Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 07 - Murder Most Fowl Read online

  Rhodes was on safe ground now. He knew movie actors. “He was in The Deer Hunter.”

  “Yeah, if you say so. And now he’s McBain. I’ll tell you, the real McBain should be able to sue.”

  “We’re talking about Ed McBain now?”

  “That’s right,” Ballinger said. “Or whatever his real name is. He should be able to sue. All those other people are capitalizing on his name.”

  “I’d like to help him out, but it’s not in my jurisdiction,” Rhodes said, hoping to bring the conversation to an end. “Can I use your telephone? I need to call Dr. White.”

  Rhodes was able to persuade White that no one was going to sue him, and he didn’t mention Ballinger’s idea for a lawsuit against the people who were using the name McBain.

  He didn’t make the doctor any special offers; instead he told him what a great job he’d always done for the county and how much he was appreciated. He mentioned the fact that if White didn’t do the job, the body would have to be sent to a forensics lab and days would elapse before Rhodes got any results. After a few minutes of that sort of thing, White agreed to come into town and perform the autopsy.

  After the phone call, Rhodes asked Ballinger about Lige Ward’s personal property.

  “There’s not much,” Ballinger said. “Just the clothes, and I didn’t go through them. You want to do that?”

  Rhodes said that he did. Ruth would already have vacuumed the clothing for hair and fiber evidence, which Rhodes didn’t think would be admitted as evidence, considering where the body had been found, but there might be something in the pockets.

  Rhodes and Ballinger walked over to the main building. In a small, white-walled room in the rear, there was a table that held Lige Ward’s clothing—overalls, shirt, shoes, underwear, Astros cap. It wasn’t much, as Ballinger had said.

  Rhodes took his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and started going through the clothes. The heels of the shoes were filthy and scuffed, and there was dirt on the back of the pants and shirt. Rhodes thought that Ward had been shot and then dragged to the portable outhouse. He’d have to remember to ask the doctor about that later. He scraped some of the dirt into an evidence bag before going through the rest of the clothes.

  There was nothing in the shirt pocket, nothing in the hat or shoes. There was a billfold in the back pocket of the jeans. It contained twenty-three dollars, a driver’s license, a social security card, and a Visa card.

  In the deep side pockets of the overalls, Rhodes found sixty-eight cents in change, an Old Timer pocket knife, and some car keys. Where was Ward’s pickup, he wondered? That was something that had to be looked into.

  There was one other thing in the pockets. It was an up-curved metal spike about two inches long.

  Rhodes held it up and looked at it.

  “A gaff,” Ballinger said. “Like they use on fighting roosters. There’s an old paperback book about rooster fighting. It’s called Cockfighter, by a guy named Charles Willeford. He wrote a lot of stuff for the paperbacks. I’ve got one called High Priest of California, and I think —”

  “Never mind that,” Rhodes said. He didn’t want to get into another discussion of paperback writers. “The question is, how did this gaff get in Lige’s pocket?”

  Ballinger studied the wicked-looking piece of steel. “I’d say, just guessing now, that he put it there.”

  “I know he put it there. Or somebody did. But I wonder why. It’s not the kind of thing a man just carries around.”

  Then Rhodes remembered what Lawton had said about Lige Ward. Chickens. Maybe he hadn’t meant chickens. Maybe he’d meant roosters. Or fighting cocks.

  “There’s not any cockfighting around here, is there?” Ballinger asked.

  “There shouldn’t be,” Rhodes told him. “It’s illegal.”

  Ballinger nodded, then said, “From what I hear, that doesn’t bother some people.”

  Rhodes took off his reading glasses and put them back in his shirt pocket. “What people?”

  “Nobody in particular,” Ballinger said. “But there’s been cockfighting in Texas just about forever, whether it’s legal or not. I guess you know there’s people right here in Blacklin County that raise fighting cocks.”

  “There’s nothing illegal about raising them,” Rhodes said. “Just fighting them.”

  Ballinger stared reflectively at the ceiling of the white room. “I read about a case down around Houston not long ago. The Texas Rangers raided a big cockfight, arrested nearly a hundred people. One of ’em was interviewed by the paper. Said getting arrested didn’t bother him, that he’d just pay his fine and go home and that there’d be another fight somewhere the next weekend.”

  “He was probably right,” Rhodes admitted. “It’s hard to control. The cockfighters even publish a magazine, but they don’t advertise the fights in it, not the ones in Texas.”

  “What about other states? It’s legal in some places, isn’t it? How about Mexico?”

  “It’s not legal in Mexico,” Rhodes said. “But there’s a lot of it that goes on there, and in Texas too, down on the border. It’s legal in New Mexico, though. They’ve written their cruelty to animals statutes to be sure cockfighting’s specifically excluded.”

  “But it’s not legal in Texas.”

  “Not in Texas,” Rhodes agreed. “There’s not supposed to be any of that here.”

  “Except that thing you’re holding in your hand’s a gaff for a fighting cock.”

  “Right. Except for that.”

  Ballinger was looking down at the floor now. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

  The floor was as white and clean as the rest of the room, but there was something reddish brown lying near Ballinger’s right foot.

  “It must’ve come from Lige’s clothes,” Ballinger said. “Whatever it is.”

  Rhodes bent down and started to pick it up. It drifted away from him and he had to reach again. That time he got it.

  “It’s a feather,” he said, straightening up.

  “What kind of feather?” Ballinger asked.

  Rhodes couldn’t answer that, but he would have bet on one of two things: it came from either an emu or a fighting cock.

  It was about five o’clock when Rhodes arrived at the jail. There was still plenty of daylight left, and he would go back to Obert to talk to Nard King later. Right now, he wanted to talk to Lawton.

  The jailer wasn’t in the office when Rhodes entered. Hack was there, however, and so was his friend, Mrs. McGee. In spite of the heat, she was, as usual, wearing a sweater and a knitted cap that was pulled down over her ears.

  “How are you, Mrs. McGee?” Rhodes asked.

  “I’m just fine, thank you, Sheriff,” she said.

  She and Hack were watching a small television set that was sitting in the middle of Hack’s desk.

  “What’s that?” Rhodes asked, indicating the set.

  “Mega Watchman,” Hack said. “Miz McGee brought it over here so I could watch TV. Pretty good picture, don’t you think?”

  The picture was so small that Rhodes could hardly see it from across the room. He walked over closer to the desk.

  “‘Course we can’t get anything but the close-by stations,” Hack said. “None of that cable stuff. But that’s better than nothin’.”

  While Hack hadn’t been wanting a television set for as long as he’d been wanting a computer, he’d said more than once that it would be nice to have one. The set was tuned in to a Texas Rangers game.

  “The prisoners are going to complain more than ever now,” Rhodes said. There was no television in the cells.

  “Too bad,” Hack said. He plainly didn’t care. He was just interested in watching the game.

  Rhodes supposed there was nothing wrong with having a TV set in the office, as long as it didn’t interfere with the work. He didn’t watch much himself, unless there was an old movie on.

  “Better take a break,” he told Hack. “I want you to put out an APB on Lige Ward’s pickup. I didn’t see it at his house. You can use that computer of yours to find out the make and model and license number.”

  Hack liked nothing better than a chance to use the computer. “I’ve already checked the serial number of that pistol you tagged and bagged. It’s supposed to belong to some fella in Wichita Falls, but you can bet he sold it to somebody who sold it to somebody else who sold it to somebody else.”

  “Give him a call anyway,” Rhodes said.

  “Sure thing. But right now I got to look up that pickup truck.” Hack turned from the game and started tapping away.

  “Where’s Lawton?” Rhodes asked before Hack got too involved.

  Hack looked up from the monitor. “He’s up in the cellblock with those three fellas Ruth brought in. They’re gripin’ because it’s takin’ the bondsman too long to get here.”

  “I’d better talk to them before he does,” Rhodes said. Lawton could wait, not that Rhodes expected to get much out of the three men.

  And he didn’t. All three denied ownership of the pistol, and Rhodes was sure there wouldn’t be any help from the man in Wichita Falls. The pistol could easily have been bought at a flea market somewhere. Ferrin claimed that they had found it.

  “What about the cartridges?” Rhodes asked him. “Did you find those, too?”

  “Bought ’em at Wal-Mart,” Ferrin said.

  It seemed easy enough for him to remember that, but the other two remembered it as well. It had been a big production for them to decide which one was sober enough to go into the store and make the purchase.

  “Where did you find the pistol?” Rhodes asked.

  Ferrin couldn’t remember, nor could the other two, or so they said. Rhodes thought that they might even be telling the truth, since they hadn’t had any time together to get their stories straight, unless they’d managed to do it in the back of the car when Ruth was bringing them in. Rhodes didn’t think that was the case.

  There was one thing that Kyle Foster and Mike Galloway agreed on however, and that was who found the pistol. Both of them were sure it was Ferrin.

  “I know because he was the one doin’ most of the shootin’,” Foster said. “If I’d’ve found it, I’d be the one who got to shoot it.”

  Rhodes questioned each of the three men separately in different cells, and the story that he pieced together was that they’d started drinking on Saturday night at the Palm Club and had continued on well into Sunday morning. They’d gone to Ferrin’s house after the Palm Club closed down.

  Ferrin left the other two there and went out to buy beer. He’d come back with a lot of it, a case or two or three, and they drank some more. Then they slept for a couple of hours. When they woke up, they started drinking again.

  After a while, they decided that it was a pretty day and that they should get out and enjoy the sunshine. They’d driven around in Ferrin’s pickup, still drinking, for an unspecified length of time—none of them could remember how long—before they ran across the portable toilet and decided to have some fun with it. Somewhere in there, Ferrin, or someone, had found the pistol, but everyone was vague about that part.

  Now that the three of them hadn’t had a drink for a good while, none of them was feeling so well. Their complexions were grayish green, and their eyes were red. Rhodes could tell that they would’ve liked to go somewhere nicer than a jail cell and lie down for a long time.

  But he kept after them, questioning them about the portable toilet and the pistol. “Did you find them together or in different places?” he asked Ferrin.

  Ferrin’s hat was on the iron cot in the cell, and he put his hands up to the sides of his head. “I can’t remember. I told you ten times I couldn’t remember. Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Because there was a dead man in that toilet, and you were shooting at it. Maybe you even killed him. That’s why.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody!” Ferrin said. “We just found the damn pistol and we thought it’d be fun to shoot at somethin’. That’s all there was to it.”

  “Maybe,” Rhodes said. “But maybe not. I’ll be talking to you again.”

  Ferrin didn’t say anything; he just sat with his head between his hands as if trying to hold it together.

  “If I were you, I’d try to remember where I found that pistol,” Rhodes said before he left the cell.

  Ferrin just grunted. Rhodes couldn’t tell if that was a yes or a no.

  All three of them probably knew that Rhodes didn’t really have anything on them other than a few misdemeanor charges: public intoxication, creating a disturbance, and unlawful possession of a firearm. The last one was a Class A, but it still wasn’t a felony. He’d keep hammering at them anyway.

  Lawton was waiting in the office when Rhodes came back down. He was over by Hack’s desk watching the Ranger game.

  “Cockfighting,” Rhodes said.

  Lawton’s head jerked up. “That’s it! That’s what I heard about Lige Ward. How’d you know, Sheriff?”

  Rhodes resisted the urge to say that a little bird had told him. He reached into his pocket and brought out the gaff.

  “Ever see one of these before?”

  Miz McGee and Hack looked too. Miz McGee didn’t appear to know what it was, but Hack did. So did Lawton.

  “It’s a gaff like they use on fightin’ cocks,” Lawton said. “But it don’t look quite right, someway.”

  “What way?” Rhodes asked.

  “Hand it here,” Hack said, and Rhodes gave it to him.

  Hack looked at the gaff, then handed it to Lawton. “I see it. How ’bout you?”

  Lawton examined the piece of steel, then ran his finger along it. “Sure. Somebody’s filed an edge on the bottom. Usually a gaff is just round, like a needle, but this one’s more like a sword.”

  He handed the gaff back to Rhodes, who took it and ran his thumb along the sharpened edge. It was not quite as keen as a razor blade, but it would do.

  “Yeah, it’s like a sword,” Hack said. “See, a round one, which is the way they usually are, will generally just slide off if it hits a bone. But one with an edge on it like that, it’s likely to penetrate. Maybe break the bone.”

  “That’s not fair, is it?” Mrs. McGee said.

  “Who cares?” Hack said. “Cockfightin’s illegal anyway, so what’s one more crooked trick? What’re you gonna do if you catch somebody at it? Go to the Sheriff?” He looked at Rhodes. “Where’d you get that thing, anyhow?”

  “Lige had it,” Rhodes said. “It was in his pocket.”

  “Not the kinda thing a fella’d usually be carryin’ around,” Lawton said. “Unless he had somethin’ to do with cockfightin’.”

  “Did he?” Rhodes asked. “You said you’d heard something. And you and Hack seem to know an awful lot about cockfighting.”

  “I heard somethin’, all right,” Lawton admitted. “But you know how that is. You can’t put any faith in what you hear.”

  “Tell me anyway,” Rhodes said.

  “Well,” Lawton began, “this was before your time, I guess, but Lige Ward’s daddy —”

  “What does Lige’s daddy have to do with this?” Rhodes asked, trying to keep Lawton on the subject. If he let the jailer get started down a sidetrack, they might never get to the subject. Hack and Lawton were worse than Ballinger when it came to meandering all over the place.

  “I was tryin’ to tell you what he has to do with it,” Lawton said. “If you’ll just let me get to it.”

  Rhodes walked over and sat down at his desk. He might as well make himself comfortable.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. You go on ahead.”

  “You do that a lot lately,” Hack said. “Interrupt, I mean.”

  Rhodes took a deep breath. “I said I was sorry. Go on, Lawton. What about Lige’s father?”

  “His name was Smokey,” Lawton said. “‘Course that wasn’t his real name. People just called him that.”

  A strong feeling of deja vu came over Rhodes, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to ask what Ward’s real name had been. He just hoped it didn’t turn out to be Ed McBain.

  It didn’t.

  “His real name was Elton,” Lawton said. “I don’t know why they called him Smokey. But anyway, back in the Thirties, Smokey raised fightin’ roosters out there on that place of his close to Obert.”

  That was news to Rhodes, but as Lawton had said, it was before Rhodes’ time.

  “Had him some pretty good birds,” Hack said. “Fought ’em, too.” He glanced at Mrs. McGee, who was looking at him with disapproval. “Not that I ever went to any of the fights myself, mind you. I just heard about ’em.”

  “Yeah,” Lawton said. “Me too. Anyway, he quit durin’ the war. I don’t know why. Maybe there was too many men off fightin’ in the war for there to be any crowds for a cockfight. But I guess Lige must’ve known about those roosters. Maybe he even remembered ’em.”

  Rhodes thought they were getting somewhere now. “Did he ever raise them himself?”

  Lawton shook his head. “Not that I ever heard of.”

  “Then what was the connection between Lige and cockfighting?”

  Lawton gave Rhodes a hurt look. “I was gettin’ to that part.”

  Rhodes forced himself to relax. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to rush you.”

  “You been doin’ a lot of that lately, too,” Hack said. “Rushin’ people. I’m beginnin’ to wonder if gettin’ married was good for you.”

  “That’s the truth,” Lawton said. “Bein’ married don’t agree with just ever’body. I remember —”

  “Lige Ward,” Rhodes said. He couldn’t help himself. “Cockfighting.”

  “Cranky,” Hack said. “You’re gettin’ downright cranky.”

  Rhodes didn’t apologize this time. He just waited for Lawton to get on with his story, which he finally did.

  “Well, anyway, I was out at Wal-Mart, sittin’ on the bench in the entranceway there, when Gad Pullens came in. He sat down, and we got started talkin’ about first one thing and then another, and I said somethin’ about how Lige Ward sure did hate Wal-Mart, and Gad mentioned something about how it was a shame that Lige had closed up his store and how he’d heard that Lige was thinkin’ about maybe stagin’ a cockfight to make a little money.”