Marlin ducked under the tape and made his way toward Garza, who nodded him toward one of the patrol cars. They climbed inside and closed the doors. “Yeah, it’s Slaton. Looks like he was shot several times. Lem’s doing an autopsy later today,” Garza said, referring to the county medical examiner.
“Any word from T.J. Gibbs?”
Garza gritted his teeth. “Someone called an hour ago, about an unmanned boat floating around. Before we could check into it, a guy across the lake called. Found a young white male floating, stuck underneath his boat dock. Gotta be Gibbs. And get this: He was wearing a scuba suit.”
Marlin shook his head. He didn’t even know what to say.
Garza rubbed his hands over his face. “What in the world’s going on out here, John? It’s like all hell’s broke loose this week. I’ve never seen anything like it. You hear about the trouble at Sal Mameli’s place?”
Marlin shook his head. “What now?”
“Somebody vandalized some of his machines last night-more like they blew ’em up, right there by his house. A miracle that nobody got killed. No leads on who did it, but my money’s on Thomas Peabody.”
Hearing that, Marlin was relieved nobody had gotten hurt. Marlin knew that if he’d been more careful with Peabody, the little jerk wouldn’t be running loose.
Garza read Marlin’s mind. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch him. Just a matter of time. He would have walked on bail anyway, even if he hadn’t slipped away from you. So don’t blame yourself for the mess at Mameli’s place.”
“Thanks.” Marlin wanted to hear more about the present situation. “So what’s the story on the Porsche?”
“Slaton was in there, along with his dog. In two pieces: It had been decapitated.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Some sick shit, I’m telling you. That probably explains the blood on Slaton’s porch. Plus, we found two guns in the car, a forty-five and a thirty-five.”
“A thirty-five? I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”
Garza nodded, getting excited. “That’s our ace in the hole. There was only one model ever made-by Smith and Wesson, from 1913 to 1921. There was only something like eight thousand of them produced, so it’s something you might see at a gun show. But at a crime scene? We’re running the serial number, but don’t hold your breath on that. We’ll check for prints, too, but being underwater that long….”
“Any kind of connection between T.J. and Slaton?”
“We’re looking into it.” Garza must have seen a look of concern on Marlin’s face. “I know what you’re thinking: Just yesterday, we were speculating on whether Sal Mameli mighta had something to do with both Gammel and Slaton. Now we find Slaton in a car owned by one of Vinnie Mameli’s runnin’ buddies.”
Marlin nodded. He didn’t want his anger toward Vinnie Mameli to cause him to jump to any conclusions, but he felt it was an angle worth exploring.
Garza said, “I’m gonna take this real slow, John. One step at a time, with no screwups. If either Vinnie or Sal was involved, we’re not gonna let them slip through the net, I promise you that.”
Marlin asked about Jack Corey and Wylie Smith. “They’re fine,” Garza replied. “Both in the hospital getting checked out. One other thing: This isn’t out yet, so you gotta keep it under your hat….”
Marlin nodded.
“I saw Wylie late last night.” Garza paused-and Marlin knew the sheriff didn’t want to say what he was about to say. “He admitted to holding a gun to Corey’s head. Just flat-out confessed to it. So, between you and me, he’s a goner. Unofficially, he’s already off the force-only he doesn’t know it yet. Probably be some criminal charges.”
Oddly, Marlin’s spirits sank when he heard the news. He had never liked Wylie, but it was heartbreaking when a fellow law-enforcement officer strayed the way Wylie had. It was obvious Garza was bitterly disappointed that one of his deputies had nearly wrecked the life of an innocent man.
Garza continued, with a grim face: “Now I gotta figure out what to do about Corey. He’s clear on the Gammel charge, and we can’t really hold him accountable for the standoff.”
“Hell, the county’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue.”
“Yeah, I can’t say I’d blame him.” Garza glanced out the window. “Listen,” Garza said, “I’ve still got a lot of work to do around here. You can hang around and see how it plays out, or take off and I’ll keep you posted.”
Marlin reached for the door handle. “Think I’ll go for a drive,” he said. “Take a break for a while.”
“I don’t blame you.”
The twin stories of Jack Corey’s surrender and the discovery of Emmett Slaton’s body were big news, justifying sporadic live updates on KHIL for the remainder of the day.
Unfortunately for Smedley Poindexter, the only thing playing on the television set in the headquarters of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated, was Hee Haw. The same clip. Over and over.
Smedley tried valiantly to hang on to his dignity. But within hours, he was a blubbering, pathetic wreck.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
John Marlin had never wanted to be anything but a game warden. After all, it was in his blood. His father, Royce Marlin, had been Blanco County’s game warden for twenty-two years, up until the mid-1970s. Growing up, John used to watch in awe as his father pulled on his uniform, strapped on his handgun, and set off into the field. Then Royce would come home for supper and tell tall tales about his exploits that day, John’s mother rolling her eyes at the exaggerations. It was a happy, exciting childhood-until Royce was killed by a poacher in 1976.
Even that didn’t deter Marlin’s drive to carry the warden’s badge; if anything, it strengthened it. He had completed the game warden cadet academy in Austin in 1982, and then awaited his assignment. The state would relocate him to the first available position, whether it was in the piney woods of East Texas or the flatlands of the Panhandle. As luck would have it, Marlin was assigned to Blanco County when the previous warden retired. For twenty years now, Marlin had thoroughly enjoyed chasing poachers and enforcing game laws around his hometown.
But as he drove the back roads that sunny afternoon, he had to admit that the last week had been unusually rewarding. Nailing a killer like Maynard Clements was gratifying-and Marlin was rarely called upon to take part in a case of that magnitude. Marlin found himself thinking about Bobby Garza’s open-ended offer to become a sheriff’s deputy. There was no doubt it would be more exciting, with higher-profile cases.
What is this, Marlin wondered, a midlife crisis? He put the thought out of his head and puttered down rural roads for the next three hours, stopping at generations-old hunting camps, as well as some new ones. He checked licenses, made small talk with men he had known since birth, and decided that being a game warden wasn’t so bad after all.
Just after noon, he drove back home few lunch. Pulling into the driveway, his stomach turned a flip as he saw a familiar car sitting next to Inga’s Volvo: Becky’s Honda Civic. He swore quietly. He had forgotten that Becky had planned to pick up the last of her things.
Before he made it to the front door, Inga exited, an odd smile on her face. She didn’t say anything until they were a few feet apart. “You have a visitor.”
“Yeah, that’s what I gathered.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Listen, John,” Inga said, “if I screwed anything up for you…”
“No, there wasn’t anything left to screw up.”
“Becky and I talked for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
Marlin wanted to groan. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “Anything I should know?”