The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (11 page)

“So, how’s the best-looking man in Hayslip doing today?” the waitress asked, her lips forming a coy smile.

Hubbard shrugged. “I don’t know. How’re you doing today, Sheriff?”

Toil rolled his eyes.

“Your uncle had lunch here on Friday,” Sarah said, putting a hand on her hip. “He had the meatloaf.”

Hubbard sighed. “Can’t go wrong with meatloaf.”

“Did y’all hear Eddie found a dead Arab in Shanty Town?” Sarah asked.

Toil’s back straightened. “Sarah, I’m the sheriff. Of course I heard. It’s my job.”

“Just making conversation. Everyone’s talking about it. Jake Tyler heard the police think he was part of some terrorist group.”

Toil leaned in. He arched an eyebrow as if he was getting angry. “Sarah,
I am the police
.”

Sarah didn’t seem convinced. “Are you two big spenders getting something to eat or are you going to be draining coffee cups all morning?”

“Nothing for me,” Toil said. His jacket was open and he patted his large stomach in support of his decision.

Hubbard looked up. “Two eggs over medium. Dry toast. Bacon. Hash browns. And a side of grits.”

Sarah whisked off to another table.

“So what couldn’t you talk about on the phone?”

Toil looked down at the table and rubbed his hand across his mouth and then looked around the large room. Hubbard followed his gaze and surveyed the diners as well. No one seemed to be paying attention to them.

“Yesterday afternoon, I tried to call Amir’s parents overseas. A hell of a lot of numbers, but it was the home phone number the school listed for him in Egypt.”

“I wondered what country he was from,” Hubbard said. “So, how did the conversation go? I know it must have been a difficult—”

“No. You don’t understand what happened on the call.”

“I guess I don’t.”

“So, I called and a guy talking Arab answers. And I think: how am I going to get through to this rag head and make him understand? So, I talk real slow, like—I—am—the—sheriff—of—Hayslip—Arkansas—in—the—United—States—”

Hubbard put up one hand. “I got it. So what happened?”

“Well, this went on for a few minutes. He’d say something in Egyptian gobbledygook, and I had to back up and begin again. Until finally . . .” Toil paused inexplicably to take a sip of coffee.

Hubbard’s bobbed his head to encourage him to finish his story. “Finally?”

“The Arab started talking English, but with a Boston accent.” Toil did a poor imitation of an accent that seemed far from Bostonian. “He’s says, ‘Will ya hold da line for a moment?’ So he puts me on hold and I hear elevator music. Would somebody tell me
who
on earth likes that classical music?” Toil looked almost as if he thought the classical music was the strangest part of the call. “Then another guy comes on the line. He says, ‘This is Staff Sergeant Charles Harshaw, United States Marines. You are on a secure line. Please identify yourself.’ ”

Toil was silent.

“Wow,” Hubbard said, almost as a whisper. His single word response was inadequate, but he couldn’t think of anything better. “And?”

“Well, I tried to tell him who I was. But he stopped me and asked for my mother’s maiden name.”

“Didn’t he believe you were a sheriff?”

“Hell, I don’t know. He wanted to know how I got the number and why I was calling it. He had an attitude like I did something wrong. It kinda pissed me off.”

“Did you tell him why you were calling?”

“Yeah, of course. I told him that we had a dead Egyptian student and I was calling the contact number for his parents. He asks me if it was a car accident. I tell him no, Amir Abadi was murdered.”

Toil took another sip of coffee.

Hubbard placed his hands on the table. “And you’re killing me now. So, what happened then?”

“Well, he puts me on hold again and the damn classical comes back on. The Marine returns and says I wasn’t to go anywhere because I’d be getting a phone call from the FBI in Washington within thirty minutes. I asked him if he needed my phone number, but he said—get this—he said that he has my office number, my cell and my home number. But before he gets off, I ask him where the hell I called? After some huffing and puffing, he says I called a special phone line into the United States Embassy in Cairo, but it would be deactivated as soon as we hung up so don’t call it again. Anyway, he says for me to shelter in place.”

Hubbard tried to make a reasonable connection from the Arab student to a secure line into the U.S. embassy in Egypt, but came up empty. “So what’d you do?”

The sheriff seemed embarrassed. “Well, I . . . uh . . .”

Hubbard tried not to smile. “You called that phone number again to see if he deactivated it like he said?”

Toil was sheepish. “I couldn’t resist. But he was right. Just dead air.”

“And did the FBI call you?”

“Yeah, about forty-minutes later the phone rings. My caller ID says it’s from Washington. It’s some guy who says he’s some sort of big deal with the FBI, assistant director or some such thing, and wants me to identify myself again. I try to give him my mother’s maiden name, but he says he wants me to tell him what elementary school I went to. I tell him. Then he asks for my social security number. Well, I’m not going to just give out my social security number over the phone. So, he goes so far as to tell
me
the number and asks me to confirm if it’s correct or not.”

“What’d you say?”

“I uh, told him he was correct?”

“So, where did all this end up?”

“He said an FBI team was on its way from Washington and I wasn’t supposed to talk about either the call or the student to anyone else
under the penalty of law
.”

“And have you said anything to anyone? I mean, in addition to me?”

“No, of course not. The only people I’ve told have been you, Eddie, my wife, and my sister. I know how to keep a secret.”

“That’s good,” Hubbard said.
Hasn’t the FBI ever been in a small town?

“When do they get here?”

“Maybe today, but why does the kid’s home phone number connect to a U.S. government facility with people pretending to be his family answering?”

Sarah returned with Hubbard’s breakfast. They watched in silence as she placed his food on the table. After she filled both their cups again, she left and they resumed the conversation.

The sheriff kept trying to put the pieces together. “Where are his parents? Why agents? Murder isn’t a federal offense. They don’t have jurisdiction on this. Why aren’t they sending people from Little Rock?”

“Good questions. Well, you’re right. It’s pretty freaky.”

“Damn straight it’s freaky.”

“Is Sergeant Connors in your office? I saw a trooper standing outside.”

“Yeah, he is. I told the Feds a murder is handled by the state police, not me. I think Connors expects me to say something to him about the FBI, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction—”

He was cut off by Eddie, who rushed up to the booth, breathing hard. “Sheriff, the you-know-who is here.”

In one fluid motion, Toil was on his feet. “Well, I gotta run. C’mon Eddie, let’s go.” Toil bolted from the table.

Eddie remained behind, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting his weight from one foot to another. It looked as if he wanted to say something but was having trouble finding the words. “You know, about last night. When you were walking away, right before you made the first turn, uh, uh, I know you’re not going to believe this, um, but I swear to God, coming up behind you on the road I saw—”

“Eddie!” Toil shouted from the far side of the room. Startled patrons turned to look at the deputy.

“Talk to you later.” Eddie left in pursuit of the sheriff.

“Later.” Hubbard frowned. What did Eddie see?
Moonshine plays tricks on your mind.

He didn’t want to hear another ghost story.

A few minutes later, he paid his bill and exited the café, squinting in the bright morning sun.
Don’t get tied up in this. Emily is arriving in just a few hours.
Stay focused. Go buy a new tractor.

Across the square there were six large vehicles that hadn’t been there earlier. Three Suburbans and three panel vans, all black with tinted windows, were parked in a row in front of the sheriff’s office. It appeared the FBI wasn’t interested in making a low-key entrance into Hayslip.

The arrival of the FBI energized the members of the news media. They stood behind the yellow tape and badgered the trooper with questions.

One reporter’s shouted question floated across the town square. “What’s going on?”

Yeah. What is going on?

11

Y
OUR
A
CTION
N
EWS
T
EAM

H
UBBARD WAS STILL ON THE SIDEWALK
in front of City Café when he heard a voice coming from his left.

“
Hey
. . . Hey, buddy! Help me out, please.” It was a man’s voice filled with desperation. Hubbard turned around to see a middle-aged man chugging down the sidewalk. The pudgy man’s face was red, and covered in sweat. His appearance was so strained that Hubbard thought the man was having a heart attack.

“Are you all right?” Hubbard asked, trying to remember CPR.

The man caught up with him and grabbed Hubbard’s arm, holding him while he caught his breath. A second man, somewhat younger, with a video camera in one hand and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, was following behind him. Hubbard noticed the sweat-stained writing pad in the first man’s hand.

“Can I help you?”

“Please . . . please,” the man said, between breaths.

The cameraman behind the reporter was in a much better shape. When he joined them, he looked up at the sky, shielding his eyes in the bright sunlight, and then took a few steps to the left, putting the sun behind him. He placed the camera on his shoulder and pointed it at Hubbard.

The panting man had recovered somewhat, although his shirt collar was soaked with sweat.

“We’ve got to feed an interview about the murder of the student back to the station within five minutes for the noon news,” the reporter said.

Hubbard looked at his watch.

The reporter held up his hand. “I know it looks like we’ve got time. But we’ve got to put the whole thing together. Do my VO, send it, and they have to assemble it . . . It takes time. I need a comment from a local on the murder . . . any local will do and you’re right here.”

“Well, I don’t really know anything. The folks in the municipal building are probably your best source of—”

“Oh, no. I just need a comment from a resident. You live here, don’t you?”

“Well . . . yeah,” Hubbard said. An old man, Mark Stillings, caught his eye from across the square. The elderly man loved to talk. In fact, he hated to stop talking. “I’ll tell you who’d be good. See that gentleman over there—”

“If I have to run across this square, I’ll die. I’ll literally die. No joke,” the reporter pleaded. “It’s just a couple of questions, nothing big. Thirty seconds of your time. Do unto others, you know? Your name?”

“John Riley Hubbard . . . Okay, thirty seconds, and that’s it.”

“God bless you,” the reporter said. “I’m Ben Silverman. I’m with Channel Five’s ‘Total News Now’ news team.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“So, do you know what to do in an interview?” Silverman made a hand gesture to the cameraman.

“Uh . . . I answer your questions?”

“Well, that’s a good start. But I mean you need to answer with full sentences, not just ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Like if I ask something like . . . Are tomatoes an important crop for Hayslip? You’d answer, ‘tomatoes are a very important crop to Hayslip’ . . . or whatever you thought. Got it?

“Uh . . . yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“Okay, let’s begin with an easy one.”

Hubbard nodded. He wondered if this was a good idea.

“There’s talk around town about the death of a young Arab man with a mysterious background, a loner with few friends. I’ve heard some people believe his death may be associated with terrorist activities. Do you think it’s understandable that some people are thinking about terrorism? Or do you disagree with the talk about terrorism?”

Hubbard took a moment, struggling with the question. “I . . . uh . . . guess . . . I disagree?”

The reporter sighed. “Remember full answers.” He tried another question. “Do you think stronger gun controls could’ve done anything to prevent this murder?”

“Um . . . I don’t . . . wasn’t he killed by a shotgun?”

The reporter closed his eyes. “Jesus,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry I don’t know if I’m very good at this,” Hubbard said.

The reporter tried again. “Tell me about the sense of outrage the town feels now.”

“Outrage?” Hubbard noticed that the reporter frowned. “I guess we all feel a sense of outrage. When anyone is murdered, it’s natural to be outraged, I guess.”

“There have been complaints in the past about the state police in southeast Arkansas. What do you think about the way the state police is handling the investigation?”

“I don’t know what the state police are doing. I don’t think anyone in town does. They haven’t given out any information. I guess they’ll make some announcement later today.”

The reporter turned to look at the cameraman, who shrugged in response.

“Okay,” Silverman said. “That’ll have to do. Thank you.”

Before Hubbard responded, the two men were running back to their truck. Hubbard stepped off the curb and spotted Eddie running back toward the café.

Eddie waved at he approached. “The FBI folks left Washington early this morning and they got some real empty stomachs. I gotta pick up their order.” He came to a stop in front of Hubbard. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“They got a female FBI lady with them and she’s a looker and a half!”

Hubbard began a warning. “Now, Eddie—”

Eddie shook his head in a broad motion. “Oh, no! I’ve learned my lesson the hard way. I’m live bait for women. I know that now.”

“That’s good. Any leads? What are they talking about in there?”

“Nobody’s talking about anything—they’re all yelling like they’re on late-night radio.”

“Really? What are they yelling about?”

“I’m Southern Baptist. Baptists can’t say the words the FBI man used without guaranteeing a spot in hell. My preacher says that it’s better to bite your tongue than fall off the precipice into the fiery inferno.”

“I don’t want you to be damned for eternity on my account. Just give me an idea of what they’re saying . . .”

Eddie’s eyes turned up and his brow creased in concentration. “Let’s see . . . the
blankety-blank
corrupted crime scene evidence . . . and whose
blanking
footprints are whose in the police photos . . . and why Connors allowed a
mother-blanking
reporter on the scene. And how the hell did the reporter find out about the murder in the first place?”

Head bent, Hubbard listened intently to Eddie’s summary, surprised Connors rather than Toil, was blamed for the bungled crime scene.

Eddie picked up speed as he got into a rhythm. “And the amateur way Connors runs an investigation and why does Connors try to blame everything on the sheriff and why’d it take so long to stop
blanking
around and get a team to the Arab’s apartment.”

Eddie stopped talking with an expectant look on his face, apparently waiting for Hubbard’s reaction.

Hubbard couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I guess I agree with the FBI’s summary of events.”

Eddie nodded. “Well, I’ve got to get going or they’ll be yelling at me about why I took so
goddamn
long to bring them their hamburgers.”

Eddie realized he used the base language of a sinner, his voice lowered in dejection. “Well, look at me. I’m talking like I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

Hubbard patted Eddie on the shoulder in an effort to console him as the deputy went into the café.

Across the square, the reporters were still waiting for some kind of statement from the sheriff, state police, FBI, or whoever might be running the show. Hubbard had his own questions. Taking the long way to the municipal building, Hubbard passed the row of FBI vehicles, all empty save one. Behind the wheel of an SUV, an agent in the familiar blue jacket held a cell phone to his ear. His face was colored by emotion. To Hubbard, it looked like he was begging for understanding from someone who didn’t give a hoot about his emotional distress. The agent’s left hand was on the steering wheel and Hubbard saw the gold band.
Ah, marriage.

Hubbard was now at the rear of the building. Back at mid-century, during Hayslip’s golden years, the entire city building was filled with town and county offices. As cheaper imported tomatoes flooded the market, Hayslip declined in size, and so did the number of public servants. Instead of letting large sections of the building remain vacant, private businesses leased office space. One of those businesses was the
Pink Lady Beauty Parlor.
The shop’s entrance was located at the rear of the large building. He knew the shop’s owner, Sally Place, would accommodate a man in need.

The
Pink Lady’s
door and the sign above were adorned with a painted illustration of a tomato, since the business’s name was a reference to a popular tomato type, not a blushing woman. Hubbard paused before he went in, coming up with phony details to justify his request—if pressed.

As he entered, the happy chatter of women, comfortable in their domain, greeted him. He was inside for only a moment before their conversations diminished, hair dryers were lowered, scissors fell silent, and heads turned toward him. The women brazenly examined him, looking him up and down. It was disconcerting.

Sally Place came out of a room at the back of the salon and appeared surprised to see Hubbard standing at its center. She glanced at her hairdressers and tapped her watch with emphasis. “Back to work,” she said. Sally approached Hubbard and examined him like he was a yard sale find.

Hubbard began his prepared explanation. “I was wondering if I could cut through your shop to get to the uh, facilities. You see—”

“Sure, go ahead. You know the way.”

It took a moment to accept the easy victory. “Thanks,” he said.

Hubbard headed for the door leading to the interior of the building. The long corridor would pass by the back door into Toil’s office.

He slowed as neared the sheriff’s office. He didn’t know what he hoped to discover on this scouting mission. But if the venetian blinds in front of the glass in the door weren’t fully closed, he could view the office unseen, getting a glimpse of a map, or some photos of persons of interest, or a list of key insights into the nature of the crime taped to the wall, as was done in the hundreds or so TV dramas he’d seen. Then he’d be on his way.

The view wasn’t as exciting as he hoped. Most of the agents had abandoned their coats and wore white shirts with ties. The eldest agent, a Latino man with silver streaks in his hair, had appropriated Toil’s desk.

Eddie had made good time and when he entered carrying a box full of lunch sacks, most of the agents pounced on the box.

Hubbard brought his attention to Calvin Connors. The sergeant was the farthest away, directly opposite Hubbard. He sat alone on a straight-back chair. His eyes were vacant. His only sign of life was his chest rising and falling. Under his arms, dark patches of perspiration stained his khaki shirt. He didn’t seem interested in lunch.

One agent, tall and skinny, with a bald spot on the rear of his head, stood in front of a white board. Hubbard noted the thin agent’s wire-framed glasses when the man turned his head to say something to the senior agent at the desk. The older agent didn’t react, so he returned his attention to something written in bold red marker on the board. Frustratingly, only a few letters were visible, the complete sentence was blocked from Hubbard’s view by the agent at the board. If Hubbard was going to gain anything from this excursion, the man needed to step aside.

Hubbard counted the agents in the room. The total was fewer than the vehicles parked out front. Maybe Hubbard was wrong—at least some of Feds were inspecting the crime scene or tracking the killer.

He heard a toilet flush, followed by a second and third—maybe all agents were here still. The amount of time available to Hubbard was reduced to the time required to wash hands.

Hubbard issued a thought command to the skinny guy at the white board.
Move!
Were the Feds looking at the murder the same way he was? For Hubbard, evidence for a possible motive was provided by the blue suit the Arab was wearing that morning.

What were these professionals thinking?

The agent put the marker down on the tray. His small movement revealed two words—
Find the . . .

The man continued to stand motionless in front of the white board.

Find the what? Find the what!

The fed paced to a nearby chair, revealing the last crimson word—
images
. A list of photo-sharing sites was listed underneath. Images? Did they mean digital copies of the photos stolen during the break-in? How did they know about them? Why were they important?

There were two other points, scrawled sloppily on the side and difficult to read. He didn’t have time to decipher them; it was time to get going.

Hubbard became aware of another person in the corridor watching him. He slowly turned to face a petite young woman with straight black hair, dressed in a black blazer, matching slacks, and a silver blouse. Her arms were folded and an FBI badge was attached to her belt. She was coolly evaluating him from a few feet away.

Hubbard tried to bluff. “Excuse me. Can you direct me to the restrooms?”

From her bemused reaction, it wasn’t going to work.