‘Supposedly, the scene’s been processed. Maybe those two cops are waiting to see who comes back to linger-?’
‘The proverbial killer returning to the scene of his crime? Nah, those two are just killing time.’
‘You are?’
‘Chicago Sun-Times,’ he said, skipping his name, ‘but I told the cops I was with you.’
‘Then you’ll be watched. The sheriff is real sensitive about the town’s reputation. Those deputies tried to stop us from coming in.’
‘How did you change their minds?’
She nodded toward her cameraman, loading their gear into the back of the van. ‘He started setting up right in the middle of Route Four. They didn’t want to be taped obstructing our access. They relented.’ She opened the van door and got in. ‘Good luck getting along with the people here,’ she said through the open window. They drove away.
He stood for a minute, watching fifteen, maybe twenty search teams plod through the fields, as far west as he could see. They didn’t believe Betty Jo Dean was a murderer. They believed Betty Jo Dean was dead.
He walked back to the county cruiser. ‘You think Betty Jo Dean is on the run?’
‘Have to ask Clamp,’ the tall cop said.
‘Where is he?’
‘Checking a lead.’
‘If she’s not running, why wasn’t she killed too, and left right here with Pribilski? She was a witness to Pribilski’s murder – why would a killer risk taking her away in Pribilski’s car, only to leave the car such a short distance away? Why risk driving her someplace else?’
Neither cop bothered to respond. It enraged him further. ‘Are you thinking Betty Jo can’t be a suspect because Pribilski was an ex-Marine, and no seventeen-year-old girl could get him down?’
The shorter cop shrugged. ‘Don’t take strength to fire a gun,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you tell those searchers they’re wasting their time, like you’re wasting yours, guarding this road? She’s not in that field. She must be running.’
‘You little shit,’ the tall cop sneered, taking a step toward Ridl.
His partner stepped between them. ‘Have a good evening, sir,’ he said, and then, strangely, both cops laughed.
It only took the short walk across the street to understand why. A pink ticket was stuck under his windshield wiper. It was for illegal parking. The ‘Amount of Fine’ section had been filled in with a ballpoint pen. It was fifteen dollars, more than any such violation would cost in Chicago. He looked at the cops, both of whom were staring right back at him.
He lifted his camera and fired off six fast pictures, each one identical. It was all he could think to do to make them frown.
NINE
Only ten cars were parked across from the Wren House. Few of the locals had thought to gather there to seek comfort in bargain-priced Wallbangers.
Then again, it might have been the stink of the murder, committed so close by, that was keeping them away.
There was little light inside, just a few dim wall fixtures. But there was art. Calendar pictures of colorful birds were thumbtacked, unframed, to dark pine plank walls sparkling with grease. A small stage with a lone stool was set up in a far corner for anyone bent on bursting into song, or perhaps just to warble for a moment, like a cardinal or a blue jay. It was a place for crackers. And birds.
Only one of the booths surrounding the empty tables in the dining room was occupied. Jimmy Bales said gambling went on down in the basement. That’s where the owners of the few cars parked outside must be, and where Pauly Pribilski had gone to win the last bucks of his life.
A hostess came up with a menu. ‘One for dinner?’
‘The killing’s kept everyone away?’
‘Booth or a table?’
‘I’ll have a drink first.’ He walked past a wall of spindles that resembled prison bars. Three men sat at the bar. Each wore threadbare denim overalls. All looked too broke to gamble on anything other than their small glasses of tap beer. He sat in the center, between two guys who paid him no attention.
‘Is the fish good here?’ he asked the man to his left.
‘Never tried it.’
‘How about the Wallbangers?’
‘Shit,’ the man said.
The bartender came over and asked to see his ID.
‘Twenty-nine?’ he asked, studying the driver’s license photo taken when Ridl was nineteen.
Ridl had heard it before. Being short didn’t help. Being fat didn’t, either.
‘And old for my age,’ Ridl said.
‘You a reporter?’
‘Chicago Sun-Times.’
The bartender handed the license back and Ridl ordered a tap beer. ‘What are you hearing about the killing?’
‘Clamp’s in Freeport, checking out two guys that were hanging around the Hacienda.’
‘Two guys, or a man and a woman?’ Ridl asked, remembering what the television reporter had said for broadcast. She’d mentioned a mixed couple, not two men.
‘I heard two guys.’ The bartender set the beer on the counter. ‘Seventy-five cents,’ he said.
It was cheaper than a Wallbanger, and less green. He laid a dollar next to the beer. ‘Those two guys were hassling Pribilski and Betty Jo?’
‘Mister Reporter, all kinds of rumors will be checked out before this is over.’
‘You know Betty Jo Dean?’
‘Nope.’
‘She was in here last night, with Pribilski.’
‘No way I know her. Or him, if that’s your next question.’
‘You think the killer is local?’
‘Jesus, mister.’ The bartender grabbed a towel, went down to the end of the bar and began polishing a beer glass that already looked clean.
One of the men sitting alongside Ridl looked over with red eyes. ‘Fifteen years ago, we had outshiders,’ he said, slurring the word. ‘Whores, military off the train for a hoot, punk kids from every dink town around. People who run this town got fed up and hired Clamp Reems as chief deputy. Clamp grew up at the sulky track north of town, a bad ass himself. He got rid of it all. This killing’s a surprise.’
‘Local, then?’
‘Could be.’
The bartender came up. ‘Last call, Vince. Finish your beer.’
‘Sun’s still out.’
The bartender leaned across the bar. ‘Last call, Vince.’
The man saw through his fog and gave Ridl a lopsided grin. ‘Local?’ he asked loudly. ‘No way in hell. Foreigner, for damned sure.’
Ridl left his beer untouched, went out and crossed to the parking lot. No one else at that bar was going to say another word to him.
A new pink rectangle was stuck beneath his windshield wiper. This time, the ticket was a twenty-five dollar fine for a missing rear license plate.
He walked to the back of his battered Beetle. They hadn’t even bothered to be cagey; the license plate screws lay in plain sight beneath the back bumper. Only the plate was missing.
The sheriff’s deputies had followed him from Poor Farm Road. They wanted him gone.
The back of his neck was tingling. He headed toward town.
No signs outside Al’s Rustic Hacienda advertised anything, let alone Wallbangers. Nor was there any hint the place served fish. That, especially, was a good thing. The Hacienda was a hovel of splotchy brown stucco and peeling, red-painted roof shingles, a dump that looked as though anything marine it might offer would have been snagged whiskered, crudded and diseased from the bottom of the Royal River roiling not twenty feet away.
Yet unlike the Wren House, the Hacienda’s parking lot was crammed full of cars. At least twenty teenagers clutching long-necked beers surrounded a young man in a bowling shirt who was leaning against the hood of a battered black Jeep. He was pointing toward the door of the Hacienda.
‘As soon as they come out, Betty Jo and the Polish guy, this black-haired broad steps in front of Betty Jo. The broad is shit-faced, angry, dripping sweat. The man with her, a skinny squirrel, is hanging back. He wants no trouble.