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Bill Crider: Shotgun Saturday Night

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Bill Crider Shotgun Saturday Night

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They were standing in one of Ballinger’s back rooms, the boxes open in front of them.

“Not exactly,” Ruth said. “That tag is for identification, all right, but it wasn’t put there by any crazed axe murderer or anything like that. It’s the kind of tag they use to identify amputated limbs.”

Rhodes hadn’t been to the same school that Ruth had attended, but he caught on quickly. “I had a feeling all along that this wasn’t a murder case,” he said. “It’s just a little too bizarre for Blacklin County.”

“I guess you’re right,” Ruth said, “but we still have a lot of arms and legs here. They have to be disposed of somehow.”

“Ballinger may be able to take care of that for us,” Rhodes said. “That still leaves us with a case of illegal dumping, though. I thought hospitals were supposed to dispose of things like that.”

Ruth hitched up her gun. “They are. I think we better talk to Mr. Ballinger.”

Clyde Ballinger was obviously disappointed. “I thought we had a really good case going here,” he said. “Well, who knows. Maybe something will turn up.”

“I hope not,” Rhodes said.

“Yeah. Well, I’d like to help you get rid of those things, but I can’t,” Ballinger said.

“You can’t?” Ruth asked.

“Don’t know if it’d be legal. Don’t know what the owners, so to speak, might think about it. It’s customary in some cases to bury the amputated part in the grave where the owner’s going to have his eternal rest; that is, it’s customary if he’s reserved a plot somewhere.” Ballinger was beginning to sound more like a funeral director.

“I thought hospitals burned them,” Rhodes said.

“Oh, they do, in lots of cases. I can’t figure why these turned up here,” Ballinger said.

“I think we’d better get in touch with the owners of that land,” Rhodes said. “I’m still not sure all this is on the up and up.”

“You might be able to get somebody on a health violation,” Ballinger said, “but I’m not sure there’s any state law about dumping body parts on private property.”

“He’s probably right,” Ruth said. “I think there’s a law about public dumping grounds, though.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rhodes said. “Ruth, go on back to the jail and see if you can get in touch with Bert Ramsey. Get the phone number of the people who own that land where he found these things. If he doesn’t have the number, go on over to the courthouse and find out the full name and get the number from information. I’m going to see what Dr. White has to say about all this.”

“All right,” Ruth said. “Will you be checking with me later?”

“As soon as I talk to Dr. White,” Rhodes said. They left Ballinger’s office and headed for their separate cars.


Dr. Sam White was the county health officer, a job he did more or less for free since he was seldom required to do anything. The rest of the time he took care of his herd of registered Longhorn cattle, having retired from his medical practice a few years previously.

Rhodes located White in the pasture not far from his rambling brick home. He was sitting in his pickup looking over his herd when Rhodes drove up behind him.

“They look pretty good to me, Doctor,” Rhodes said. The cattle were of all colors, but mostly red. Their horns weren’t really long, at least not as long as one might expect from the name. They were all slick and well-fed.

“Yes, they surely do,” Dr. White said. “What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”

Rhodes told him.

“Well, it doesn’t take an expert to tell you that such things are a definite health hazard,” the doctor said. “They should certainly be disposed of as quickly as possible.”

Rhodes told him why there would be a delay.

“I can see the legal problems, of course. No death certificates. Still, one would think. .”

“No use in thinking,” Rhodes said. “Ballinger won’t do it.”

“Then I suggest that you call the state Health Department,” Dr. White said. “I have to admit that I’ve never heard of anything exactly like this before.”

Rhodes shook his head. “Me neither,” he said. “Me neither.”


Back at the jail, Lawton was nowhere in sight, which was usually the case when “the new deputy” was in the office. Hack was sticking close to his radio and not talking. Rhodes asked Ruth Grady what she’d learned.

“Not much,” she told him. “The property is owned by a man named Charles Dalton Adams, and he lives at 6616 Springalong in Houston. But I can’t get him on the telephone.”

“Great,” Rhodes said. “And I can just imagine trying to get in touch with the state Health Department on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Dr. White can’t do anything?” Ruth asked.

“He would if he could, I think,” Rhodes said. “He’s just as mixed up by all this as we are.”

At this point Hack could not resist talking. “If Bert Ramsey’d just burned those boxes like he ought, there wouldn’t be any trouble,” he said.

Rhodes had to admit that Hack had a point. “I’ll talk to Ballinger again tomorrow,” he said. “I’m afraid this is going to be a real mess.”

“Listen,” said Hack, “it’s Saturday night comin’ up. If this is the worst mess you have, you can count yourself lucky.”

That was two points for Hack, Rhodes decided, but he hoped nothing really bad came up. He was hoping to see Ivy.

“I’m going on home,” he said. “You call me if anything bad happens. Otherwise, well. .”

“I know, I know,” Hack said. “Otherwise, leave you the hell alone. Pardon my French, ma’am.” He looked at Ruth for the first time.

She smiled at him. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m going home, too. Shift is nearly over. I’ll try to get in touch with that Adams fella again tomorrow. I ought to be able to catch him home on Sunday.”

“Good idea,” Rhodes said. He left, hoping for a quiet evening at home.

He got it. He even got to play his Buddy Holly records for Ivy Daniel. All in all it was as relaxing an evening as he’d spent for several months.

He wouldn’t have enjoyed it so much, however, if he’d known that at approximately ten o’clock somebody was blowing Bert Ramsey apart with a shotgun.

Chapter 3

People who had never been to Texas were often surprised by places like Blacklin County. They thought of Texas in terms of the densely populated Houston and Dallas/Fort Worth areas, never dreaming that within a few hours’ drive of either city there could be an entire county of an approximately 150-square-mile area that was home to a mere twenty thousand or so people. It seemed impossible, but there it was. And Blacklin County was not a rarity.

What was rare in the county was murder. In Houston, folks were disappointed if their nightly news didn’t inform them of a murder or two every day, but then Houston’s population was considerably larger than that of Blacklin County. More than one hundred times larger, in fact.

There was crime in Blacklin County, of course. That very Saturday night, there were people arrested for speeding, for driving while intoxicated, and for disturbing the peace. Someone drove away from a convenience store without paying for a tank of gas. Someone spraypainted the concrete sides of a railroad underpass only a mile from the city limits of Clearview with the words SENIORS FOREVER 1988. There was nothing unusual about things like that.

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