Рита Браун - Pawing Through The Past

49

All hell broke loose. The media from all over Virginia, Washington, and even Baltimore played up the murders. The attention was fueled by the fact that Rex and Bob had been killed on a weekend when news was especially slow and Bob had been a big sports celebrity.

Crozet, overrun by vans adorned with satellite dishes, pulled tight the shutters on the windows. Few chose to talk but among themselves the agreement was that the media was correct in dubbing these events the Reunion Murders.

The reporters waited outside the various churches, trying to nab the faithful as they emerged from late-morning services.

Public buildings were closed. The reporters were out of luck there but they hit up the convenience stores, including Market Shiflett's. The reporter from Channel 29, having done her homework, knew that Market was a member of the class under siege. Being quite pretty, she managed to extract a comment from him, which was played on the news relentlessly.

"The big cities have lots of nutcases. Guess it was Crozet's turn," Market said, looking into the camera from behind the cash register of the store.

Since few other quotes were available, Market made the airwaves up and down the Mid-Atlantic.

Mim Sanburne called a meeting at her house. Invited were those she considered the movers and shakers of the town. Harry and Miranda, part of the inner circle by virtue of birth and their jobs, sat with Herb Jones, Jim Sanburne, Larry Johnson, and Mim, discussing how to divert the bad publicity.

"That problem would be solved if we could apprehend the criminal," Harry, out of sorts, whispered, her voice still rough.

The older people quieted, each realizing that not being members of the class of 1980, they felt safe.

"You're quite right." Mim smoothed her hair.

50

Dennis Rablan was nowhere to be found. Rick Shaw scoured the photo shop and Rablan's house, called his parents and his friends. No one had seen or heard from him-at least, that's what they told Rick and Cynthia. He had stationed patrol cars at Dennis's home, his parents' home, and his ex-wife's home.

Standing next to the coroner, Rick hoped Dennis would open the doors to his business on Monday morning. He was sure Dennis knew something that he wasn't telling-assuming he was alive.

"This man died from a bullet to the brain. Apart from broken fingers, smashed knees, and both sides of his collarbone broken-the results of twelve years of pro football-this was a man in good health." The coroner shook his head. "I'd like to take every high-school football hero and show them what happens to people who continue to play this game throughout college and the pros. They get money and maybe fame but that's all they get."

"How long was he dead before he was found this morning?"

"I'd say the time of death occurred about four in the morning. You examined the site, of course."

"No sign of struggle." Rick hoped the embalmer at the fu-neral home would be able to get the dark color from Bob's face and he asked the coroner if that was possible.

"Usually. Once the blood drains out it will drain from the face, too, but I'm a coroner, not a funeral director." He smiled, perfectly at home with dead bodies. "If that doesn't work, I'd suggest a closed casket. There's the problem of the deep crease in the neck but if he staples the collar to the skin at the back of the neck it should stay up and not distress the family. I remember Bob's glory days at Crozet High." He peered over his half-moon glasses. "And beyond."

"Me, too." Cynthia finally spoke. Autopsies put her considerable composure to the test.

"Those days are over now," Rick simply stated. "Funny how an entire life reduces to that final moment. Bob probably thought he could get out of it, whatever or whoever. Self-confidence was never his problem."

"Same M.O.?" The coroner pulled the sheet up over Bob's discolored face.

"Yes. More than likely he wasn't shot at the school. His body was carried to the high school and up the steps. He's no feather either."

"One hundred and eighty-eight pounds, a good weight for a cornerback. Your killer will have sore legs unless he's a weight lifter."

When Rick and Cynthia drove away, Cynthia said, "Harry, Boom, and Fair certainly had a shock. They didn't know he'd been shot between the eyes until we hauled up the body. There's that moment when you see the corpse, the physical damage-it never leaves you."

"I was surprised that BoomBoom didn't swoon. She rarely misses an opportunity to give vent to her innermost feelings," Rick wryly commented.

"Remarkably restrained." Cynthia sighed. "Considering she'd slept with the man not six or seven hours before that."

"We've got her statement. She didn't waffle. I give her credit." Rick headed back toward the department, then turned toward Crozet.

"School?"

"No. BoomBoom's."

They pulled into the driveway of the beautiful white brick home. BoomBoom's deceased husband had made a lot of money in the gravel and concrete business, a business she still owned although she did not attend to day-to-day operations. Flakey as Boom could be, she could read an accounting report with the best of them, and she made a point of dropping in at the quarry once or twice a week. She intended to profit handsomely from the building boom in Albemarle County.

A Toyota Camry was parked next to her BMW.

If anything, BoomBoom seemed relieved to see them again. Her eyes, red from crying, were anxious.

Chris Sharpton and Bitsy Valenzuela rose when Rick and Cynthia walked into the lavish living room.

"Should we leave?"

"Not yet," Rick said.

Boom offered refreshments, which they declined.

"Ladies, what are you doing here?" the sheriff asked.

"I called them," Boom said.

"That's fine but I didn't ask you." Rick smiled, as he'd known Olivia Ulrich Craycroft since she was tiny, and no offense was taken on her part.

"Like she said, she called me, she was crying and I drove over," Chris said. "I'm afraid I haven't been much comfort. I told her to take a vacation. In fact, everyone from her class should take a vacation."

"She called me, too." Bitsy confirmed BoomBoom's statement. "I asked E.R. if I could come over. He's worried about all this but he relented since Chris and I were driving over to-gether."

"The victims are men." Cynthia leaned forward as Rick settled into his chair. "BoomBoom doesn't appear to be in danger."

"I'd hate to be the exception that proves the rule," BoomBoom said.

Rick waited, resting his head on his hand.

First she sat still, then she fidgeted. Finally she spoke. "I know you think I know something, sheriff, but I don't." Suddenly she got up and walked upstairs to her bedroom, returning with Bob's gold Rolex watch. She dropped it into Rick's upturned hand. "I didn't steal it. He left it here last night. Can you return it to his widow? I mean, you don't have to tell. Why should she know?"

"Fine." Rick slipped the heavy watch in his pocket.

"Were you two together in high school?" Cynthia asked.