Chapter 3

Before she could speak again, the writer had one of those light bulb moments. He realized that there were way too many women in the bar, or way too few men. He had been to bars off and on most of his life. The men always, without exception, outnumbered the women. Eddie's always had more women than men. Before he could get lost in the thought, the woman went on.

"Doris Masters wants you to call her." The woman looked as though she expected applause from the other bar patrons. She was disappointed by their reaction. They could have cared less. All, except Eddie that was.

"You been trackin' Doris?" Eddie asked with a real edge in her voice.

"Nope, she helped me some with the book. Gave me a little background on the town." He took a look into the beer glass then asked, "Why, are you chasing after her?"

"Not really, she is just one of the few les chicks I haven't been able to score with."

"Jesus Eddie, I thought you had been with all the women in town." The writer was grinning wickedly at her.

"No writer, there are several on my list. Sammie over there and Doris head it up though."

"Sammie is gay?" The writer asked it in disbelief.

"Not yet," Eddie answered. "Besides men are gay, women are lesbians."

"I suppose," the writer stated.

"Anyway, why would Doris want to talk to you?" Eddie asked it with her eyes locked on his.

"Maybe she has thought of some more unsolved murders in the area."

"You aren't going to try to make that poor Maggie Evans woman Ted Bundy's victim are you?"

"Na, Bundy fried a long time ago. I was just ruling things out hon."

"Or, were you trying to rule Doris in?" Eddie was not smiling.

"They tell me Doris is not into men." It was indeed the word going around town.

"Hell writer, I ain't convinced yet that you are much of a man." He couldn't tell, if she was being nasty or not. It didn't matter, he paid his bill then turned to the door. Might as well try to call Doris, then head on home, he thought.

Once outside, under the light coming through the large glass window of the Laundromat, he found Doris's number in his address book. He dialed it. He did so even though he was afraid he might be waking her. Old maid librarians might go to bed early, he thought.

"Hello?" The sleepy voice of the old maid librarian was sexy, the writer thought.

"Did I wake you?"

"Writer is that you?" She sounded more awake.

"Yes Ma'am, I got a message that you wanted to speak to me."

"Not at midnight, come by the library tomorrow morning," she demanded.

"I guess it isn't true then?"

"No, I have some information for you, but it is at the library."

"That isn't what I meant. I guess every woman doesn't want to talk to a drunken stranger at midnight after all."

'

She laughed then said, "It isn't true in this case anyway. Come by tomorrow you will find it interesting."

"Ah, I do love a mystery," he said as he clicked the phone shut. It was almost one when he settled in for his first night sleeping in a tent since the sixties. The smell was not the one he remembered from those days. It smelled of chemicals that night. not sweat and fear.

Not to mention the eight-inch airbed was a lot different from sleeping on a ground sheet. He slipped off into a hard sleep helped along by the lateness of the hour. To his great pleasure, Ranger Jane ignored him that night. He had a complete uninterrupted night's sleep.

After his morning shower which was a slightly longer walk than before, he dropped the top on the convertible. Might as well have some fun, he decided, as he drove away from the space. He had decided, before he left home that he would always have breakfast out. It was by far the least expensive of his meals. That morning he went to the fast food restaurant in a nearby town. A double order of pancakes with a side of link sausage seemed a good idea.

The restaurant even let him use his own coffee cup. The delta cup rode with him everywhere. He could drive down the road without spilling a drop. When he left the restaurant, it was with the cup full. Doris and the library seemed a good second stop. After that he was going to be forced to do some real investigating. He had been gathering background long enough.

"So writer, had any more fires lately?" She asked it with just a hint of humor.

It struck a chord in his mind but he dropped it. "No, just the one. It seems to have been more than enough to render me homeless."

"I heard you were reduced to tenting?" He recognized it as a question.

"Yes that is me, tenting in the ole campground. Something rather fitting about that in the home place of bloody Bill Sherman."

"Come on, don't tell me you find something conspiratory in the fire."

"Let me see, in the land of Bloody Bill Sherman, Southern boy's house, such as it was, gets fire bombed. No, I don't find that at all strange. I bet it is a regular occurrence up here."

Since the writer had a huge grin on his face, Doris laughed. If the tent gets to be too much roughing it for you, you can come bunk in my spare room. I would love to see how a writer's mind works."

"Wouldn't you rather hold out for a real writer?" he asked.

"Not much chance a real writer will come to Small Town X," she declared with good humor. "I guess I will just have to settle for an Internet writer." She took a figurative deep breath then went on. "So, are you interested in a home away from Ranger Jane?"

"Not just yet, but I will keep it in mind." The writer said it as he tried to keep his good humor. "So what did you remember that will help me write my book?"

"I just remembered the details of a murder about ten years ago." He looked down at her curiously. "Hey, I almost forgot. Am I gonna get paid for this? I want a commitment before I go on."

"Depends, do I have to eat in one of those fancy places?" The writer asked it knowing he would pay either way. He didn't want to go though years of back newspapers to find what she already knew.

"Tell you what, there is a steakhouse outside Taylortown. It has the atmosphere of an old time speakeasy. How about we go there?"

"I don't know the place but you can show me the way." The writer had a feeling that something was going to happen on that date. He just wasn't sure he was ready for it.

"Okay, about ten years ago they pulled a woman from the lake. She had the proverbial blunt instrument trauma."

"Now that is interesting," the writer said.

"There is only one problem. Jason Thomas went to prison for it. He is doing fifteen years on a plea bargain." Doris said it tossing a newspaper on the desk.

"Any chance he got out on parole a couple of months ago?" The writer knew better but he had to ask.

"I called. He is tucked nicely away in his cell. Not expected to get out for at least three more years. He will probably do the whole fifteen. He has been turned down for parole twice. The victim's family goes to all his hearings. They want to keep him in jail."

"Okay who would remember the case best?" The writer asked it knowing there had to be more than the librarian could get from the papers. There always was.

"I just knew you were going to ask that. Writer, I have again done your research for you. I will give you that information over dinner."

"I am sorry Doris, that just won't do. I will have wasted a day. I want to see the person today, so that I can get this project moving."

"Well, like I said writer tonight." She gave him a quiet smile.

She did not look at all like a woman who wanted to help him. She looked more like a woman who wanted to help herself. He just couldn't figure, why she needed to black mail him to get a dinner date. Then again she was called the old maid librarian for some reason.

The writer left disgusted with himself and her. Her for not understanding his need for haste, and himself for not doing his own damned research. He decided to fix that immediately. He drove to the sheriff's office in Taylortown.

"Can I help you?" Deputy Conn asked.

"I hope so." The writer had a pretty good idea that he couldn't. He knew a bit about police departments and sheriff's too for that matter. "I want to check the records on a murder."

"Not another one," Conn mumbled.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" the writer asked.

"Nothing, who you want to look at?" Conn didn't look happy.

"Do you have the records here?" The writer knew that he wouldn't have them available that easily.

"Hell no, the records, section is in the basement. I call down they either send it or copy it. Copying can get expensive. The copies are a buck a page."

"In that case, I just want to know who the investigating officer was in a homicide about ten years ago. It was a homicide where the woman's body was found in the reservoir."

"I need the victim's name."

"Louise Soloman, ' The name meant nothing to either of them. The young deputy made a call to the records clerk who did the research. Conn spoke into the phone in a mumbled voice, then hung up.

"Investigating officer was Louis Sabine. Before you ask, he is retired now."

"Well I sure hope he ain't dead?" The writer gave the young deputy a look that said, we have wasted enough time.

"No, he runs a bait ranch on the road down to the lake. You can't miss it he sells gas and groceries too."

"How about the killer's lawyer? Do you happen to know his name?"

"Wouldn't be in our file, the court would know though. The court records section is upstairs in the lobby. You can't miss it."

Even if he couldn't miss it, the writer did. He had to ask directions from a clerk in the tax office. Once he finally found the court records section, he found that the lawyer for Jason Thomas had been the public defender. Odds were real good that there would be no information available from that office. Those guys were notoriously lax back home, he thought.

However, since their office was across the street from the courthouse he walked over. He got a break without knowing it. The head of the public defenders office at the time of Jason Thomas's trial had retired. He had not died by that time, so nobody was especially interested in protecting his image.

"Well writer, the file shows that Jason Thomas entered a plea bargain after Old Perry talked to him. He had shouted to the world that he was innocent right up till the trial began. Frankly Perry got everybody to plead. It was the way he did things."

"Well was Jason guilty or not?"

"He thought that they were all guilty as sin. If not for the crime they were charged with, then ten others."

"Nice attitude," the writer said it even though he was a law and order person. Not much chance of getting a fair trial, if you were poor in Small town x. or the whole damned country for that matter.

"Hey that was Perry's attitude, not mine. So, if you are asking if Jason did it, I have no idea."

"Anybody had any contact with Jason since the trial?"

"Nobody from this office. You might try his sister."

"Okay, I will. Who is the sister?"

"Joyce Jenkins," the lawyer said.

The name sounded vaguely familiar to the writer. It took a while for him to remember. He was on the way to the address given by the lawyer when he remembered. Joyce Jenkins was the woman who had been killed in the police standoff. He had read about it in the paper. He had wasted all afternoon securing information Doris could have given him over dinner. What an ass, he thought.

The writer walked back to the Sheriff's office. The traffic in Taylortown was only slightly more than Small Town X. The writer did have to wait for a farm tractor to pass which struck him as slightly odd.

"So, you forget something?" Deputy Conn asked.

"Not really, something else came up. So Deputy, tell me about Joyce Jenkins?" The writer gave him a look that said volumes and nothing. When cops kill a civilian, who is not in the commission of a crime, there are always a lot of whispers.

"Nothing to tell, she went off her nut and almost killed a paramedic. The sniper had to shoot her. She had a deer rifle you know.,

"Then it had nothing to do with her brother? The one who put his ex-wife in the lake?"

"Not a thing." Conn suddenly realized that he should keep his mouth shut. "That is all I am going to say writer."

"Oh you said plenty. What you didn't say is even more interesting." Even the writer had no idea what he meant. He did know that while running an investigation, it was a good idea to let people think you knew more than you did.

The writer left the building quietly. He decided he had better drive the little yellow convertible very carefully for a while. He suddenly had a desire to see the car Maggie Evans had used as a coffin.

He drove back toward Small Town X. Halfway between Small Town X and Taylortown sat a service station complete with fenced yard. The fence surrounded the impound lot, he presumed. He realized quickly that the fenced area was too large for a simple impound. That was unless the sheriff impounded every car in the county weekly.

"Help you?" an almost young man in greasy jeans asked.

"I expect so. I need somebody to take a look at this engine, it sounds a little rough to me. I don't have time to get it tuned today, but do you do that kind of stuff?"

"We sell gas, fix cars, sell used parts, if it breaks down we tow it, in other words there ain't much we don't do." He raised the hood to listen to the car. "This one sounds like a typical three cylinder engine. It is just noisy as hell. You might want to have it tuned up but I don't expect it will be any quieter."

"Thanks, what do I owe you for listening?"

"Nothing, just bring it back for the tuneup." He closed the hood then started to walk away.

"By the way what is your name?" The writer asked it, even though he had a pretty good idea.

"Tommy Burton," the man replied.

The writer nodded then followed him inside. "Tommy, tell me something do you have any of those beasts in the yard?"

"You mean one like that Metro?" he asked in return

"Yeah like that. It is missing a couple of control buttons for the heater." It was the only thing wrong with the car that the writer could think of right off the top of his head.

"Those things are hard to keep on. I am not real sure what year it is but there is one out there. It is a hatchback, if it isn't a newer one, it has them. Go down the road till you get to a high pile of cars, then start looking in front of them. The car is red."

The writer nodded then walked outside. He saw the yellow convertible in the front of the yard. It was in an area of cars that looked newer and complete. The young man's boss obviously kept the impounded cars in that area. The canvas, or whatever they made car tops from, was ripped. Probably by the diver who removed the body of Maggie Evans. The writer wanted to take a closer look but decided it might be a really bad idea.

He had walked very slowly down the road while he made his observations of the car. He continued on to the pile of cars making only a slight attempt to locate the red Metro. He gave it a few minutes then went back to the building.

"Tommy, I couldn't find the metro but don't worry, I will come back when I have more time."

"When I do that tune up, I can take a look for you," Tommy said helpfully.

"So Tommy, where do you keep your junkyard dogs?" The writer asked it as he turned toward the door. He had meant it as a throwaway question.

"Old Elmer stays at the boss's house during the day. Boss thinks the dog should have a time clock. He brings him in when we close. Then takes him home in the morning. His kids love to play with Old Elmer." He though a minute then asked to the writer's back. "Why?"

"Nothing Tommy, I just never seen a junkyard without a dog tied up someplace."

"Yeah, I guess that is true."

So much for climbing the fence to see the car. For one thing Old Elmer would not listen to any bullshit stories, for another, the chain link fence had barbed wire on it, and finally there was nothing to be learned from the car anyway. He had noted that his metro looked a lot like a pregnant version of Maggie's Miata. That and thirty k were the only differences.

The writer drove his Metro down the lake road. About a quarter mile down it, he came to the concrete block building with a live bait sign out front. It was by far not the only sign. There were signs for the gas prices, signs for the cigarette prices, signs with the brand name of the ice cream to be found inside. There were signs of about every type, except one with Louis Sabine's name on it. The writer put two dollars and twelve-cents worth of gas into his tiny car. He had already fallen in love with it. He walked slowly inside to pay.

Just as soon as he entered, he knew he was in the right place. The man behind the counter stood ramrod straight. A sign of either, military or paramilitary training, that wouldn't let him go. Then there was the handle of the stainless steel automatic pistol inside the pancake holster. The writer supposed that it was the real tip off.

"Two-twelve," the man of the writers own age demanded. "Anything else for you?"

"Actually there is something. I am here writing a book about the woman they found in the lake."

Sabine took a hard look before he asked, "Which woman?"

"Good question," the writer replied. "Seems Maggie Evans wasn't the first woman to try swimming with a car wrapped around her."

"Nice way to put it. Then again like you said you are a writer. Sorry friend don't give out information."

"Would it make a difference if I told you I was a retired cop too?" The writer waited.

"Yeah, I for sure wouldn't talk to you. You cops turned writer, feel like you have to expose everything. I liked the job myself. I did thirty damn fine years on the sheriff's department."

"I'm writing about Maggie Evans. I am just interested in the other one for background." He probably knew it was a lie. It was just to give him an excuse to talk. Everybody likes to talk about themselves unless they have something to hide. At least that was his cop impression of people.

"Ain't nothing similar about them. Evans was passing through. She was some kind of salesperson. Best I can figure from what I read between the lines in the paper, she was also something of a slut. Probably picked up a hitchhiker and he killed her." The cop gave the writer a hard look.

"Louise Soloman got done by her ex. They were in a squabble about child support and visitation. It happens all the time writer there is nothing sinister in that. The killer pled guilty."

"Now that bothers me some, the best I can tell he had a lawyer who prided himself on convincing everyone to plead out. I imagine the DA was selling, either plead and get fifteen to life, or I go for death."

"Not too many innocent men plead guilty." The cop had the tough to beat comeback all right.

"Not too many, but some do. So did you find anything that you couldn't explain?"

"Not a thing, everybody but the exhusband had an alibi. Her new husband was at work surrounded by twenty people all night. Best we could tell, if there was another man in her life, she had him hid pretty deep." The writer found it a little strange that the x-cop brought that up at all.

"Was there some reason you thought that she might have a lover?"

"Writer, almost everyone around here has a lover. It is just the nature of small towns, not enough moving picture shows I guess."

The writer shook his head. He had no idea what that meant. Small Town X wasn't the only small town around. He had never heard it expressed so matter of factly. The cop didn't find it odd that he suspected everyone in town was having an affair.

"Just tell me this one thing. Did you ever have any other suspect that looked good to you?"

"Well, she had run with some tough guys before she remarried. One of them has a pretty violent temper. We took a good look at him. You know, thought he might have resented her marrying someone else."

"So who were you looking at?"

"Why not tell you, don't make no difference now?" the cop suggested.

"Exactly," the writer agreed.

"Martin, down at the gas mart."

"Did anyone work on the random killer bit? You know, who it might be if it wasn't a friend or relative?" The writer asked it without much hope that they had. Most killings were family or someone the victim knew well. It just worked that way statistically. He also realized too late that the question made it sound as if they hadn't done a thorough investigation.

"Writer are you stupid, or just trying to insult me. We looked at everything for awhile. Since we never did get a confession from her Ex. We looked everywhere before we charged him. In the end he was the only one who made sense."

"Was there a lot of physical evidence?" The writer was pushing his luck and he knew it. He really did not want to read through the case file, even if he could get it.

"Almost none, she was last seen having a very noisy row with him. They arrange a meeting for later, since Eddie tells them to take it out of her place. She goes to the meeting and is never seen again. We figure he killed her at the lake. That is where the meeting was supposed to happen."

"So what is his version?" The writer hoped to wrap up the earlier death easily.

"He says she never showed." The writer smiled. "Writer what would you expect him to say?"

"That she never showed of course. It would be the truth or a lie depending on whether he killed her or not."

"Not much to pen a tail on him with though. Sounds like a lot of reasonable doubt to me."

"Mike Soloman was fit to me tied. We looked at him about why his wife had met Jason at the late. That place is famous for being a make out spot. Why she agreed to meet Jason there was a bit of a controversy, but Mike swore he didn't even know she was meeting him. Mike was in Wilson working on a new Kmart store. Had a tight alibi so we were back to Jason."

"How about a murder weapon?" The writer asked it hoping to pry something useful out of the detective.

"Jason had a nice set of tools in his truck. Them expensive snap on tools, he used them to work on motorcycles, boat motors, and such. He had a place for everything and everything had a place. There was a missing space where a half inch drive puller bar should have been. We searched the lake but never did find it."

"You mean to tell me he pled guilty because of a missing tool?" The writer asked it shaking his head.

"No, he pled guilty because he killed her." Even the retired cop's voice sounded shaky on that one.

"Anything else you can tell me?" the writer asked.

"Just that you ain't gonna find nothing more about Louise Soloman. We looked that one over real good. If Jason didn't do it, nobody is ever gonna pay for her."

"Oh, I don't care myself. I write fiction. In my book whoever I want to put in did it." The write smiled as he turned for his car.

"If you make it too a real, don't come back here. These folks get real nasty when they are riled."

"I already noticed that," the writer said from his convertible.

The writer drove his little toy car on down to the lake. He didn't have a plan. He simply wanted to see the spot where Maggie Evans had been pulled out. There was no way to be sure exactly where it had been, since the police tapes had long since been removed.

His curiosity got the best of him, so he used his cell phone to call the library. "Doris, I am down at the lake. Could you tell me where they recovered Maggie's body."

"Sure, did you go all the way to the boat ramp?"

"The concrete incline that goes into the water?" he asked.

"Yes that spot, they brought her out there, but they say she went in about a hundred yards to the right of there. I would think their would be some signs of it still."

"Thanks, I will take a look."

"I expect to see you at my place at seven," Doris stated, then hung up before he could answer her.

Just like a woman, he thought as he moved down the bank. He was looking for the broken bushes or bent saplings. Sure enough he found the spot. As he expected the spot was much less than a hundred yards. The wrecker would never have had enough cable to reach a hundred yards up stream. It it had been that far the car would have had to come out the same place it went in. The distance was less than thirty yards.

With it being so close, he had to wonder, why the killer hadn't driven her to the boat ramp. Probably expected her to be hidden longer a few yards away. Even so, he must have somehow gotten a lot of speed from the Miata to get it out as far as he did. It would have floated out some, the writer guessed.

He knew from Doris's conversation at the library that Louise's body had been pulled out at of the middle of the lake. She had become a floater rather quickly since the body was not weighted. It was probably the reason the state asked for so little time on Jason. No evidence of a planned killing. Therefore there was no capitol case to bring. If Jason's lawyer had cared, or if Jason had known the law, he would have known there was no death penalty case anyway. There would have been no real reason for him to plead to it. Odds were better than fifty, fifty that he would have walked.

The writer was hungry when he left the lake. He knew he had the right, it was after two p.m. He drove his convertible back to the campground. He intended to try out his camp stove. It was something he had never seen before so it would be an experience.

The stove came from a boy scout's nightmare. It was a gallon steel can. Probably the resting place for some industrial sized portion of green beans. One end had been completely removed. Holes had been cut on the side of the end that was left intact. They had been made with a beer opener. Holes had been drilled all around the end with the missing top. According to the instructions, typed on a plain piece of paper, one was to make a small fire with a couple of charcoal briquettes. After the briquettes were glowing, the stove was to be placed over them. It supposedly got hot enough to boil or fry.

The writer had his doubts. His expectation was that the only thing to get burned would be his hand. He cheated a little due to his advanced age. He placed three bricks on the wooden picnic table. Then he sat a disposable pie pan filled with sand onto the bricks. In the pan he placed the two charcoal briquettes. Since they were matchlite types he lit the newspaper under them. It took several minutes for them to glow.

The writer was truly amazed when after only a few more minutes, he was able to heat the beans and franks he had opened for his lunch. Not only that, he found he could have cooked for at least half an hour with the charcoal. His mind began to fill with fantasies of things he could cook. He laughed at himself when he realized how foolish a pursuit it was. He was about as likely to actually cook on the little camp stove as he was to solve the Maggie Evans murder. Both things had a probability rating of -0.

The day shift ranger had driven by while he cooked his food. The ranger stopped by after, supposedly to say hi. His real reason was to make sure he hadn't damaged the table. Even so the writer enjoyed the talk with the man who was at least sixty. He had the day shift because of his seniority no doubt. He was even less willing to talk about the happenings around Small Town X than Jane. It seemed they all felt, that they were not really a part of the town, since the park was located seven miles from the city limits.

"Oh, they use the place for meetings and get togethers once in a while, but mostly we get tourists like you. Well not exactly like you," Jane had once said.

"Well, I said my hellos," the day ranger said. "Guess I should get back to the office. This place keeps everyone busy."

"What does a ranger do when he is not patrolling the park?"

"Paperwork during the day shift. Make reservations that kind of thing. At night the ranger patrols a lot more often. She also has to keep a close eye on the cabins. We get a rowdy bunch up there once in a while. Can't have them fucking up those nice cabins."

"No, don't want a bunch of kids messing up the place." The writer was shocked by the word coming from an older man. Men his age just didn't come out with that word to almost total strangers. He tried to ignore it as best he could.

"Yeah, well writer you need to come by the office for a cup of coffee some morning. I know the ladies in the office would love to hear what you are up to out here." He smiled an almost wicked smile. He was in the SUV by the time he finished.

The writer nodded his agreement, then watched him drive away. The writer shook his head. He just wasn't used to being treated so well. He smiled, thinking that he had finally gotten sexy but it was to old ladies. He laughed out loud but quietly.

The remainder of his day was spent in a stupor brought on by the heat and his inactivity. Even in the stupor his mind worked. It just didn't bother telling him what it was doing. When he awoke from the heat drugged sleep, he looked at his watch. He realized that he was going to be early, if he began moving around so quickly.