Snippet #4 from Here Lies a Wicked Man
Pup barked, aware he was being discussed. He strained at the bungee cord that secured his collar to a tree.
“Take some pictures of the dog, too,” Ringhoffer added.
Booker envisioned his photo spread in Southern Affairs vanishing faster than a snow cone in the August sun. “With all respect, Sheriff, I have my own work to finish. Don’t you have a crime scene unit that can do this?”
Ringhoffer smiled grimly. “That’s what the city boys would have, all right. Not enough crime in Grammon County to justify a ‘crime scene’ unit.” Making it sound as improbable as a local space shuttle. “Around these parts, Mr. Krane, we make do. Responsible citizens lend a hand when called upon.”
With a sigh, Booker knelt close to the body’s slimy shoulder for a tight shot. He switched to a macro lens for better definition of the tear. It wasn’t a rip, he noticed, nor the sort of three-cornered tear that might come from snagging a branch, but a small, clean-edged cut.
“Chuck Fowler was a damn good swimmer,” Emaline shouted. “Good all-around sportsman. Can’t believe he’d drown in a calm lake. Wicked enough to deserve drowning, all right, but Chuck kept himself in shape. Triple Capricorn—”
“Triple what?” Ringhoffer said.
Booker wished the sheriff hadn’t asked. Emaline could go on for hours spinning out the brand of logic she based on the sun, moon and stars.
“Capricorn. Has Mars in Scorpio, too. Patriarchal bastard, king of his castle and all that nonsense. Believed in keeping his wife barefoot and handcuffed to her wifely duties while he played around on the side. With Pluto squared—”
“Tell me about this argument with his son last Sunday. I suppose that would be Aaron Fowler, works at the Chevy dealership in Bryan?” The sheriff’s gentle voice hushed to a murmur as he guided Emaline aside.
“Nope, not Aaron! Some days Aaron plays better golf than his dad. It was Jeremy, the younger boy.”
Ringhoffer said something Booker couldn’t hear. Having finished the close-ups of the body, he positioned the tripod for the lake shots.
“Truth is,” Emaline said, “It surprised me to see Jeremy on the golf course at all. That boy’s a Pisces—all deep and dreamy. Goes to school in College Station, keeps an apartment there during summer break and spends his spare time working in community theater. Rarely visits Lakeside; even on the weekends his folks drive up from Houston.”
Zooming in on the pier, Booker hoped the sheriff wouldn’t insist they drive around the lake and photograph it close up. He snapped three shots of Pup then removed the memory card and checked his watch. The panicky part of his mind told him to hustle.
“Chuck and his wife live down in Houston,” Emaline was saying. “Come up to Lakeside on weekends. Jeremy must’ve dropped by for a visit, then Chuck talked him into playing a round while Sarabelle attended Sunday morning church.”
“Sarabelle, that’s the wife?” Ringhoffer tucked the pointer under his arm like a swagger stick.
“Mousey little schoolteacher. Double Libra with Pisces—”
“What about Luther? You said he didn’t show up for work this morning.”
“Luther?” Emaline hooted. “The man’s a lay-about, but he’s got nothing to do with Fowler ending up in the lake.”
“Where is he now?”
“Better be cleaning up the driving range. I roused him after I called you, told him to get down to the Pro Shop and cancel my morning classes.”
“Sheriff, here are your photographs,” Booker said, handing Ringhoffer the memory card. “I need to head home now and finish the job I’d started when Pup made his unfortunate discovery. Afterward, if I can be of any additional help—”
“You have a photo printer at your house, Mr. Krane?”
“A small laser printer.”
“You can save me a forty-minute drive. I need a print of each picture you took.”
Booker gritted his teeth to keep profanities from slipping out. The number of photos on the memory card would exhaust his ink supply. A drugstore could do a faster, cheaper job of it. Arguing with small men, however, always made him feel foolish. In high school, a splendid target for every short angry guy spoiling for a fight, Booker had learned early on that his best response was to shut his mouth and act dumb. Like now. With one hand he could likely pick up the sheriff and throttle him, but that would only waste the precious time he had left. And get him arrested.
No way, though, could he keep the flush of frustration from rising in his face. “Sheriff, I’ll have your prints ready tomorrow,” he said evenly. “That’s the best I can do. Where should I deliver them?”
“The best you can do?” Ringhoffer’s soft voice filled with steel shards. Neck rigid, feet planted wide, only the angle of his ice blue eyes acknowledged the comical difference in their height. “Mr. Krane. Bradley Carter Krane Junior, as I recall from news write-ups. The county appreciates your help, a seasoned, sophisticated detective such as yourself. I… appreciate… your help. You might be thinking I’m out of my league here, and you’d be right. Yes, sir. We don’t get many bodies washing up on our lake banks.”
The twitch of Ringhoffer’s lips gave away the hurt of admitting his lack of experience. Booker’s regard for the man rose a notch. “Sheriff, after I finish the job I’m shooting—”
“Tomorrow will be fine. Deliver the prints to the county courthouse in Grammon, and naturally you’ll be reimbursed for expenses.” The sheriff compressed the pointer down to pen size and dropped it in his pocket. “Now, help me roll the body over, Mr. Krane, so you can photograph the back view. Then we’ll take your camera around to that pier of yours and see if we can figure out exactly how the body got there.”
