Homicide My Own Read online

  “I have a right to see him, goddammit! I have to know he’s okay!”

  “I told you, this is not a public place. This is my house and you’re not going inside.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked the mother.

  She rolled her eyes, as though wanting a definition of okay.

  “Look, take your daughter home...you’re driving?”

  “Yeah, that’s our car,” said Gwen, pointing to a half-primered Civic in the driveway.

  “Take her home and have a long talk...about the birds and the bees. Long overdue, looks like.”

  “Fuck you, you old cunt!”

  “Stacey!” admonished her mother, to no effect, then explained to us, “She wasn’t raised to talk like that.”

  “Listen, young lady,” I said, “this is Indian land, and this man is the law here. They don’t have to indulge you, they can just throw you in jail.”

  “Go for it, you fat fucker!”

  So much for idle threats.

  I asked to see the prisoner and the chief invited us inside.

  “If they can see him, I can see him too!” yelled Stacey, and she made the mistake of grabbing my arm as I was going inside the house. I hit her with the pepper spray, a good blast right in the face. She reeled back and screamed so loud I expected glass to break, which would have been some small satisfaction if it had been the pain of her taking her medicine, but it was more of her bottomless anger. She made choked and snotty threats to file the largest lawsuit we had ever seen. Fourteen years old.

  Charles T. Houser was kept in the locked guest room, though at the moment the lock seemed unnecessary. He was ashen white, only half-awake, and if he was hearing the shrill voice of his own true love downstairs on the porch, as we certainly were, it seemed to have no restorative benefits.

  He was on a high rough-hewn bed of cedar, covered against the morning chill with a handmade quilt of a bear design . He had been nursed by the chief’s wife, a pleasantly plump woman with braided hair who might have been a beauty in her youth. So might have we all.

  His arms were above the quilt and the right wrist, where he had attempted to gnaw his way to redemption, was heavily bandaged. His eyes fluttered when he saw us come to his bedside, as though he needed any more proof of the seriousness of his situation. I looked at him for a moment, felt no need for introductions, but thought I’d better recite him his rights first off, which I did, while the others held their places respectfully, as though it were some kind of prayer. He was under arrest. Again.

  “How is he?” I asked Mrs. Shining Pony.

  “He’ll live,” she said, without sympathy. It’s hard to find sympathy among middle-aged women for a man who will seduce a fourteen-year-old girl.

  “Mr. Houser,” I said, “we’re here to take you back to Spokane.”

  He looked from one to the other of us with frightened eyes, then raised himself slightly, his head moving back and forth as though looking for something.

  Mrs. Shining Pony grabbed a bucket off the floor next to the bed and held it under his mouth. Into it he spewed a great rush of fluids, gagged, and did it again, before falling back to the pillow. He was spent, and oblivious to the cries from below, “Charlie! Charlie! I love you, Charlie!”

  I took a look into the bucket, to check for blood, but it was nothing more than breakfast.

  “I’m going to have to call Spokane,” I said.

  I did that while Odd sat down with the chief and his wife for the breakfast we were promised. I took a cup of coffee with me, in case it was going to be a call of some duration, which it turned out to be. I got the lieutenant on the phone and told him it didn’t look good for today either. I waded through the silence that spelled his unhappiness. I never looked forward to talking with the lieutenant. The only pleasure it gave me was that I seemed to just naturally infuriate him.

  “He’s a sorry looking son of a bitch, Houser,” I said. “Puking, shitting, fainting away...not the sort of person you’d want in the back of your car. By the way, little Stacey and her woeful mother have set up camp at the chief’s door. The kid won’t leave without seeing her true love, and her mother looks pretty much powerless to influence her one way or the other.”

  “They are not our problem,” said the lieutenant.

  “Yes, sir, just bringing you up to date. By the way, I had to pepper spray her.”

  “Who?”

  “Stacey. She grabbed my arm.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t interfere, but she seems determined to do same.”

  “Can you concentrate on Houser? He’s the felon.”

  “Oh, he has my complete attention. I’m not sure I can say the same for Odd.”

  “Odd? What’s with Gunderson?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You brought it up. Out with it. What?”

  “You know Odd.”

  “Quinn, don’t bust my balls.”

  “Oh, it’s this old-timey murder case they got here. Odd’s playing detective, thinks he can solve the case. It’s older than he is and colder than you are.”

  “A murder case?”

  “Affirm.”

  “And he thinks he can solve it? Gunderson?”

  “He’s gone all dreamy on it. I mean, he’s fine and all, but there ain’t much for us to do except wait for Houser to stop puking. So in the meantime, Odd’s been playing detective.”

  “Tell him not to do that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him to stay out of people’s way.”

  “Will do.”

  “How long’s it gonna take?”

  “What?”

  “For Houser to stop puking.”

  “I’ll ask the medicine man.”

  “Don’t bust my balls, Quinn!”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

  Just then, Odd came up to me with a piece of golden frybread sitting on a napkin, oozing grease. “Have this while it’s hot,” he said. “It’s Indian bread. Delish.” He gave it to me and went back, not at all interested in what was transpiring over the wire.

  Since the lieutenant had fallen back into his silent mode, I bit into the hot greasy bread, and it really was a wonderful thing to have in your mouth. I knew I was going to eat the rest of it, which I would then have on my thighs.

  “Are you eating something, talking to me?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. It’s Indian frybread. We’re at the chief’s house.”

  He took another moment and said, “Maybe you should extend the chief a professional courtesy.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but what would that be?”

  “Maybe you should help them with their murder case.”

  “Excuse me? First of all, it isn’t really their case. It’s the Sheriff’s case, even though one of the two kids killed was an Indian, and it might have been a hate crime, in the days before they had that classification. Now that I think about it, what crime isn’t a hate crime? You got money and I don’t—I hate you.”

  “Quinn, you’re bustin’ my balls.”

  “Second, and sorry about that, they don’t want our help because nobody is working on the case. In their wisdom, they all have accepted that sometimes someone gets away with murder. And third, what would be the value of our professional courtesy since neither one of us knows jackshit about investigating a murder, even if it happened last night instead of thirty-three years ago.”

  “But you said Gunderson could help them.”

  “I said he thought he could solve the case, but that’s Odd. Odd might say he thought he could hold his breath for six minutes.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “It was just an example.”

  “You say that Houser can’t travel much before tomorrow morning?”

  “That’s affirm. He looks like shit on a clothesline.”

  “Okay, then. Get a room, nothing too expensive. Keep your receipts. Keep close watch on Houser’s condition. Don’t
let them give him up unless it looks like he’s cashin’ his check. Officially, as of now, you’re on loan to the chief there, help him with this murder. A kind of cross-cultural hands across the state sort of a deal.”

  “Lieutenant, there ain’t no murder case, at least not that the chief has. You haven’t been listening. Is it because I’m a woman?”

  “No, Quinn, it’s because you’re black.”

  For the record, I am not black. Polish on my mother’s side, Irish on my father’s. About the time the Irish were getting out of the coal mines, the Polish were filling them up. My folks met in the change. The lieutenant was just cracking wise about discrimination in general.

  “Where’s Gunderson been getting his information on the murder thing?”

  “From the chief, but...”

  “Well, there you have it.”

  “Have what, for fuck’s sake?”

  “Quinn, the mouth.”

  “Sorry, but I am two minutes away from a conniption with the conniption fast gaining.”

  “Let us review. And I’m taking notes. On this day we had a conversation. Substance being, Houser is suffering an intestinal disorder, the result of a self-inflicted bite. Your call is not to make him travel thusly. As your superior, I concur. So as to justify your staying over, apart from monitoring Houser, you request and I authorize a temporary duty assignment, that being to assist the reservation police in examining evidence relative to a crime committed upon one of their members at some time past. How’s that sound?”

  Like overrefined bullshit that has lost its power to fertilize.

  “That sounds just lovely, Lieutentant,” which due to the manner in which I said it conveyed the same message.

  “Would you like me to check in?” I asked.

  “Only if you can’t help yourself,” he answered.

  8.

  This particular tribe had come to accept casino gambling and the resale of fireworks, but they drew the line at hotel management, believing it was wrong to make a person pay for sleeping in your bed. The only overnight accommodations were on the white part of the island, The Tidewater Cottages, four tiny cottages in need of paint and repair, owned and managed by Frank and Angie Rupert, who met us at the driveway. Chief Shining Pony had called ahead.

  Frank moved with difficulty, half crippled with lower back pain. He used Angie’s wheelchair for support as he pushed her over the gravel. She was obese and crippled by her own bulk. After the introductions, Frank told us we were lucky indeed because they had one cottage vacant, a rarity at this time of the year, the start of the tourist season. It was The Honeymoon Cottage and went for seventy-five dollars a night. I must have reacted.

  “Too high?” said Frank.

  Looking at the run-down place with its little splintered porch out front, I admitted it did sound a bit dear for the goods. “Never go cheap on your honeymoon is my advice,” said the innkeeper. “It’ll taint the marriage.”

  I opened my arms to call his attention to my uniform. “Does it look like we’re on a honeymoon here, Frank?”

  “Could be. We’ve had couples show up on Kawasakis and in scuba gear. We had a witch and a warlock. We had a gent on social security with his nineteen year old bride. We had the skinniest black man I ever seen with a white woman that made Angie here look pet-teet!”

  “Trust me, Frank, we’re not on our honeymoon.”

  “I don’t know, Quinn,” said Odd, “we say we’re on our honeymoon, we might get special treatment.”

  Frank laughed at Odd’s ingenuity and assured us that all their guests get the same special treatment. I told him we’d take the cottage.

  “How many nights would that be for?”

  “Just tonight.”

  “Just one night?” said Angie. “Why, that hardly gives you a chance to get the flavor of the island.”

  “We already got some of the flavor,” I said.

  “You stay awhile, you won’t ever want to leave,” she told us.

  I wanted to leave hours ago. I never wanted to go there in the first place.

  “Good place to settle down and live?” asked Odd.

  “Only one requirement....you gotta like rain!” The infirm couple shared a laugh.

  “Much crime on the island?” asked Odd.

  They laughed again. “Crime? My Lord, everybody knows everybody and what criminal wants to make his getaway on that slow-as-molasses ferry!”

  “We heard about that double-murder...” said Odd.

  They looked at each other, wide-eyed. Murder? Double murder?

  “James and Jeannie?”

  “James and Jeannie? Oh, my stars,” said Frank, leaning heavier on the wheelchair, “that was ages ago. You’re talking ancient history. You had me going there for a minute, son. Murder, indeed. I do believe that was the last murder on this island.”

  “Of innocent people,” added Angie.

  “Any idea who might have pulled the trigger?”

  “None at the time, none now. Can’t believe it was an islander, though. Down there in America, sure, they got the serial killers down there, wanderin’ around just looking for someone to snuff.”

  “You think that’s what happened, some crazed mainlander came over, stumbled upon them...carrying a shotgun?”

  “We’ll never know, son. Not now, not after all these years.”

  The sky grew dark and I thought it would rain shortly so I asked them for the key.

  “Oh, we don’t have keys here. I’d be surprised if anybody on the island even remembers where their house key is. I can’t let you in yet anyhow. The other folks haven’t checked out.” Frank lowered his voice. “They been in there five days. Hey, maybe you better look in and make sure nobody’s murdered them in their sleep!” Frank and Angie laughed. “Though if you ask me, there hasn’t been a whole lot of sleep going on in there, if you know what I mean!”

  Angie suggested we take a tour of the island, have lunch at the cafe, which she could recommend, and come back around one o’clock. By that time our cottage would be ready. We made a move to get back into the car, but Frank said, “Not so fast.”

  Angie pulled out a clipboard from the side of her wheelchair and clicked open a ballpoint pen. “There’s a few things we have to know first,” she said. “Like, do you prefer white wine or red?”

  Odd and I looked at each other. “We prefer beer,” I said.

  Angie did not break stride.

  “Canadian or American?” she asked.

  Da frick. Canadian, okay?

  “Would you like flannel sheets or plain cotton?”

  I looked at Odd and thankfully he jumped in and said, “Look, how many beds are in that cottage?”

  “How many beds?” said Frank. “It’s the honeymoon cottage! There’s only the one.”

  “You take the bed, Quinn. You decide what sheets.”

  “Do you have a rollaway bed?” I asked them.

  “You don’t even wanna sleep in the same bed?” asked Frank.

  “We’re not lovers,” I said. “Look at us, I’m old enough to be his mother.”

  “Not that old,” said Odd.

  “I have a twenty-two year old son in the Navy, for cripessake. Look, we’re working partners. We had no plans to stay over, it just turned out that way.”

  “I still have to know what kind of sheets you want,” said Angie.

  Flannel sheets were so nice to the touch but they might make me hot. And what was I going to sleep in? I’d have to wash out my skivvies overnight, which put me in that bed in the buff, and Odd in the same room. What if I got hot and kicked away the flannel sheets? Why does everything get so complicated as we get older?

  “Just plain cotton,” I said, finally.

  “Really? Most people prefer flannel.”

  “Yeah, well...”

  “Plain sheets it is.”

  We tried to make our escape, but she had one more preference to nail down. “What about music? Country? Soft rock...”

  I shut the doo
r, started up the car. “Forget about the music, we brought our own,” I said through the open window, thinking about Odd’s tapes.

  Angie smiled knowingly. “Brought your own music, hey?” she said, looking up to her husband. “I believe someone is not being entirely honest with us.”