The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (16 page)

“I’m glad the good doctor believes in the privacy of health information.”

“We all grew up together. That trumps PHI.”

“If he said that I wanted him to kill me and didn’t explain the whole thing, I think I may have to go over it all again.”

“Go over what?”

“Hear me out. This is how it will go down. They’ll make a hole in my skull so that they get to that tumor buried deep in my brain. If possible, he’ll cut the thing out. I’ll have to do some physical therapy when I get out, but I’m alive.

The other possibility is that they won’t be able to cut it out and it’ll remain there. According to the Mayo Clinic doctors, I’ll be dead in nine to twelve months. Now, how interested do you think I’ll be in starting physical therapy to last out the last few months of my life? I’ll be living the last few months of my life pissing on myself or talking like a four-year-old.

My solution is this. If the tumor is located where he can take it out and save my life, well, I want him to do. If it can’t be cut out, then I don’t wake up. It’s really quite simple.”

“It’s not that simple. You’re asking him to murder you.”

“No, I’m not. I’m asking him to recognize when my life can’t be saved. It’s the same as writing DNR on a chart—Do Not Resuscitate. Doctors write it on charts all the time. I want to make the decision on how I die. Do you really think I’d play this any other way?”

Harper leaned back and looked at R.J. with pity. “How do you live with yourself?”

R.J. gave him a tepid smile. “Next question.”

“Okay. Are you going to have a conversation with John Riley before you do this? You owe him that. You have something to tell him. Let him find some kind of peace.”

R.J.’s have hardened and his voice lowered. “Harper, don’t pretend to have knowledge that you don’t have.”

The Reverend leaned across the table. “I’ve tried to save your soul my whole life. You were my mission. How stupid was that. Okay, I failed. I failed in so many ways. But I can’t fail in this.
You will have that conversation with him. I’ll see to it. You won’t go to your grave with secrets between you.

R.J. stood. He felt the weakness in his left side. “If you think you know anything about me, then you know this. Don’t cross me. After I’m gone you can tell him whatever you like. Make up a fairy story.
But you don’t know anything
.”

R.J. walked from the restaurant trying to disguise his limp, ignoring all the eyes that were watching him leave.

On the square, Hubbard debated whether he should go to the sheriff’s office or head for his truck, still parked, he hoped, behind the
Shop and Drop
. He decided that seeing the condition of his truck was his top priority and headed for the pharmacy and its short cut to the alley.

Inside the store, the girl at the register, who he had nodded to a half-hour before, looked up. Her brow knit with concern and she pointed toward the back door. “Everyone’s out back looking at your pickup. I’m
soooo
sorry.”

Oh, shit.

Hubbard threw open the back door and saw a group of nine or ten onlookers gathered at the side of the truck, facing away from him, all focused on his truck. They were abuzz with conversation, pointing and gesturing in dismay at something hidden from his view by the informal congregation. Surprisingly, he saw Mrs. Welsh in the crowd. It was very unusual for her to leave her post at the
Union Democrat
offices.

The cluster effectively blocked his sightline until Jimmy Rodgers, who owned the dry cleaners, bent down to examine the damage to the truck’s rear fender. There was a long crease in the sheet metal that hadn’t been there this morning.

Sheriff Toil turned and spotted Hubbard approaching. “Okay, here he is. Give him some room.”

The rest of the small crowd wheeled around to face him, their eyes wide, anticipating his reaction. They fell quiet, and began backing away from the truck, revealing the damage. His vehicle looked like it had lost a prize fight. Someone had taken a club of some kind and started at one end of his truck and began swinging away, creating deep dents in each panel of metal and knocking off his side mirror which still dangled from a thick black cord. Hubbard counted the indentations, at least seven separate blows, high and low, left a trail of woe on the side closest to him.

Everyone was quiet; respectful as mourners at a gravesite. Shaking his head, Hubbard walked slowly to the rear of the truck. No damage was evident there.

Toil spoke up. “Whoever did this got this side and cracked the side mirror on the other side as well, but nothing else. I guess something must have scared him off.”

Rogers, the dry cleaner, wearing a logoed blue polo shirt, patted Hubbard’s back as he passed. “Sorry, man. You’d think that with a state police cruiser back here this morning, nothing like this could happen. This town sure is changing, and I don’t like it.”

Hubbard’s mind was in a cloud. The damage seemed so mindless and vindictive. “State Police?
Arkansas
State Police?”

Rogers nodded broadly and smiled. “Well, yeah, Louisiana State Police sure don’t work here.”

“What were they doing in the alley?” Hubbard said. His brow creased as he tried to piece this together.

“Patrolling, I guess. If they just stayed here a little longer, I bet the trooper would have caught the guy. It was probably some teenager playing hooky, looking for trouble.”

“Yeah,” Hubbard said, softly.

Toil walked up to Hubbard. “We’ll find the guy. I’ve got a call into Pete Druckman.”

“Druckman? Why?”

Bill Lader, the pharmacist, stepped closer. “He went out the back door after he got his nose drops. He might have seen something.”

“Oh . . . Maybe.”

His eyes turned toward Mrs. Welsh. She was staring at Hubbard with an expression he had never seen on her face. What was it? Embarrassment? Why would she . . . He looked down at the newspaper rolled up in her hands. She had it wrung so tightly it looked like she was trying to wring the ink from it.

“Mrs. Welsh, um, is the damage to my truck going to be in the paper? I don’t think—”

“That’s not why I’m here. Have you seen the paper?”

“No. I’ll probably get it in the mail this afternoon. I’ll look at it tonight.” He turned back to survey the damage to his vehicle once again.

“Maybe you should look at it now.
There’s something I need to explain
.”

Hubbard had a new sinking feeling in his gut, and slowly turned back to her. The raw emotion on Mrs. Welsh’s face concerned him more than the damage to his truck. He took two long steps toward her and held out his hand for the newspaper.

She didn’t immediately respond. She took a deep breath, releasing the air from her lungs as she handed Hubbard the new issue of the
Union Democrat
.

It was twisted so tightly that it took Hubbard a moment to find the paper’s edge and begin to unroll it.

Toil stood beside him. “Great story. You made Sergeant Connors look like a fool. The FBI informed Connors’s captain that they’d be working directly with Hayslip law enforcement from now on.” Toil rocked back and forth on his feet.
“I feel like a kid on his birthday.
I’m telling everyone in town that whatever John Riley says about the murder goes for me to. I owe that to you.”

Hubbard flipped the weekly to the front page where his story and photos were laid out in four columns. Above his bylined article, a bold black headline seemed to shout;
White River Killer Hits Hayslip
.

What
. . .
the
. . .
hell?

Eddie burst out of the pharmacy’s back door at a gallop and skidded to a stop a few feet away. He was breathing heavily, as if he had been sprinting. “There you are, John Riley. The FBI boss man said he wants the trouble-making reporter who’s spreading lies and panicking the whole town. He thinks you must want to play hard ball.” Eddie peeked back at the pharmacy door as if he was concerned he had been followed, and then back to Hubbard. “I told him I knew right where to find the troublemaker and he didn’t need to send all those other agents.”

Hubbard sighed. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“You’re welcome.”

17

C
HECK AND
M
ATE

E
DDIE’S BREATHLESS ANNOUNCEMENT
of the FBI’s intention to play hard ball with Hubbard cast a pall over the alley. The remaining onlookers began drifting away, as if they were avoiding guilt by proximity. Their exit left Hubbard, Toil, Eddie and an overwrought Mrs. Welsh alone behind the pharmacy. Hubbard discovered he couldn’t get upset with the woman over the misleading headline, which was “panicking the town” in the view of the feds. The
Union Democrat
editor’s anguished face suggested the judicious Mrs. Welsh was punishing herself far too much over the alarming banner without his adding to her distress.

“Okay, Eddie,” Toil said, “you’ve delivered the FBI’s message, but remember you still work for me. I need you to hop in the patrol car and get over to the Higginbotham farm. Take them the Star City police report. They’ll need it to make an insurance claim on that blue work truck of theirs. I’ve warned that old man a thousand times that it’s not like the old days when you could keep your keys in the car ignition and leave your front door unlocked at night
.
But hell, what can you expect from a farmer who’s dumb enough to think he’s going to make money planting cotton?”

Hubbard rubbed his forehead, trying to process the last few minutes. He lowered his hand and turned to the sheriff. “What happened to Mr. Higginbotham’s truck?”

“It went missing this past weekend. The sheriff over in Star City called to tell me they found his old pickup early this morning. Somebody pushed it down the embankment by the Highway 121 Bridge. It rolled into the White—total loss.”

Hubbard’s head tilted to the side as he considered the timing of the theft. “Last weekend? Do you think it could have been used in the murder?”

Toil’s mouth turned downward. “Nah, probably just some kids out for a joy ride. You know how teenagers are. Parents should lock them up at night.”

Hubbard wasn’t convinced, as Toil seemed to be, that juvenile delinquents were the criminal kingpins of Hayslip. He shook his head in response. “But still . . .”

Eddie’s forehead furrowed as if he was troubled by Hubbard’s idea.

Toil swung back toward his deputy. “Eddie, do you want to do it
today?”

“Oh . . . You bet.” Eddie turned on his heel and was off.

Mrs. Welsh held a white lace handkerchief in her right hand and pulled at its embroidered edge with her left. Her eyes were watery, on the verge of tears.

Hubbard decided the morning was bad enough without making an old lady cry. He took a breath and tried to find some lightness in his voice. “Um . . . The White River Killer? Gee, how’d that make it into the paper? I didn’t mention the White River Killer in my story . . . Or did I? Was the serial killer added to my copy? No big deal.
Just asking
.”

“No, of course not. The only thing Tony changed was the headline. He called the printer before they went to press. I saw it this morning for the first time like everybody else.”

“Doesn’t Andrews need to get your approval before—?”

Mrs. Welsh raised her arms helplessly. “He owns the newspaper. He can do whatever he wants.” The old lady lowered her head, her right arm straightened and her hand lightly struck the side of her body again and again, as if she was whipping herself. “I can’t believe this happened on my watch” Her voice broke with emotion. “My watch . . . my
res-spons-ibility
.”

Hubbard had spent years trying to halt his mother’s endless stream of tears. He couldn’t bear any more. He put his arm around her shoulder. “Mrs. Welsh, the
Union Democrat
is a small town weekly newspaper,
not
NATO Supreme Command. Don’t worry about this happening on
your watch
. It was out of your control. Okay? Please don’t.”

Mrs. Welsh dabbed at her eyes. “You don’t blame me? Does the town?”

“No one thinks one thing about it.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Say, that reminds me. Is Tony planning on being in the office today? I’d like to chat with him for a minute.”

“Later this afternoon.”

“Okay. I might drop by.”

“I don’t want this to cause a fuss. You know how Tony can get when he doesn’t get his way.”

Hubbard forced a half-smile, trying to convince Mrs. Welsh he wasn’t mad. “Oh, I know. He can be quite petulant.
Petulant
, what a word! Wasn’t that one of your vocabulary words back in the day? You see? I
was
listening in your class.”

“Yes you were, dear.” Mrs. Welsh wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “Well . . . I need to get back to the office and deal with all the calls. The phone is ringing nonstop.” Mrs. Welsh patted Hubbard’s hand and then headed down the alley.

Hubbard watched his former teacher make her retreat; her head lowered in undeserved shame. A knot tightened in his gut.

Toil sidled up beside him. Although they were alone, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth like a bookie leaning against the rail at
Oaklawn
. “So, how do you want to play this? I can tell the FBI you gave me the slip. I’ve got a cabin in the deer woods if you want to lay low for a while. I bet your uncle can take care of this in no time.”

Hubbard’s back straightened in surprise. “You’re kidding.
You think I should go on the lam?
I’ve got a daughter to raise, a farm to work, and after R.J.’s crew leaves today, a lawn to patch up. I haven’t broken any laws.”

Toil put one hand on his chest as if he was taking a pledge and leaned into Hubbard to emphasize his point. “I don’t think they care if you’ve done anything wrong or not. These guys are dead serious.
This is big.
I know they had more feds lurking around town the last couple of days than the few they let me see. I told you, this is freaky stuff.” Toil raised his head to survey the alley in both directions. He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “A team of agents boxed everything up in the Arab kid’s apartment late last night. It all left in an unmarked truck: furniture, personal effects—the whole lot. It’s like he never lived there.”

“Is that standard procedure? I thought they kept everything sealed up during the investigation.”

“I don’t know. Not this one, I guess . . . Of course, I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Sure, I understand.”

Both of Toil’s eyebrows arched. “But that’s not all.”

“There’s more?”

Toil indicated a notice painted on the alley wall. “Just between you, me and the
Do Not Park Here
sign.”

“Sure.”

“The kid’s body: They’re going to bury him in the U.S. They’re not shipping him home to Egypt.”

Hubbard’s jaw clenched at the news. He didn’t know Amir, but was forming an attachment to a kid everyone seemed determined to erase. “Why not? His parents deserve—”

“The FBI told Connors that his family doesn’t want the body sent to them. Must be some crazy Arab surreal-a-law.”

“
Sharia law
, I think . . . But that can’t be right. How did they reach his parents to find out they don’t want his body? That phone number . . .”

Toil shrugged.

Hubbard scratched his chin as he sifted through the new information. “I know you’re supposed to keep everything
hush-hush
.”

“Under penalty of law.”

“
Right
. . . Do they have any kind of theory about what happened to him?”

Toil placed a hand on Hubbard’s shoulder and spoke to him like he was an exceptionally slow student. “He was shot.”

“No. I mean,
who
shot him? Or how the murderer could put a shotgun right up to his chest without a struggle?”

The sheriff’s reply did little to disguise his unhappiness with his role in the investigation. “Nope, they haven’t taken the time to say diddly to me
and I’m the
goddamn
sheriff
.
”

“What about the blue suit he was wearing?”

“What about it?”

“They still think he was killed early Sunday morning . . .
Right?”

“Yeah. About nine a.m. according to the coroner. So?”

Hubbard took the sheriff by the arm and walked down the alley a few paces, trying to make the part-time lawman focus on his words. “If you were in Monticello, Arkansas, on a Sunday morning and saw a young man wearing a suit and tie, where would you think he was heading?”

“Church . . . But Amen, or Amir, or whoever was an Arab.”

“Yeah, I know. But on
that
Sunday morning he was on his way to church. I can’t think of any reason you’d dress up early Sunday in southeast Arkansas except for church. Can you?

“Um . . . But he was an
Arab
.”

“Yeah.
I got that part
. Maybe he was a
Christian
Arab.”

“Is that a real thing?
Christian Arabs?”

“I got some leads who can give me more of his background.”

“Who? What leads?”

Hank Peterson, the lanky owner of the hardware store, opened the brown metal door at the rear of his shop, stepped into the alley, and emptied a plastic trashcan into a larger bin. “Hi guys,” he called. “You boys look like you’re solving all the world’s problems.”

Hubbard raised his hand in greeting and forced a half-hearted smile. “Almost fixed them all.” He lowered his voice to Toil. “I’ll tell you later. I don’t want our FBI man waiting any longer than necessary.”

Toil agreed, but quickly had second thoughts. “Good thinking—
maybe
.”

They took the long way down the alley and around the solid block of retail businesses. Hubbard battled a growing sense of unease. Ramirez had threatened to lock him up under the pretense of the Patriot Act. How many times could he rely on Ramirez not to play that card and refrain from tossing him in jail—if the lead agent, in fact,
could
throw him in jail without charges?

Hubbard was out of his depth. He believed he hadn’t done anything illegal, but it was clear the U.S. government had a significant interest in the Egyptian student. Larger forces were at work here. He was playing a game with unknown rules and penalties. A farmer-reporter could be swept away in these murky waters without leaving a trace.
Why can’t I let this go?

At the door to the sheriff’s office, Toil paused, his hand on the knob. “
Last chance
.”

Shaking his head, Hubbard made a show of bravado. “No, I’m good.”

Toil nodded solemnly, and with an expression of regret, he opened the door.

Hubbard expected to see a scene similar to the one he witnessed on his previous visit, and was surprised to find the sheriff’s office was almost empty. Two baby-faced agents, wearing government-issued blue polo shirts with the yellow initials of the FBI emblazoned on their backs, stood at the front of the sheriff’s desk. They were motionless, staring down at Special Agent-in-Charge Ramirez, who was sitting behind it. Their superior was on a call, holding the telephone receiver to one ear, while his other hand rubbed the back of his neck.

All three agents pivoted their heads toward them as they entered. The feds glowered at Hubbard with surprising intensity. Their eyes narrowed like they were Melvin Purvis’s men and they just spotted John Dillinger in front of the
Biograph Theatre
.

Toil’s phone buzzed and his hand dove into his coat pocket. He looked at the phone’s screen and then pulled it to his chest. “I have to take this,” he mumbled. He spun around to exit the office through the door they had just come through.

Remaining in the center of the room, Hubbard shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for Ramirez to finish. He tried to ignore the other two federal agents who were quietly sizing him up. Their contemptuous silence was deafening.

The agent’s attention returned to the phone. “No sir . . . No . . . Of course not . . . We don’t shoot from the hip . . .
I just want
to talk to the lad
. Due diligence . . . Yes sir.”

Was he the lad that Ramirez referred to on the call? It was a surprising appellation; Hubbard didn’t think the endearing term would have been the primary descriptor that the FBI’s lead investigator in Hayslip would choose. Who was he talking to? His respectful voice made it sound like he was on the line with someone he considered a superior. And his reddening face seemed to indicate embarrassment that Hubbard was in the room to witness this exchange over the phone.

There were a few more “yes sirs” and “no sirs” before Ramirez was able to hang up and lean back in his chair. He rubbed his face, and took a few deep breaths, which appeared to be his effort to calm down. “In the past two hours, I think I’ve gotten calls from every member of the Arkansas Congressional Delegation. At least I haven’t heard from either of the Clintons. I guess your uncle’s influence only goes so far—thank God for small favors.”

His comment about Arkansas’s most notable political family was barely out of Ramirez’s mouth when the younger of the two FBI men brows raised and his lips parted as if he just realized he forgot something important. The cub agent turned his head and seemed to direct his focus to a message pad placed next to the telephone on the small painted desk that Eddie used. A single pink sheet was detached from the pad and lay at the center of the deputy’s work table. The agent looked stricken. He glanced at his irate boss and pushed his hands deep into his pants pockets while his shoulders crowded against his neck.