‘‘I promise not to step on it,’’ I said.
I walked carefully closer to the corpse, steadying myself by keeping my right arm outstretched. I leaned ahead a bit, squinting, looking closely at the face. I slowly waved my left hand over the features, shooing away the flies. Vaguely familiar, it reminded me of somebody. I couldn’t get a handle on the identity, though. There were a lot of flies settling back on the face, but they moved around enough so that I could get sort of a picture. He hadn’t been here more than a few hours.
‘‘Still don’t know who it is,’’ I said.
‘‘Yes, you do,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Yes, you do.’’ She sounded kind of funny. I turned, and she had this stricken look on her face. ‘‘Look again.’’
I did. He did look familiar…
‘‘Recognize him?’’ she asked.
‘‘Almost…’’
‘‘It’s Johnny Marks,’’ she said.
We went off in a group with Harry, and told him what was up with Marks, who he was, what he did. Also told him the narcs in the area hadn’t been able to find him for a little while. We suggested he call them.
‘‘Shit,’’ I said. ‘‘I wonder who did him.’’
‘‘Didn’t you read the letters under the RAT, Carl?’’ asked Harry.
Well, no. I just hadn’t been able to see them. Couldn’t get any closer, and too far to read the print normally. But thank you for pointing that out, Harry.
‘‘Couldn’t quite make ’em out,’’ I said.
‘‘Maybe we could have the lab boys move the plank back a bit?’’
‘‘No, thanks, Harry.’’
‘‘Anyway, it says ‘The Living Dead.’ ’’ He rubbed it in. ‘‘And under that, it says ‘Killed a cop in the woods on June 19, in Nation County, Iowa.’ ’’
The Living Dead drew a blank with George and me, but not with Hester.
‘‘Cycle gang out of Ohio,’’ she said. ‘‘Meth trade.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Harry. ‘‘Meth and grass. That denim vest has their colors on it, I think. We’ll know as soon as the lab folks get here.’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘that sure explains the ‘we did him’ on the phone call.’’
Hester shook her head. ‘‘I don’t think ‘did’ does it justice.’’
George was the pale one in our group. FBI doesn’t do a lot of homicides, like they say. He just asked one question. ‘‘Do they always look so… purple?’’
I explained to him that, with the actual ligature removed, the purple face told us that the spike through the chest had been inflicted some little while post-mortem, as the lividity in the face was so pronounced. Only blood seepage looked to have occurred from the spike, which made it appear likely that the victim was dead when it was driven in. At the same time, the removal of the ligature at that point said that it had been taken off for a specific reason… otherwise, why bother.
‘‘Specific reason?’’
‘‘Sure. Like a person’s belt, for instance. Don’t want it left around. They want us to find only the evidence they want us to locate.’’
‘‘Oh.’’
‘‘Just think,’’ said Hester, ‘‘maybe somebody is walking into your favorite restaurant, wearing the belt that did it…’’
We had to stop in the Conception County Sheriff’s Department to fill out written statements regarding the phone call and what was said. I gave written permission for them to have our department’s tapes, although the only part that was recorded had been the dispatcher and the caller. When he’d been transferred back to me, he’d gone off taped line… we did that on purpose, as we didn’t want anybody else to be able to listen to recordings of confidential conversations. There were drawbacks.
The three of us then went to a little coffee shop on the Wisconsin side, to talk and gather our thoughts. George and Hester had coffee, and I had coffee and a chocolate doughnut.
We agreed we had a problem. All the available evidence said that Johnny Marks hadn’t been one of the shooters in the woods. The shooters been amateur guerrillas in training, not dope dealers. At least, not as far as we knew. But we had what appeared to be a great lead, a direct connection to a meth-dealing cycle gang, and a clearly murdered man who had definitely been connected with the patch. Yet we had nothing that connected Johnny Marks to the Stritch family, let alone the mysterious Gabe and his outfit. Nothing. Marks’s only connection had been with Turd and the fact that he’d been the supervisor, if not the owner, of the patch itself.
But we had the possibility that some of the right-wing folks had at least intimated that they might be persuaded to grow dope and sell it, as a way of pissing off the Feds and of making money for the cause.
On the way back in the car, thoughts still ungathered, we finally came to a temporary conclusion.
‘‘We just have to figure out which one is the liar… Melissa Stritch or the folks who did Johnny Marks.’’ George summed it up pretty well.
‘‘Hell,’’ I said. ‘‘Why don’t we go ask Howler? He’s on our way back.’’
Nan answered the door this time. Girl was never happy, apparently. We were ushered in, and Howler came struggling out of the bedroom. He was really thin, not an ounce of fat being visible as he pulled on his tee shirt. Big tattoo on his chest. A spiderweb, complete with a spider with two red eyes, and a skull and crossbones. He looked like a poster boy for an exterminator.
‘‘You might as well fuckin’ advertise I’m here, excuse me, ma’am, who is this one?’’ References to me, Hester, and George in that order.
‘‘FBI,’’ said George, producing his credentials. Howler’s eyes widened. Always has the same effect, every time I see it done.
‘‘Should I get my lawyer?’’
‘‘ ’S okay, Howler. We just have some stuff to tell you,’’ I said.
‘‘Sure.’’ He motioned Nan to the other room. She went, but she was reluctant. She should have been, it was her house. ‘‘Whatcha got?’’
We told him about Johnny Marks. I described what we found, then Hester provided the name.
Howler had slightly red hair, and consequently a fairly pale complexion. He is the only person I’ve ever seen who actually ‘‘went white.’’ His eyes started to roll up, his eyelids fluttered like a flag in a stiff breeze, and he buckled. I reached for him, but got tangled with the coffee table, knocking over an old quart beer bottle, and he hit the floor with a thud. Nan was around the corner like a shot.
‘‘What did you do to him?’’ She pushed George, and knelt beside her ‘‘man.’’ ‘‘Talk to me, speak, you shithead,’’ she wailed.
‘‘He just fainted,’’ I said. ‘‘He’ll be okay.’’
‘‘You hit him. I heard it!’’
‘‘No, no. I knocked into the table trying to keep him off the floor.’’
‘‘Sonofabitchyoudid.’’
Howler started to come around. He looked up, right at Nan, and grinned. Then he saw me. ‘‘Noooo! Nooooo!’’
If there had to be a reason they called him Howler, I think we found it.
We helped him up to the couch. He was shaking a bit. He looked right at Hester and said, ‘‘Ssshit, mma’am, if there was ever a time I wanted a fufufuckin’ joint…’’
We had a rather long conversation with Howler. He was sure it was the cycle gang. There was no doubt in his mind. That’s who he thought that Marks had been dealing with, although it turned out that Marks had never specifically stated the fact.
‘‘Had to be, man. Had to be.’’
Convincing. We asked in about fifty ways if there had ever been any connection with anybody in cammo clothing or paramilitary types. Never. He was certain. Not even likely, as far as he could tell. And he was so damned scared, you had to believe him. He was absolutely sure he was next.
‘‘They’re gonna get me, man. Sure as shit. I’m dead. I’m just fuckin’ dead.’’
‘‘We can help you disappear for a while,’’ said George.
Howler looked at him for a long second, and shook his head. ‘‘Yeah, right.’’ He was in kind of a bad position. No weapons. Nowhere to go. And his main man was being autopsied even as we spoke. It can be lonely at the bottom too.
We left Howler with the option to be hidden by us, if he wanted to. I think he might have gone along with that, but Nan wouldn’t have been able to go, and Howler wanted sex a little more than safety. After all, Nan was here and now. Death was at least a lay away.