Stuart Woods: Heat

“Well, I’m sorry if I offended you,” Jesse said, reaching into his pocket for some money. He left five dollars on the table and got up.

“Rushing off?”

“I sort of get the idea that I’m not too welcome around here. I guess I’ll have a look at Oregon.”

“Aw, sit down, Jesse; I’m just doing my job. C’mon, sit down.”

Jesse sat down.

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“Thanks, I’ve already had two.”

Casey nodded at the newspaper on the table. “You read the Standard? ”

“Yep.”

“You see any reports of crime in there? Juvenile delinquency? Drug busts?”

“Nope.”

“That’ll give you an idea of the sort of town we got here. Our last drug bust was nearly four years ago.”

“Sounds like a real safe place,” Jesse said.

“Exactly,” Casey said, “and I mean to keep it that way. That’s why I’m so inquisitive; I like to know who’s in town and what they’re doing here.”

“That’s reasonable, I guess,” Jesse said, sounding mollified.

“Take your time in St. Clair; have a look around; there are worse places to settle.”

“Any work around here?”

“Most of the work’s down at Wood Products. The place is humming right now; you might find something there.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll take a look at it.”

“You do that. If you decide to stay a while, come see me down at the station. I’ll see if I can’t help you settle in.”

“Thanks, Pat, I appreciate it.”

Casey got up and stuck out his hand again. “Well, I got to do my rounds. Good talking to you.”

Jesse shook the man’s hand again. “See you around.”

Casey picked up Jesse’s plate, cup and glass. “I’ll take these over for Nora; save her a trip.”

Jesse nodded. “Thanks.” He took a deep breath and let it out. That went pretty well, he thought. He watched as the policeman walked to the lunch counter and set down the dishes. Casey turned and left, and Jesse saw that his orange juice glass wasn’t on the counter with the plate and the cup.

“Well, Pat,” Jesse muttered to himself, “you sneaky bastard, you.”

Pat Casey strolled into the police station, walked over to the desk where a young, uniformed man sat and gingerly handed him the orange juice glass. “Pull the prints on this and run ’em, Rick,” he said. “Nora’s are on there, too, but it’s the other ones I want.”

“Right, Chief,” Rick replied. He took the glass, one finger at the top and one at the bottom, and went into a back room.

Casey went into his office, sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. He looked up the area code for Georgia, dialed information and asked for the number of the sheriff’s office in Toccoa, Georgia. He wrote down the number, then dialed it.

“Hello, this is Chief of Police Pat Casey in St. Clair, Idaho. I’d like to speak to the sheriff.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll connect you.”

There was a click. “This is Tom Calley, Chief Casey. Was that Idaho you said?”

“Yessir. I just want a little information, if you can help me.”

“Do my best.”

“You know a fellow named Jesse Barron?”

“Sure do. Where’d you run across him?”

“Right here in St. Clair. He’s down the street at the café drinking coffee.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Tell you the truth, I thought Jesse was dead.”

Casey’s grip tightened on the phone. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“He didn’t tell you what happened to him?”

“Said something about a car wreck.”

“That’s right. A bad one.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

“Well, Jesse and his wife and three little girls were coming home from a movie out at the shopping center, and a drunk, a colored fellow, ran head on into their car. Jesse—”

“Can you hang on a minute, Sheriff?” Casey interrupted. One of his officers had just entered the station, and Casey waved him into his office. He punched the hold button. “Jim, you see if our man is out of the way, and if he is, go down to the motel and turn over his room and his truck — and do it neat , you hear?”

“Yessir, Chief.”

Casey punched another button on the phone. “Sorry, Sheriff, you were saying?”

“I was about to tell you that Sally and the girls were killed in the wreck, and Jesse was busted up pretty good. When he was able to get out of the hospital, he went out to the cemetery and looked at the graves, then he went downtown and got on a bus to Atlanta, and that was the last anybody saw of him around here. Tell you the truth, I thought he’d gone out and put a bullet in his head. I’m glad he’s all right, though; I always liked him.”

“Can you describe him for me?” Casey asked.

“Sure, I guess he’s six-one or six-two, about two hundred pounds, brown hair, going gray and receding, blue eyes. He had some injuries around his head and face; I’m not sure just what he’d look like after those heal.”

“That’s our man,” Casey said.

“Has he broken the law up there?”

“No, sir; I just wanted to be sure he’s who he says he is. How long you known him?”

“Most of his life, I guess; his family moved here from Young Harris when he was in grammar school.”

“Was he ever in any kind of trouble?”

“Nothing serious. The summer after he got out of high school I had to pull him and a couple of other young fellows in.”

“What was the charge?”

“Well, a colored family moved into a house down the road, and a lot of folks around here didn’t take kindly to it. The boys broke a few windows, that sort of thing. Justice of the Peace gave ’em three days and expunged the record, because of their youth. I never had any more trouble with Jesse.”

“When would that have been?”

“Oh, early seventies, I guess; around there.”

“What sort of a fellow is Jesse?”

“Solid, hardworking. Wasn’t his fault his construction business went under; just wasn’t enough work around here. I’d have made Jesse a deputy, if I’d had an opening. He’s on the quiet side, but he’s real smart.”

“Do you think you might be able to get hold of a photograph of Jesse for me?”

“I might be able to. Chamber of Commerce might have one.”

Casey gave the sheriff his fax number. “I’d appreciate it if you’d fax it to me, if you can find one.”

“Glad to; I’ll send somebody down there right now.”

“Sheriff, I appreciate your help.”

“You see Jesse again, you tell him I said we miss him around here.”

“I’ll do that.” Casey hung up and swung around to the computer terminal next to his desk and began typing. Early seventies; the closest newspaper with a computerized database was probably Atlanta. He found a listing for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and dialed the number. Shortly he was connected and called up the index. A few more keystrokes and he had a list of stories containing the name Barron between 1970 and ’75. He got the right one on the second try: TOCCOA YOUTHS ARRESTED IN RACIAL ATTACK. It was brief and as the sheriff had described the incident. Jesse Barron was one of the boys named.

Rick stuck his head in the door. “Chief, I’ve got the record on screen two.”

Casey cleared the screen and typed more keystrokes; the record came up. The photograph wasn’t great, but it was nearly two decades old. Jesse Adam Barron had no known criminal record. He had been fingerprinted when he had tried to enlist in the marines; rejected because of a knee injury resulting from high school football.

He typed more keystrokes, and the printer at his side disgorged the record and the photograph. Casey looked at the picture more closely. He was younger, skinnier, had more hair, hadn’t been in a car crash. Casey thought he’d have had a hard time putting together the face he had just met at Nora’s with the face in the photograph if he hadn’t known the man, but it was a match. The prints matched; that was the important thing. Casey sat back and waited for Jim to return from the motel.