Barrett’s mind wasn’t working in sequence. “Dead? My wife is dead? Shot in our own house?”
“That’s right, Hod. I know how you must be feeling, and I know what you must think of me and my department. She’s dead.”
Barrett shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “This is some kind of cheap trick to get me to say something. Well, it won’t work, because I got nothin’ to say. I sure didn’t kill Bill Tomkins, but even you can’t be dumb enough to think I could kill my wife while I was locked up in your jail.”
Rhodes shook his head. “No tricks,” he said. “I wish it was a trick. She’s really dead, Hod.”
Barrett wrapped his huge hands around the edge of the mattress of the bunk and squeezed. “If she’s dead, who killed her? Answer me that one.”
“I think it was meant to look like she killed herself, Hod.”
“With my gun? She didn’t have no more idea how to use that gun than a chicken. She couldn’t even have got the safety off,” Barrett said with disgust.
“I said it was meant to look like she did it, not that I thought she did. Anybody who’d think Mrs. Barrett would mess up her kitchen just to kill herself didn’t know your wife very well,” Rhodes said. “I only met her at home the two times, but I knew her well enough to know that much.”
“We had our troubles,” Barrett said, his voice cracking slightly, “but I never thought about her bein’ dead. Good lord, Sheriff, how many more folks are goin’ to get killed around here before you put a stop to it?”
“No more, if I can help it,” Rhodes told him. “Could you identify that rifle of yours, Hod?”
Barrett gathered himself, pulling himself erect on the cot. “How do you mean? You mean officially? No way. I bought it off a fella at a flea market five or six years ago, the way I bet half the guns in this county get bought. There wasn’t any recordin’ of serial numbers that I can recall. There’s probably guns like it all over Thurston.”
“That’s what I thought, and that’s probably what the killer thought, too, if he switched his gun for yours like I think he might have done. But I meant unofficially. I expect you marked your gun some way. Most folks do that.”
“Yeah, I did that,” Hod said. “It’s got a butt plate on it, and my initials are carved under the butt plate. Just take out the screws and check it. Ought to be an ‘H.B.’ under there if it’s mine.”
“I’ll check it,” Rhodes said.
“Who did it, Sheriff? You know who did it?”
“I thought I had a pretty good idea yesterday,”‘ Rhodes said. “At first I thought your wife might know something she hadn’t told, but then I had another thought. Your wife doesn’t fit into the pattern too well, but I guess she could be made to fit.”
“Why are you sittin’ here talkin’ to me then?” Barrett asked. “Why ain’t you out arrestin’ the sonuvabitch that did it?”
“There’s a big problem there,” Rhodes said. “I can make all the facts fit, but there’s one thing I don’t have. The important thing. I don’t have one bit of evidence.” He smacked his fist down on the thin mattress of the bunk. A faint cloud of dust motes rose in the air.
Barrett stood up to his full height, balled his fists, and worked his arms in the air. “Evidence my ass. You get me the man who did it and then we’ll worry about evidence.”
“That door’s open right now, Hod,” Rhodes said quietly, “but if you keep talking like that, I’ll close it mighty damn quick. You know better than to say things like that.”
“It’s my wife that’s been killed, Sheriff,” Barrett said.
“It’s too late to cry about that,” Rhodes said. “You should have worried more about her when she was alive. Maybe none of this would have happened if you had.”
Barrett looked at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” Rhodes said. “Forget it. It’s hard to say anybody is really at fault in something like this. It’s my fault as much as yours, or as much as anyone’s, I guess. I’d just like for you to calm down and stop thinking about going out there and righting wrongs. That’s my job, and I’m the one to do it.”
Barrett stepped back to the bunk and sat again. “Can I see her?” he asked.
“You can see her if you want to, but I think you’d be better off not doing it,” Rhodes said. “I don’t think it would be a good idea. I think maybe you ought to go on home. Hack can drive you back.”
Barrett continued to sit on the bunk, staring at the floor. Rhodes got up and went out the cell door. “I’m leaving the door open, Hod,” he said. “You can leave when you get ready to.” He walked out and down the corridor, taking a last look back over his shoulder. Hod Barrett still sat, his shoulders moving slightly as if he were crying. In the next cell, Billy Joe Byron sat watching him, his eyes round.
Rhodes paused and looked at Billy Joe. If Billy Joe could get over his fear and start talking, things would probably work out, but that seemed unlikely. Rhodes was going to have to go with what he had, which was suspicion, hunch, and guesswork. Everything fit, but there wasn’t enough to make a case with. He’d just have to see how far he could get by just talking, and maybe with lying a little.
He went on down the stairs. He hoped he was wrong, but he didn’t see how he could be. There was no other answer that fit with the facts. Maybe some scientific crimefighter somewhere could have done better, could have come up with the answer quicker, but Rhodes didn’t see how. The autopsy of Jeanne Clinton had told them nothing except how she’d been killed, which they’d known already. He had to find a rifle that fired the bullets that killed Bill Tomkins before he could pin that one on anybody, and now that he’d found it someone else was dead.
He reached the bottom of the stairs. “Hack, if Hod comes down and needs a ride home, you give him one. I’ll be out for a while. But before I go, call the DPS lab and ask them to check under the butt plate on that rifle from Hod’s house. See if there’s any initials carved on the stock.”
“Sure thing,” Hack said. “I guess Lawton could handle the dispatchin’ work while I’m gone.” He turned to the phone.
There were no initials on the rifle stock. Rhodes hadn’t expected that there would be.
“Where you headed, Sheriff?” Hack asked.
“I’m going to have a little talk with Johnny Sherman,” Rhodes said, starting out the door.
Chapter 15
Johnny Sherman lived only a few blocks away from Rhodes, in a smaller and older frame house. His car was parked in his drive, and Rhodes went to the door.
Johnny came and let him in. “Hey, Sheriff,” he said. “I was just getting up and stirring around a little. Thought I might have a bite to eat and watch some TV before going on shift. Come on in.”
Rhodes stepped into a small living room dominated by a twenty-five-inch RCA Colortrak set. There was a La-Z-Boy recliner strategically placed so that its occupant could see the television set while leaning back in comfort. The only other furniture in the room consisted of an early American rocker of the kind that can often be bought on sale at major drugstore chain outlets, along with a small end table beside the recliner. The floor was covered with a cheap green linoleum that looked as if it might have been installed by an amateur. But the room was neat and clean, with no sign of sloppy bachelorhood in evidence.
There was a small window-unit air conditioner in the room’s only window, and it labored noisily. The room was dim and cool.
“Have a seat, Sheriff,” Johnny said. “Let me get you something to drink. I think I’ve got a Dr Pepper.”
Rhodes went over to the rocker and sat in it. He didn’t rock. “We need to have a little talk, Johnny,” he said.
“Sure thing, Sheriff.” Johnny smiled apologetically. “Just let me go change into something presentable.” He was dressed in a white V-necked T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He was barefoot. “It won’t take me but a minute.”
Rhodes started to protest, but before he could say anything Johnny had stepped through the doorway into the bedroom and out of Rhodes’s sight.