see his face.”

“Could you tell his color or race? Was he white, black…?

“No, I don’t think there was much skin exposed. And everything happened so fast, the distances closing so quickly. He was carrying something. I could see it was a gun.”

“What kind of a gun?”

“It wasn’t a pistol. It was a long gun. You know, a shotgun or a hunting rifle.”

“Can you remember anything specific about the gun?”

“Like?”

“Did it have a wood stock or one of those wire, folding kind of things. Did you see a scope?”

“I saw a gun, I can’t tell you about that other stuff. I think it just looked like a normal kinda rifle, if you know what I mean. I was watching the guys, hoping they wouldn’t try to cross the tracks at the last minute.”

“How far apart were they?”

“Hard for me to judge, but I’d say a pretty good distance, fifty, sixty yards. Maybe more.” Jayson yawned again, stretched and ran his hands over his gray brush-cut. He got up, got the coffee pot and refilled both their cups.

“Then what happened?”

“The first guy disappeared off to the side and I was looking at the second guy. I couldn’t tell what he did. I had the brakes locked up by then. I was pretty sure I missed him.

After I got stopped, I slowly reversed back, hoping not to see his body on the tracks. And then I came down off the engine to look around. That’s where I met you.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“No, that’s about all. I tried to stay out of the way, went back and stood by the locomotive. After I talked to you, I finished my run. Most nights are pretty boring, but occasionally you have something like this. Just never know what’s going to happen.”

Pascoe slid her card across the table. “If anything else occurs to you, please call.”

“Sure will, Miss. Hope that guy’s going to be all right.”

“I hope so, too,” she responded, giving him a weak smile as they shook hands.

35

Elkins was dreaming. He was falling backwards into a deep cave, out of control, spinning slowly. He stopped with a start and gazed into a heavy mist. He blinked, blinked again. The mist cleared, and he could see Dr. Kristin Gutiérrez leaning over the bed.

He heard her say, “I think we have someone waking up.”

She was smiling and squeezing his right hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too good. Worst hangover of my life.” He gave her a weak smile. “I thought you practiced painless medicine.”

“I do. You’re not my patient, yet. Unfortunately, you are still breathing. I don’t get to peel your face back and find out what makes you tick, not this time anyway. This is Dr. Savage,” she lifted her head to indicate the other side of the bed. Elkins looked up at the tall, balding man in blue surgical scrubs. Gutiérrez continued. “He’s a neurologist, he spent most of the night monitoring your condition.”

“Do you remember talking to me last night?” Savage asked.

“Sort of. Everything is a bit of a blur. I remember the bright lights and lots of people around me. How am I doing?” Ray asked, trying to pull the man into focus.

“Your CT scan is unremarkable. There’s no skull fracture or evidence of bleeding. That said, sometimes things change, so we will want to hold on to you for the next 24 to 48 hours just to be on the safe side,” said Savage looking down at him. “Before you were injured, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“I remember running and a train, it’s all sort of confused, like a dream after you wake up. You know, you’re not sure what really happened, and it’s all fading fast.”

“So you don’t remember falling, anything like that.”

“No, not at all,” Ray answered. “So what time is it now?”

“It’s just after 11:00 A.M.” Savage replied, pointing to a clock on the wall. “How’s your vision? Can you see the clock clearly or is it blurred?”

“No blurring.”

“Okay. Do you know what day it is?”

“Saturday,” said Ray, after a short pause.

“Good. We’re going to be monitoring you very closely.”

“Anything else wrong with me?” he asked.

“You took a very hard fall. I’m surprised you didn’t sustain any fractures. You were a mess when I first saw you, but you cleaned up okay. You have bumps and bruises. And once we get you up and around, you’re going to have some aches and pains.”

“I could use a cup of coffee.”

“Not for the next few days,” said Savage. “And after you’re discharged, you are going to have to take it easy for a week or ten days. Lots of rest, plenty of fluids, no alcohol, and moderate exercise. Do you use tobacco?”

“No.”

“Good. You’re going to be on vacation for a week.”

“I don’t have time for this,” said Ray.

“I hear that a lot,” Savage replied.

“How about this headache?”

“I’ll order some Tylenol. I don’t want you to take any other pain meds. I’ll have an office appointment scheduled for you at the time of your discharge. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” answered Ray, repeating back what he had just been told.

“You need to rest and take it easy. I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours.”

Elkins watched him depart.

“And I’ve got to run, too,” said Dr. Gutiérrez. “I’ve got several soccer games to officiate. Anything you need, magazines…?”

“How about this week’s
New Yorker
and a tall cup of French roast.”

“I’ll get you the magazine. Coffee, you heard the man.”

36

Branch County, seventy miles north of the university, was one of the most rural and economically depressed areas of the region. It lacked the rich soil that had brought prosperity to most of the state.

Pascoe parked in the visitors’ lot at the front of the Branch County Sheriff Department, a single story, flat-roofed building covered in a pinkish brick. She could see the county jail immediately behind, an aging three-story stockade-like building of cement block and reinforced concrete with bar-covered windows.

She stopped at the switchboard. A deputy, a woman about her age, led Pascoe to Sheriff Mike Ney’s office. The sheriff—short, heavy-set; bald except for a half-oval of gray hair; long sideburns; with a belly that hung over his belt—leaned forward over his desk to shake hands.

After settling into a chair, Pascoe said, “Thank you for coming in on a Saturday. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem, Miss. In a small department we hardly notice what day of the week it is, there’s always something that needs attending to. Sort of like having a dairy herd, if you know what I mean.”

Pascoe nodded and smiled, unsure of what he was referring to.

“So, how’s Elkins?” Ney asked.

“He had a serious concussion and has to stay in the hospital for a day or two for observation.”

“Don’t know him well, but I’ve heard several talks he gave at the Sheriff’s Association meetings. Seems like a smart man, but practical, too. Not like some of those college people.”

“Tell me about Merchant?” asked Pascoe, allowing his comment to pass.

“Well, I sent a couple of men to pick him up this morning, but he wasn’t there. They questioned his grandfather, that’s who he lives with. The old man is kinda senile. Can’t remember when he last saw Arlin, but thought it was a day or two ago. I checked with his parole officer, guess he hasn’t showed up for work in a week.” He pulled his glasses off and looked across at Pascoe. “Course, that’s not surprising. Whole family’s alcoholics. Imagine he just wandered off to do some drinking. In a few days he’ll run outta money and booze and come wandering back. What makes you think he might be involved in this shooting? You mentioned something about a letter on the phone.”

“I’ve got a copy here.” Pascoe sorted through her briefcase for a few moments and handed him a copy of the letter and the envelope, each in a plastic cover.

Ney put his glasses on to read the letter. He looked up at Pascoe and turned back to the letter. After he finished, he turned it over and set it on his desk. Then he examined the envelope. “The letter was sent from our post office, that’s clear. But are you sure Arlin wrote this? I mean, it’s obscene and all that, but it’s a pretty good letter. I didn’t think anyone in his family was educated enough to write this good.”

“The woman who received this letter is a member of the English department. He was a student in two of her classes at the penitentiary. She’s sure it’s his handwriting.”

“Letter’s about sex, doesn’t say anything about violence.”

Pascoe didn’t respond immediately. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Can you tell me about Merchant, the kinds of crimes he’s been involved in?”

“Pretty minor stuff, not in terms of the law, of course, but in real terms. Never heard him doing anything but stealing. When he was a kid, it was bikes and candy. By the time he was fifteen or sixteen, he was stealing cars, just joy riding at first. He got time in the juvie for that. Then he found out he could make some pretty good money by parting them out, better than the minimum wage jobs he was occasionally getting. He had a whole bunch of late model cars hidden back behind their garage in the woods. He was selling parts on order, sorta like a junk yard. If he didn’t have a part someone wanted, he’d steal a car to get what he needed. That’s what got him sent up. He had so many cars in that woods that someone couldn’t help but notice. Don’t think he ever used a gun or any other sorta weapon. Just steal cars at night. We think some of his friends were involved, too. We just never could nail them.”

“Was he ever suspected of any sex offenses?”

“Far as I know, never.” Ney paused. “In a little town like this everybody knows everyone else’s business. I’ve known Arlin from the time he was a kid. That poor bastard never had a chance. Family’s dirt poor, always has been. Never had the pot or the window, if you know what I mean. Arlin got most of what he needed from the time he was a kid by stealing. His people have always been trash. Merchant’s mother got knocked up with him when she was fourteen or fifteen. No idea who the father was, guess every boy in these parts got some of her. She had one more kid, a girl, before she got killed.”

“How did she die?”

“Car accident. Hit a tree. She was with some guy, both drunk. It was such a mess, never could quite tell which one of them was driving. Funny thing, on that whole stretch of road, bout two miles, there’s only one tree, a big oak, rest’s all fields. They hit the damn thing at seventy or eighty miles an hour. Must a been in a hurry for something.” He gave her a sly smile.

“How about Merchant’s sister?”

“She was a chip off the old block. She got in trouble while still a kid. A year or two later she met some guy and moved away. Don’t think she’s ever been back.” He picked up the letter and looked at it again. “Sending a letter like this ain’t right, but it ain’t illegal, either. And the letter don’t say nothing about shooting her.”

Pascoe looked at him, her eyes burning into him. “The things he’s suggesting are felonies.”

Ney pushed back from his desk. “Has he bothered this woman? Has she seen him? Has he been hanging around? Has he been stalking her?” His tone suggested annoyance.

“No, I don’t believe so. Just the letter.”

“Well, Miss, we’ll keep looking, and we’ll pick Merchant up for questioning when we find him. But I don’t think Arlin is the person you’re looking for.” He extended his hand without getting up, indicating to Pascoe that the meeting was over.