“No, never. And, see, John, there wouldn’t be any use in trying to bribe me or Bert anyway. We go out and solicit bids, but we’re not in charge of awarding the actual contracts-the county commissioners are. Then we manage the projects after they’ve been awarded.” Clements kicked his boots up onto his desk. “Hell, I wish someone would offer me a bribe. A big one. I got my eye on a new boat.”
“You know, this is all your fault,” Jack Corey said, rousing Wylie Smith from his nap. The deputy was stretched out on the couch, wrists still cuffed, his wounded hand heavily bandaged. Corey was back to his usual position: sitting on the floor, his back against the door.
Corey glared at Wylie, who didn’t reply. In fact, the deputy hadn’t spoken since Corey had imposed the “no-talking rule.” Corey wondered whether he could get Wylie talking now.
“You just had to keep pushin’ me, didn’t you?” Corey continued. “But the thing you don’t understand is, how can I confess to somethin’ I didn’t do?”
Wylie swung his legs around and sat upright. He stared into space, apparently groggy from the painkillers Marlin had brought in.
Corey tried to sound reasonable, tried to keep the threatening edge out of his voice. “You kept talkin’ to me about tire marks and boot prints, but come on, that’s pretty shitty evidence, ain’t it? I’m not the only guy around the county with a Firestone tire and Red Wing boots.”
Finally, Wylie spoke in a raspy voice: “Don’t forget the tobacco spit. If you didn’t do it, then the smartest thing to do is give up. The DNA evidence will clear you.”
Corey snorted. “Yeah, right. I know what you’re capable of. Hell, you pointed a gun at my head, threatened me with Death Row. Planting evidence would be no big deal for a guy like you.”
Wylie shook his head, like he was talking to a slow child. That made Corey angry, but he swallowed it down.
Wylie said, “Now, tell me, where would I get a puddle of your saliva?”
Corey had an answer ready. “I done some thinkin’ about that, and you coulda stolen a spitcan out of my truck.”
“But I didn’t even find the spit,” Wylie said, his voice rising. “Marlin found it. I hadn’t even gotten to the scene yet. Can’t you understand that?”
“You coulda put it there earlier.”
Wylie leaned back against the couch. Quietly, he said, “What you’re talking about is crazy, Jack. If I framed you for Bert Gammel’s murder, that would mean I probably killed him myself.”
“How do I know you didn’t?”
“You gotta be kidding me.” Wylie shook his head. “I had no motive, for starters. I didn’t even know the guy. And secondly, on the day Gammel was killed, I was in Austin with my wife. It was my day off. We spent the night with her sister. You’re really grasping at straws here, Jack.”
Both men fell silent. Corey felt so tired, so ready to give in. If he could just sleep for a few minutes…but he had to keep Wylie talking. “At least tell me why you pointed your gun at my head. Don’t you know a man can’t think straight in a position like that?”
Wylie sighed. A few heartbeats passed and Corey thought the deputy wasn’t going to respond.
“Well?” Corey said.
Wylie licked his lips and said, “Okay, I’m sorry about that. I really am. But when I’m investigating a guy for murder, and I feel like I have some solid evidence, I tend to go at him pretty hard. It’s just my style. Let’s say, worst-case scenario, you confess to the murder but you didn’t really do it. We’d know that, because you wouldn’t be able to tell us specifics about the crime scene. And if you did do it”-Wylie shrugged-“the gun is just my way of speeding things up a little.”
Corey smiled at Wylie and rose off the floor. He walked to the table and stared down at the tape recorder that had been sitting there all along. Such an innocent-looking device. Last night, before this whole ordeal started, Wylie had wanted to record Corey’s confession.
“Thanks, Wylie,” Corey said. He reached down and pushed the STOP button.
Wylie was staring at him now, eyes bulging, mouth agape. Then his jaw snapped shut, like a dog trying to catch a passing fly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Feel like taking a ride?” Marlin asked. He was at a pay phone in Johnson City. One of these days, he’d break down and buy a cell phone. But for now, the department didn’t require it and he didn’t want one. What was the point? If something was really urgent, they could reach him on the radio. If it wasn’t important, he’d rather not take the call anyway.
“Where to?” Phil Colby replied.
“The Hawley place.”
“Swing on by,” Colby said and hung up. Marlin smiled. His best friend was like that: always up for an impromptu ride in the country, no questions asked. Sheriff Garza wouldn’t be too thrilled if he knew Colby was tagging along, but Marlin was feeling lost and needed someone to brainstorm with.
Thirty minutes later, Marlin and Colby found the gate unlocked, as Lester Higgs had said it would be, and Marlin steered his truck onto the Hawley Ranch.
On the ride over, Marlin had brought Colby up to date on the Jack Corey fiasco, including Marlin’s reluctant entry into the world of homicide investigation. He described Gammel’s mysterious supply of cash, then detailed his search of Gammel’s house and his discussions with Jose Sanchez and Maynard Clements. This, Marlin said, would be his final effort: One last visit to the crime scene, a search for anything the deputies might have overlooked. After that, Marlin would have to pack it in, because there was really nothing more he could do for Jack Corey. Marlin was feeling a little silly, actually, like he was wasting his own time. Here he was, trying to find evidence that would clear Corey, when it was becoming more and more obvious that Corey was guilty.
But that’s up to a jury to decide, Marlin reminded himself. An investigation is only about finding evidence. It was up to the district attorney, and then the jury, to decide what the evidence showed.
Marlin followed the dirt road to the southern end of the property and stopped his cruiser in the same place he had parked three days ago. Gammel’s Ford Explorer was gone now, probably at the crime lab in Austin.
Marlin killed the engine and both men climbed out. It was quiet here, only a few birds chirping in the trees, no wind to rustle the leaves in nearby Spanish oaks. A few weeks from now, those leaves would turn a brilliant ruby-red and begin to drop from their branches. For now, they merely sagged in the unseasonable heat.
Colby surveyed the wooded area. “So…what exactly are we looking for?”
Marlin shrugged. “Hell if I know.”
Colby smiled in return. “That’s what I figured.”
Marlin decided they should do another ground search, starting at the killer’s hiding spot in the cedar trees. Native grasses, dry from the drought, crunched under their feet as they tramped through the brush. After fifteen minutes, they tried the same thing around Gammel’s deer blind. All they found were the footprints of the dozen or so men who had reported to the crime scene on Tuesday.
“Strike one,” Colby said. “Nothing doing on the ground search. What’s next, Mannix?”
Marlin thought it over for a few minutes, then said: “Corey hunts with a thirty-thirty… and the deputies looked for a heavy bullet that drops quickly. Wylie says they even looked beyond where a thirty-thirty might drop, but…”
“They mighta been slackin’ a little?” Colby interjected.
Marlin nodded. “Let’s take a look around, thinking in terms of, say, a two-seventy. Something with a fast bullet and a much flatter trajectory.”
Marlin led Colby to the cedar trees where the killer had hidden himself. They crouched down and got a clear view of the ladder to the blind, giving themselves a visual line-of-flight for the fatal round.
Colby spoke up. “See that one small tree back there, directly behind the ladder? — I think it’s a mountain laurel. About a hundred yards past the blind?”
“Yep.”