Bill Crider: Too Late to Die

When Rhodes got in the driver’s seat, Billy Joe was still squirming around in the back like a worm on a griddle. “Billy Joe,” Rhodes said patiently, “this car is county property, and if you damage it you’re going to be in big trouble. Now hold still.” Billy Joe quieted down some, and Rhodes started the car.

In the confined space, Rhodes could smell Billy Joe, who had what could only be described as a distinctive odor. It was very likely, Rhodes thought, that Billy Joe had not had a bath since the last time he’d been in jail, two years before. Certainly, his clothes had never been washed. Rhodes detected a faint odor of beer along with the general ripeness that filled the car.

“When you’re settled down a little, have a smoke,” Rhodes said, pulling the car onto the road and turning on the air conditioner. He watched in the mirror as from somewhere in his filthy khaki shirt Billy Joe produced a soft pack of Merit Menthol 100s and a Bic lighter. Without offering a smoke to Rhodes, who didn’t smoke anyway, Billy Joe lit up.

The Blacklin County jail might not have been a disgrace, exactly, but it wasn’t the first place that anyone would want to point out to a visitor, either. It had been built in the early part of the century, when prisoners weren’t too well thought of, and it had gotten considerably less comfortable over the years. It looked like a fortress from the dark ages, except that its exterior was brown sandstone, and instead of a moat it was surrounded by a stubby wrought-iron fence. The fence wouldn’t keep anybody in or out, but no one on the outside wanted in, and those on the inside were kept in place by other barriers, like the heavily barred windows of the cells. The cells weren’t air-conditioned, and they weren’t very well heated in the winter. The walls were cracked, and the metal bed frames had rust spots on them. The plumbing was unreliable. A federal judge had recently given the county commissioners two years to do something about the conditions, something like building a new jail.

None of that mattered a bit to Billy Joe Byron. He’d been to jail before, and it compared favorably to the little shotgun shack covered with tar paper and composition shingles where he lived. This time, though, he didn’t appear too eager to go inside. But Rhodes got him in.

Old Hack Jensen was over by the radio. The county was always strapped for money and couldn’t afford a real dispatcher, but ever since Hack had retired from his job at the local Gulf station he’d helped out for far below the minimum wage.

“Who you got there, Sheriff?” Hack asked as Rhodes and Billy Joe came through the door. Then he did an exaggerated double take. “I’ll be damned if it ain’t old Billy Joe Byron, one of my favorite customers. What you been up to this time, Billy Joe?”

Billy Joe appeared glad to see Hack, so Rhodes let him go, and he walked over to the old man quite calmly. (“Looks like maybe you and Billy Joe had yourselves a little tussle, Sheriff,” Hack said, glancing at Rhodes’s soiled uniform and the blood on Billy Joe’s shirt. “Is that your blood or Billy Joe’s there?”

“I’ve sort of been wondering about that blood myself,” Rhodes said. “I don’t think it’s mine or his. See if you can rustle up an old shirt for Billy Joe to wear while he’s with us. We may have to send that one to Houston for some lab tests. Where’s Lawton?”

Lawton was the jailer, almost as old as Jensen. He’d been working for the county for over forty years, but they couldn’t retire him. He was the only certified jailer they had.

“He’s upstairs in the block,” Hack said, referring to the second floor of the jail where the cells were located. “Johnny brought in a couple of guys last night, says they got in a fight out to the Paragon Club. He had to break it up, and they gave him a pretty bad time. I don’t know who looks worse, him or them.

“And that reminds me,” Hack went on. “Miz Kinchloe called a while ago, mighty upset. Her husband just kicked out the windshield of that little S-10 pickup they bought last week. What really bothered her is that she was in the pickup when he did the kicking.”

“They’re at it again, huh?” said Rhodes.

“You ain’t lying,” Hack said. “I guess it’s just about time, though. She hasn’t taken a shot at him for three or four weeks now.”

“I took the gun away from her after the last time,” Rhodes said. “It’s locked up in the property closet.”

“Damn good thing, too. Want me to send someone over there?”

“Not right now. I may drive by later. If they didn’t have each other to fight with, they’d start in on the neighbors.”

While Rhodes was speaking, Lawton walked into the room through the stairwell doorway. He and Hack, when they stood together, looked a little like Abbott and Costello would have looked if they’d still been alive, Rhodes thought. Hack was tall, with slicked down hair and a thin moustache that still had a little brown in it. Lawton was short and stout, not really fat, but with a large, round stomach that started just under his chest. He was nearly seventy, but he still had an almost unlined, innocent face.

“Those Kinchloes are a mess, ain’t they,” Lawton said as he walked into the room. “But they ain’t got nothing on them boys upstairs.”

“They giving you any trouble?” Rhodes asked.

“No more than I can handle,” Lawton said. “Mostly, they’re just loud. Claim they wasn’t doing nothin’ to speak of and that Johnny roughed them up with no reason. Goin’ to sue us for police brutality.” He grinned at the thought, showing that he still had all his teeth, slightly stained by the Tube Rose snuff that he insisted on dipping. He’d been dipping for years before professional football players had made the habit semi-respectable by shilling for the tobacco companies on TV.

“I’ll talk to them about it later,” Rhodes said. “You put Billy Joe there, up in number five for the time being. Be sure to take his belt and shoelaces. Leave him his smokes, but take his lighter. We’ll be wanting his shirt later.” Rhodes turned to Hack. “Get Johnny Sherman down here for me.”

“I expect he’s home asleep by now, Sheriff,” Hack said.

“That doesn’t matter,” Rhodes said. “It’s not about those two drunks up there. This is something I didn’t call in because I didn’t want every scanner in the county broadcasting it. Jeanne Clinton’s been killed over in Thurston.”

“Jesus,” Johnny Sherman said when Rhodes gave him the news. “I went to high school with Jeanne.” Johnny was twenty-eight years old, and he’d been a deputy for three years. Before that he’d done a little bit of everything, Rhodes thought, including a couple of years in the Army and a few months of serving as a bouncer at some high-toned club in Dallas. He was big and good-looking, if a little fast with his fists. He’d been a good deputy, but there was something about him that bothered Rhodes, something that he couldn’t quite put into words. Lately, he hadn’t even bothered to try. Johnny had kept his nose clean, and for the last month and a half he’d been dating Rhodes’s daughter.

“Did you notice anything out of the way when you drove through Thurston last night?” Rhodes asked. “Seems like they had a regular crime wave over there.”

Johnny looked at Rhodes with his pale gray eyes. “You mean there’s more?”

“Yeah, there’s more. Somebody broke in Hod Barrett’s store again.”

“Damn. That must have happened after I went by. There was nothing wrong then. That town is as quiet as a school on Saturday.”

“Not anymore, it’s not,” Rhodes said.

“Right. Claymore’s going to love this,” Johnny said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.