Joe Lansdale - Leather Maiden

Jimmy sat with his hand on the door handle. “I can’t do it, Cason. I can’t disappoint Trixie. I wouldn’t want to lose her. Think about Gabby. How you feel about losing her.”

“You’re hitting low, bubba.”

“I don’t mean to play on your sympathies here.”

“The hell you don’t,” I said.

He opened the door and stepped out, but before he closed it, he stuck his head inside, said, “You with me, bro? We okay?”

I looked at Jimmy. He was really scared.

“You’re a shithead, but I’m with you,” I said.

14

I went back to the newspaper the next morning and sat at my desk and tried to think about what to do. I had thought about it all night and nothing seemed like a good idea. The sun doesn’t shine on the same dog’s balls every day, but I sure felt as if I were long overdue for a little sunlight.

Then I thought about what Jimmy had said, and he was right. I could talk to people he couldn’t. As a reporter, even a small-town reporter, I had access to people and places other folks didn’t.

A follow-up article on Caroline. That was the deal. I’d need to do research, talk to a few people. I had the Allison file in my desk, and information on my computer, so it was all at my fingertips. No reason for anyone to suspect I was doing anything more than my job.

I got the accordion file out of the drawer and read through it for the umpteenth time, and made a list of names and ideas on a yellow pad, then I looked through the computer file and did the same.

It was a short list.

On it was the police chief and the girl, Ronnie Fisher. I thought the police chief might be the best place to start.

I called and he was in, so I drove over there.

His name was Lanagan and I was let in to see him. He was a big man with gray hair and a young face and a complexion that appeared to be pumped full of strawberry Kool-Aid. I introduced myself and he stated the obvious. “So, you’re a reporter for the paper?”

I agreed that I was. He ran a hand through that thick gray hair and motioned me to a chair, checked his watch to show me how busy he was, then sat down behind his desk.

“Listen, I can’t give you much time. I’m supposed to do a little talk for the Rotary Club today.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’m doing a kind of follow-up to an article I wrote about Caroline Allison.”

“That was you? I read that. Good article.”

“Thanks. I was wondering if there was anything special you could tell me about the case. Something I could do to expand on the article. DNA testing, anything like that?”

I was looking for some way to get a connection, any kind of connection that might tell me if there were ties to Jimmy.

Lanagan leaned back in his chair, cupped his hands behind his head and gazed upward, thoughtful.

“I wasn’t here then. It was another chief. Moved here from Michigan. Did a little law work up there, was a constable. Applied for the job, got it. Chief then was James Kramer. He died. Cancer. I took over. As for DNA, I’m going to be real honest with you…What was your name again?”

I gave it to him.

“Thing is, Jason—”

“Cason.”

“Cason. Thing is, you watch TV, you’d think everyone is doing DNA tests and cracking cases with all kinds of high-tech equipment, and in no more time than an hour TV show. Like everyone has a handwriting analyst that can tell if someone wrote a ransom note left-handed or with their toes. Sound equipment that can separate a car backfire from a dog fart. Ain’t true, bucko. Our special-material budget, and that would include DNA and that nifty yellow crime scene tape we stretch around crime sites, is two thousand dollars a year. That’s it. What we got here in Camp Rapture is some good hardworking cops, a drug dog so old he needs a live-in nurse and a leak in the department bathroom that slicks up the floor and makes it a death threat every time you go to the crapper.”

“So, I guess I can mark DNA testing off the list.”

“You can mark off DNA, ballistics, most everything. Drug dog dies, way they cost, I’ll be out there sniffing tires and asses in his place.”

“I see,” I said.

“I’m angry every day I get up on account of it,” the chief said.

“That you might have to sniff asses and tires?”

He smiled, but it didn’t look particularly heartfelt.

“This girl, this Caroline Allison, don’t think I haven’t read her file and wondered,” he said. “I’ve looked at her picture dozens of times. A face like that could make a priest quit fucking choirboys.”

“So nothing was found at the scene?”

“All that was left was a sack of stale Taco Bell, some shoes. She just disappeared, like morning dew by mid-afternoon. If you quote me, that by the way could be a good quote.”

I made a note on my pad. “Like morning dew by mid-afternoon,” I said. “I’ll use it. So, if you had the money for DNA you could do DNA testing, but you have nothing to test, so it doesn’t really matter if you can or cannot do DNA testing.”

“On the nosey. I’m going to lay that lack of evidence in the lap of my poor dead predecessor. No DNA was collected. Of course, that doesn’t mean there was any to collect. But if there was, I wasn’t responsible. I want it known that any incompetence was not my doing. Did you know speeding tickets have doubled on North Street because of a larger presence of officers?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, it’s doubled. That’s my doing. Fines for unleashed dogs are up too.”

“Are there fines for cats as well?” I asked.

The chief furrowed his brow. “You know, I don’t think so. But we could make it that way. That’s an idea, and I might steal it.”

“It’s yours. What happened to Caroline’s car? Do you know?”

“From what I remember from the files, no one claimed it. No relatives. It eventually was sold at an auction. I might have made another choice, but—” He spread his hands in a “Whatcha gonna do?” motion.

“Fingerprints?”

“Car was dusted, but nothing was found.”

“That means someone wiped it down, right?”

“It means no fingerprints were found. That’s all it means. Oh, there were prints on the steering wheel, but they were all the same prints and didn’t pop up in any systems, so we got to figure they were hers.”

“So, nothing,” I said.

The chief nodded and looked at his watch. “That’s what I’m saying…Well, got that Rotary thing.”

“What about her apartment?”

“Way I remember is it was searched.”

“What happened to the things she owned?”

“My guess, auction and/or Goodwill. Really, I got to go.”

“Thanks,” I said, then: “Just for the record, what do you think happened to her?”

“Well, she’s not living in Argentina with Hitler. My guess is what’s left of her is under some mud somewhere, and the guy did it to her graduated or left town and is murdering folks somewhere other than here, which makes it a hell of a lot easier on us.”

“You think she was the victim of a serial killer?”

“I don’t know. Could be. Maybe she just had a date with the wrong fellow. Jealous guy. Kinky sex. It could have been anything. I figure it was the guy called in about her car. That’s my take.”

That would have been Jimmy. I said, “Oh?”

“Yeah, some turkey called in that her car was up there and it had been sitting there awhile, and he thought it was odd, but I think that’s just the way the killer got the ball rolling. Wanted to see the circus come to town. He probably had her in the trunk of his car and was already thinking about maybe cutting her up and fertilizing the river bottoms with her. Got his jollies calling it in. Or maybe he had some real remorse and wanted to tell someone before he dumped her. No way to know.”