A teletype machine started clanking next to the seated officer. Alfred could read some of the words that were printing on roll paper from his side of the counter. He saw the word “store” and the word “robbery.” He made out the word “murder.” My God, the man was dead. He had killed him. He had to get out of there. Fortunately, the officer was ignoring the teletype at the moment. But he would be reading it soon enough.
“Well, I’ve got an appointment in Billings tomorrow.” Alfred tried to look casual and sound important. “I’ve got a deal going. I’ll post bail.”
He produced his wallet and counted out fifty dollars. That was a good chunk of his take. He chafed while the officer took his time about completing the paperwork, trying not to get sick again. When it was finished, he forced himself to walk, not run, to his car and drive away at a moderate speed.
Alfred knew he had to ditch his car and get another one. He hated the thought, but he had to do it. And he had to do it damn fast, before he turned south toward Wyoming and gave away his direction. The cops had recorded his license plate, and the two-tone Ford Fairlane was too distinctive, anyway.
The car was paid for and it was his. He had a lot of good memories associated with this car. It had always been faithful to him, unlike the people he knew. But now it had to go. It would be a magnet for the cops now that they had his license number and description. He hadn’t meant to kill the man. If only the fellow hadn’t acted so suspiciously…
Alfred cruised slowly through the next town, wondering how to go about acquiring another car. He wasn’t skilled at breaking into cars, and he didn’t know how to hot-wire one. He drove into a residential area where cars were sitting on streets and driveways in profusion. He parked the Ford. Taking the gun and the rest of the money with him, he strolled along a street.
Even though it was Friday night, all was quiet. A few of the houses had lights showing through their curtains. He kept looking up and down the street for signs of people as he cautiously tried a few car doors. They were locked. Even if he got into a car, he wouldn’t know what to do next.
Maybe it would be enough if he switched license plates. That would be easy to do; he had a screwdriver in the toolkit in his trunk. That would enable him to keep his car, at least until he got back to Los Angeles. Then he would worry about the next step.
He turned around and was walking back toward his car when he saw lights coming down the street toward him. He assumed the appearance and pace of a casual stroller as the car went by him. It turned into a driveway just a few doors past Alfred and immediately stopped. The driver’s door opened, and a teenage boy got out. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door. He handed a girl out of the car. At least he had manners. They walked together up to the front door. He could see them kissing.
The girl opened the door to the house. She was saying goodnight. Alfred was about to turn back toward his own car when he saw the boy follow her inside. The door closed behind them. What impressed Alfred was that the driver’s door of the car was still open.
He had to check. This might be too good an opportunity to pass up. He strolled across the street, keeping his eyes on the door of the house. He walked quickly up the driveway to the car and glanced inside. He saw the key in the ignition. This must be a low-crime area.
He glanced at the house again. If the boy came out now, he would say he was shutting the car door. There was no movement from the house. Alfred quickly got into the car. It was a Ford Falcon with a manual, three-speed transmission. Fortunately, Alfred had learned to drive in a car with a manual transmission.
He put the gearshift into neutral and released the brake. The car coasted backwards down the inclined driveway and into the street. Alfred turned the steering wheel and stopped the Falcon when it faced the direction in which he wanted to go. He started the car, shifted into first gear, and drove slowly away, hoping that the engine noise wouldn’t arouse the suspicions of the owner.
He made several quick turns and then headed out of town. After a few minutes, he stopped behind another car in a deserted area. He would make this a foolproof operation. He got out and opened the trunk. He found a small toolkit, mostly by feel. With the help of the car’s dome light, he located a screwdriver inside the kit. It took him five minutes to switch his plates with those of the parked car.
Now he had Montana plates, but not the ones the police would be looking for. The aluminum-colored plates with the outline of the state of Montana blended in nicely with those of the other cars on the road. They wouldn’t attract the attention that California plates would in this part of the country. The parked car from which he had taken the plates had the dirty windows of a vehicle that hadn’t been driven for a while. It might be days or weeks before the switched plates were discovered.
Alfred had to do one more thing. He headed out of town on the highway and stopped where there were no houses in sight. He took his gun out of the glove compartment and wiped it off with his handkerchief. That would get rid of the fingerprints. He wrapped the gun in the handkerchief and slid it into his pocket.
He got out of the car and walked into a patch of woods by the light of the moon. The trees were far enough apart that the moonlight marked a path through the trees, perhaps a path used by animals, or perhaps it was just his imagination and there wasn’t really a path at all. But he liked to think that the moon acted as his ally and showed him the way to safety and success.
He walked until he was far enough from the road that a casual stroller or someone having to pee wouldn’t come this far. He picked up a branch that had a sharp point where it had snapped off a tree in a windstorm. With a grunt he shoved it into the dirt. The forest floor was soft from the recent rains, and he was able to penetrate it.
Using the branch, sometimes as a pick, sometimes as a shovel, he dug a hole. It was hard work. Soon sweat was streaming down his face, despite the coolness of the evening. He had to stop and rest several times. When the hole reached the depth of a foot or so, he dropped the gun into it and covered it with the accumulated dirt. He stamped on the dirt to pack it down and then used the other end of the branch, which still had twigs attached to it, as a rake to smooth out the ground in the vicinity of the hole.
Satisfied with his work, he tossed the branch away. The gun was the only evidence that connected him with what had happened at the market. May it rest in peace. Alfred thought about erecting a small cross to mark the spot and smiled at the idea. He wasn’t just your garden variety dumb criminal. He knew how to cover his tracks. He returned to the Falcon and drove toward Wyoming.
CHAPTER 17
Penny had promised to call her mother several times during the trip, so she took advantage of a pay phone at the Wildlife Museum in Mammoth, just inside the north entrance to Yellowstone National Park. It was Sunday afternoon in Connecticut. Her mother answered on the third ring.
When Penny said hello, her mother said, “Did the police find you?” She sounded excited.
“The police? Mom, what are you talking about?”
“They called me this morning. They said that boy from your class shot a clerk in a food store.”
“What boy in my class?” Penny’s mother didn’t always make sense when she was excited.
“You know, the boy with the big head and ears and the potbelly.”
“Alfred? Are you talking about Alfred Ward?”
“Yes, Alfred. He’s the one. I remember that he always seemed to be a little bit out of step with you other kids.”
“Mom, tell me again what Alfred did.”