It drank for a long time and licked its chops and went over and sat down behind the dumpster.
“Hey,” Eichord said, and the dog wagged its tail and ran over to where he was sitting, but kept its distance.
“That's a good idea,” he told the dog. “You need to trust a few people sometimes, though. Come here.” He patted his leg.
The dog walked over to him, very alert, sniffing the outstretched hand. “No. I don't have any more food. But I'll bring you some more tomorrow, huh?” He was whispering softly. “Meanwhile, how's about us bein’ pals? Huh?” The dog came closer and he gently scratched it behind the ears. “Yeah. That's a boy.” He gave it a few pats and then he slowly got up.
“Well, it's been a long day, pal. I'll see ya tomorrow, huh?” He walked down off the slope and threw the sack into the dumpster, then went back to his room, the dog still sitting on the hillside. He went in and took off his shoes again and began laying out his things for tomorrow. He took the paper over by the open window and glanced out and the dog was out in front of the motel room, looking up at the window. Waiting for more. Too much of a good thing is never enough.
Dallas Lockup
Gray and cold.
Stone corridor.
Absolute stillness.
Harsh light far in the distance.
A chilling, enveloping shadow.
He stands on the dark pathway, waiting.
Dallas
The day would prove to be one of the longest in his career. It would unwind like a broken clock spring and he would watch—helpless.
The morning drive southward into downtown was familiar enough now that Eichord flipped on an all-talk radio station and heard the following:
It was January 13. The president was still treading water in the Iranscam caper. In New York, Messrs. Corallo, Persico, and Salerno each drew one-hundred-year sentences for racketeering. In Houston, two guards with the Rockets tested positive for coke and were suspended. It was two days before the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr., and there was widespread racial violence throughout parts of the country, particularly in some southern cities.
The Metroplex had its share, and between the pro-and-con King sentiment, and the recent cop-versus-blacks trouble, the angry rhetoric was reaching the boiling point. The talk station aired phone conversations between citizens via a seven-second-delay device, and Eichord listened to the calls as the level of bitter oratory built in intensity.
“We were fine here,” a man was complaining, “and then the blamed CORE or NAACP war treasury paid for a colored family to put a down payment on a house down the block and the property values—"
A black-sounding gentleman cut him off with, “Yeah, YOU were fine but what about the colored, before there was an N double A er-ah C P do you know the colored didn't have—"
And he was in turn interrupted by the white-sounding man who said, “Sure, never mind what happened to OUR family it's just the COLORED that count, well I'm SICK of hearing about the COLORED and..."
Eichord had the oddest feeling he was stuck back in the mid-60s. He'd heard so many similar exchanges. To Jack it was just the same old broken record. It was a day like all days except he was there.
And when he walked inside, sitting there at the front desk, pretty as you please in a blazer, charcoal flannel slacks, blue-and-white polka-dot tie, $250 shoes, blue silk shirt, was none other than a calm, clean-shaven Ukie Hackabee.
“What the—” It came out before he could catch himself and the clean-cut Ukie smiled his big Cary Grant grin and said in a rumbling, beautiful baritone, “Don't suppose you'd be Mr. Eichord?” and offered his hand.
Jack took it, nodding as if in a fog.
“I'm Joe Hackabee. Good to meet you, sir.” Firm shake.
“Joe,” he said, catching his breath, “I, uh—"
“Right.” The man smiled easily. It was a warm, genuine smile. Not a sleazy, sardonic grin. Not a snickering, mean sneer. This was the smile of somebody who sincerely liked people. He'd never seen Ukie smile this way before.
“I-I'm just, you know."
“Right.” He talked quickly, softly, in the reassuring, measured tones. “I know"—a little smile in the voice—"I'm used to it, believe me. We had a lot of years of people doing a double take."
“Yes. It's quite amazing."
“Identical twins, as you can see. I'm probably a little tanner than Ukie, Bill to me, I guess I'm the only person who still calls him Bill. And our personalities are completely different. Other than that we're a matching set. Kind of hits you if you're not prepared for it, eh?"
“Nobody said. I mean, I knew Ukie's brother was going to be coming in but I hadn't heard you were twins. It just surprised me. I thought it was him sitting here.” Cops would walk past and do a double take, Eichord noticed, even in their brief exchange. Joseph Hackabee was drawing a crowd inside the station.
“I spoke with Miss Collier and she said you were leading the investigation into the, uh, tragic situation here. I was hoping we could talk if your time permits."
“Sure. Come on. Let's get a cup of coffee and ... Right in here, please."
“No coffee, thanks. Don't use it."
“Have a seat,” He ushered him into a vacant cubicle in the homicide division.
“Thanks."
“Have you spoken to your brother at all since the murders took place?"
“I haven't spoken to my brother in ... Oh, I guess four and a half years. Over four years. We were very close but like people always say, we just grew apart. I'd almost lost track of him completely, which I deeply regret,” he sighed, “but these things happen. Anyway, I didn't even know if he was still in the Dallas area until I saw something about his having been arrested as a suspect in connection with the killings.” He shook his head. “Absolutely beyond anything believable."
“Can you give us anything that might shed some light on all of this? On the murders?"
“I don't know a thing about this. Nothing beyond what I've heard on the tube and read in the papers. And of course what I've heard from his lawyers. As I said I did talk to Miss Collier. She suggested we get together as soon as you had time."
“I was going to arrange to see you as soon as you got in. I had some men who were going to advise me when your plane got in but as you can see that clearly must have been one of those best-laid plans you're always hearing about going astray. I didn't even know you were here in Dallas."
“Sure. Well, the reason why you didn't hear was I didn't fly in to the airport. I came straight here from my home in Houston. Flew here in my own craft. I can land anywhere."
“Oh, I see. You're a pilot, are you?"
“Ultra-light.” He nodded.
“Yeah? I've always wondered about those. You flew all the way from Houston in an ULTRA-LIGHT?"
“Yep.” He laughed a deep and natural laugh. He had a great laugh. Eichord liked him on the spot just as he'd disliked Ukie, the other Ukie, on the spot the second he met him. “I had to touch down a few times but she's easy to gas up. Right back in the air.” He made it sound like parallel parking.
“I'd be scared to death to get in one of those. Aren't they made out of steel tubes or something?"
“Aluminum"—he laughed again—"and Dacron—you know, the sailcloth-type covering. They're pretty safe.” His smile changed. “Mr. Eichord—"
“Jack, please."
But Hackabee was immersed in thought and repeated, “Mr. Eichord, what about Ukie? I know there's absolutely no way he could have done the awful things I've heard about."
“Well"—Eichord gestured with the palms up, hands spread, laid his arms back to rest on the desk—"he did bad things to the Scannapieco woman"—Joe Hackabee looked down and nodded assent—"and bragged to her about the bodies."