And what does the federal government decide to do with men like that? Give them total immunity for their crimes, then relocate them to peaceful, suburban neighborhoods. So all of a sudden, the Joneses-a nice hard-working family with cute kids, a Labrador retriever, and a barbecue grill in the backyard-have a murderer or drug dealer living next door. Worse yet, they have no idea who they’re dealing with, and Smedley can’t even warn them.
This wouldn’t be so bad if the program worked the way it was supposed to. But too often, the recently relocated scumbag continues living the way he always has. He sets up shop, earning a living the only way he knows how. Smedley often wondered: Was the attorney general’s office putting a dent into organized crime, or were they really just helping the mob set up branch offices around the country instead?
He’d discussed this with a couple of fellow marshals on one occasion. One of them was that asshole Todd. Todd listened to what Smedley had to say, then said, “God, quit your worrying. Go eat a Twinkie or something.” He threw his arm in the air and made that familiar elephant-trumpeting sound. Everybody laughed, and Smedley even tried to join in.
But inside, Smedley was upset. So upset that he didn’t go eat a Twinkie as Todd had suggested. He might have had a Ding Dong or two, but no, not a Twinkie.
“We clear on what I need you to do?” Sal asked, his speech slurred by the painkillers. He was home now, in his own bed, fading in and out of sleep.
Vinnie nodded, almost too excited to speak. He was seeing way more action than he ever had back in Jersey. This was fucking awesome. With his dad laid up, Vinnie was now more in charge of things than ever before. It was a rush.
“Yeah, yeah, Pop. Trust me, I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t, Vinnie. You’re a good kid.” He patted Vinnie’s hand, and Vinnie felt like he had just been blessed by the Pope.
As Sal nodded off, Vinnie’s mind was racing. Oh man, the possibilities were just too goddamn cool.
The Blanco County Public Works Department consisted of eleven employees, but only two were project managers. One was Bert Gammel, the other was Maynard Clements. When Marlin entered the PWD offices in the courthouse, he found Clements-a gangly, bald man in his forties-sitting at his desk in a corner office, on the phone. Clements waved toward a chair, and Marlin took a seat. Clements appeared to be speaking to someone about road construction somewhere in the county. After a few minutes, he wrapped up the conversation and turned to Marlin. “John, good to see you. You doing all right?”
“Just fine, Maynard. How’s the family?” Marlin remembered that Clements’s wife had recently given birth to their third child.
“Oh, doing great,” Clements said. “Have you seen the newest one yet?” He turned a framed photo on his desk in Marlin’s direction. “Henry Stanton Clements.”
“Good-lookin’ boy,” Marlin said.
Clements made a little more small talk, mostly about the lack of sleep in his household. “But I wouldn’t change a thing,” Clements said. “He’s my first boy, and he’s worth the four A.M. feedings. There’s nothing quite like being a daddy, John. You oughta give it a try.”
Marlin forced a smile, wondering if Clements was fishing for information about Becky. Clements had tried to set Marlin up with one of his sisters a few years back, a date that hadn’t worked out too well. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Maynard,” Marlin said, deflecting the comment.
“Well, anyway.” Clements took the hint and changed the subject. “What can I do for you? You still lobbying for more boat ramps out at the reservoir? I tell ya, I wish we had the budget for it.”
Marlin leaned in a little closer, keeping his voice down. “No, actually I wanted to talk to you about Bert Gammel.”
Clements looked confused. “Uh, no offense, but isn’t that being handled by the Sheriff’s Department? And I figured, with Jack Corey and this thing down at the courthouse…”
“Garza asked me to give him a hand. I’m just looking into a few things.”
Clements nodded. “Hmm. That’s interesting. Well, I’ll help if I can, but I’m not promising much.” He opened one of his desk drawers and came out with a pack of cigarettes. “You mind if we talk outside so I can grab a smoke? I’m trying to quit, but I haven’t had much luck yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Yeah, we’re both project managers,” Clements said, “but we really don’t work together-uh, didn’t work together-that often. See, most of the projects that come through our office can be handled by just one of us. I take care of most of the roadwork, and Bert handled structures. Like when they expanded the sheriff’s office last year, that was all Bert.”
Marlin wiped his brow. It was humid as hell today, the temperature in the low eighties. Not a cloud in the sky. “But I’m sure you had a lot more interaction with Bert than the rest of the staff.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Then let me ask you: Did you notice anything unusual about Bert’s behavior in the last few months? Any changes in his lifestyle?”
Clements’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “How do you mean?”
“Ever see Gammel with any large amounts of cash? Maybe whipping out a roll of bills to pay for lunch?”
Clements took a long drag on his cigarette and stared at the horizon. He finally exhaled and said, “You know, he did seem to have a little more money lately. Not that he was rolling in it or anything, from what I saw, but I know he wasn’t griping about bills as much as he used to. And he bought that Explorer a while back.”
“Any idea where he would have gotten the money?”
Clements rubbed a hand over his scalp. “No idea. Sorry.”
Marlin felt as if he were groping in the dark. It was obvious that something strange had been going on with Gammel, but the facts remained elusive. Marlin was used to questioning poachers, who were relatively easy to figure out. Their motives were clear and their methods of operation rarely changed. This murder investigation, on the other hand, was like trying to grab a wisp of smoke.
Marlin tried a new tack. “Did he ever mention any run-ins with anybody? Maybe some bad blood with somebody else in town?”
“All that comes to mind about that is his feud with Jack Corey. He mentioned it a few times to a bunch of us in the coffee room.” Clements sucked on his cigarette again. “I know Corey seems all easygoing and everything, but if you ask me, Corey’s got a temper. At least from the things Bert told us. He said Corey pulled a knife on him once, out at the deer lease.”
Marlin remembered what Lester Higgs had said about that incident: that Corey hadn’t actually pulled a knife, but had been using it to field-dress a deer.
“And now with this thing at the Sheriff’s Department…” Clements continued. “This whole mess is a damn shame. Bert Gammel was a good man.”
There was a bright yellow sticker on Bert Gammel’s front door:
STOP!
CRIME SCENE SEARCH AREA
ENTRY PROHIBITED
Premises sealed by Blanco County Sheriff’s Department
Violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law
It was a run-down two-bedroom house, maybe forty years old, with cedar siding and a sagging roof. Marlin used the key Garza had given him and stepped inside. The front door opened into the living room, a small area with nothing but a ratty couch, a worn end table, and an old console TV-the big wooden kind they used to make. Nearly as old as the house, Marlin guessed.
Marlin stood for a moment, just looking and listening. He could hear water dripping somewhere, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The place smelled kind of funny.