“I want a lawyer,” I said.
“You will have to take that up with the troopers Rangley,” he said.
“I’m your prisoner,” I reminded him.
“I have washed my hands of the whole-Martin Sawyer, get the hell away from that window.”
We were at this crucial point in the conversation when the Rangleys and the doctor came back in, leaving their audience outside.
“Peters,” said the senior Rangley, “when did you get to Mirador?”
“About an hour ago, maybe an hour and a half,” I said.
“And,” he went on, “you went right to the antique shop?”
“No, I got gas from that kid, the one standing out there on the sidewalk. The pimply one with the overalls.”
“He told us,” said Rangley.
“I’m going back to the body,” said the old doctor wearily.
“Hold your horses,” said Rangley, holding up his hand. Then to me, “Where were you last night, between-”
“Midnight to five or so,” said the doctor. “That’s safe enough.”
“Culver City lockup,” I said, standing up. “From about eleven to nine in the morning.”
“Go check it, Mel,” Rangley said. His brother nodded and went out the door. I watched him muscle through the watching kids and head for the car.
“I’m going back,” said the doc. He turned and went back to the street, leaving me, Nelson, and the trooper who hated puzzles.
No one spoke for a while. Nelson sat. Rangley stood and I held onto the bars with one hand and used my other one to dab my bloody nose with Rangley’s handkerchief. My head hurt but I decided to put on a happy face.
Mel Rangley came running back in about two minutes.
“He was in the Culver City lockup,” Mel said.
I grinned broadly and threw the bloody handkerchief to Beau Rangley, who wasn’t ready for it. The balled piece of cloth hit his neatly pressed shirt, leaving a dark, deep spot, and fell to the floor.
“Sorry,” I said pleasantly.
“I think you’d better come with us,” he said. “We’ve got a few more questions to ask you. Somewhere quiet. Let him out, Nelson.”
Nelson put his straw hat on his head and swiveled toward Rangley.
“I think not,” he said.
Rangley shook his head as if the world were a series of unexpected little heartbreaks that had to be endured.
“Open it,” he repeated.
“No,” said Nelson, standing.
Rangley was not looking at the sheriff, but I was. I could see the tremor in his knees, the twitch of his jaw, and the determination in his eyes.
“Nelson, one half-hearted piss and you’d flush down the toilet.”
“Given the information provided by the good doctor, the confirmation of presence by the Culver City police and your obvious hostility toward the prisoner,” said Nelson, “I do not believe it is in the best interest of the laws of the State of California and the Municipality of Mirador to release the prisoner to you. And that I do not intend to do.”
Rangley turned to the sheriff and took three steps till they were nose to forehead. Nelson quaked and almost lost his straw hat, but he didn’t back down.
“You’re one simple shit, Nelson,” Rangley hissed.
“That is as it may be,” Nelson agreed, “but Peters remains in my charge.”
With that Trooper Rangley stormed out the door and went to join his brother in their car. The small crowd turned to watch them drive off.
“Thanks,” I said as Nelson’s knees began a serious wobble. He made it back to his chair and grasped the arms as he sat heavily.
“There comes a moment when one least expects it that dignity takes precedence over survival,” he said. “That is a moment to be watched for and avoided or one runs the risk of losing a secure job with a pension.”
“What now?” I asked.
The crowd on the street was still there but it had dwindled to three, including the retarded man who had now fixed his gaze on me. I waved to him. He waved back and Doc appeared behind him, started toward his car, changed his mind, and entered Nelson’s office, closing the door behind him.
“Street was killed by a gunshot,” he said. “I’ve recovered the bullet Death took place last night or early this morning. I called Hal Overmeyer. He’ll bring the corpus to San Plentia Hospital and I’ll play with it till I know more.”
Doc looked at me and shifted his black bag to his other hand.
“Want me to look at your nose?” he asked.
“I’ll be peachy,” I said.
“Any other wounds need tending?” he asked. “I usually have to do a little patching in the wake of the Rangleys.”
My head was throbbing and the ache in my side sucked deep and sharp.
“I feel great,” I said. “Trooper Rangley knows how to treat a fella.”
Doc looked at me and shook his head.
“Never that simple, mister,” he said. “Beau and Mel are the last of the Rangley brothers. Rick died on Guam. Sam got killed in Morocco on a tank. And Harry, well, they never found enough of him to make it official. The oldest brother, Carl, he took a broken beer bottle in the gut half a year before the war broke out. Beau and Mel are draft-free and they promised their mother they wouldn’t join. So, every time they’re introduced to a new friend like you, they make ’em welcome. Rangleys are none too brilliant. You know what sublimate means?”
“No,” I said. “Let me guess. They feel better when they kick someone’s teeth out.”
“Something like that,” Doc agreed. “But to give you your due, the Rangleys weren’t a friendly bunch even when there was an even half dozen of them. Sheriff Nelson, what say you let the innocent man out and all of us go over to Hijo’s and have a few beers before my date with the deceased?”
Nelson’s legs were back, at least back enough for him to nod and get up.
“Why not?” he said wearily. “I’ve got to give my wife a call first.”
Doc took the keys from Nelson and moved toward me as Nelson picked up the phone.
“One more painting?” Doc asked as he opened the cell door.
“One more clock,” I added, stepping into the office where Nelson was whispering into the receiver.
“Running out of time,” said Doc, looking at the keys.
I looked out the window at the retarded man, who was still watching me with a happy grin. This was probably the most exciting day of his life.
“There was fresh blood on the floor of the antique shop,” I said low enough so Nelson couldn’t hear me from across the room.
“Not the victim’s,” said Doc. “Probably not the killer’s either. I’d imagine whoever did it was long gone and far away before dawn.”
I pointed to the window. Doc looked where I was pointing and saw the handprint.
We moved past Nelson’s desk. The sheriff gave us a shrug, turned his back to us and continued whispering into the phone.
“Martin Sawyer,” I said, looking at the retarded man.
Doc looked up as we reached the door.
“Like many of the inhabitants of Mirador, I delivered him.”
“Harmless?”
“Harmless,” said Doc, stepping out onto the sidewalk and holding the door open for me.
Nelson, still on the phone, waved us ahead.
We were standing in front of Martin Sawyer now, and Sawyer turned from the sheriff’s office window and smiled gently at us as Doc sighed.
“Let me look at your hand, Martin.”
Martin took his right hand out of his pocket and held it out. It was pink with flecks of fast-drying blood.
“Peters,” said Doc, looking at the hand. “Martin Sawyer is incapable of committing violence.”
“But not of witnessing it.”
Through the window we could see Sheriff Nelson hang up the phone.
“I’d prefer that Martin not go through the pain of arrest and questioning,” said Doc, guiding Martin’s hand back to the overall pocket.
“I know who killed him,” said Martin Sawyer happily. His voice was soft and high.
Nelson was moving toward the door through which Doc and I had just come.