Bentley Little - The Mailman

"We have his ass dead to rights," the mustached policeman said. "Ain'tno way he'sgonna get out of this."

"It wasn't me --"

"Shut up!" Doug roared.

"We'll do the shutting up around here." The chief emerged from the bedroom. "What are you doing here anyway?"

Doug was still trying to get the taste out of his mouth, the smell out of his nostrils. "Hobiecalled me."

"Are you his lawyer?"

"No. I'm his friend."

"Well, who let you through? Friends are not usually allowed on crime scenes."

Doug held up his hands. "You want me to leave, I'll leave."

"No!"Hobie cried.

"I'll find you a lawyer," Doug promised. "I'll get you whatever you need.

Don't worry. There's nothing I can do here anyway."

"I didn't do it,"Hobie said. Tears trickled down his cheeks, turning pink as they mingled with the flecks of blood on his skin.

"I know you didn't. And we'll get you out --"

"No you won't," the chief said.

"But you'll have to stay in jail for a few days until everything gets straightened out. Do you want me to call anyone? Your parents?"

"No!"

"Fine. But I'll do what I can, and I'll see you in the morning. Don't worry."

"Jeff!"Catfield motioned for the mustached policeman. "Escort Mr.Albin to the street."

The policeman nodded. "Yes sir."

"We'll get you out," Doug promised.

On the street, the neighbors were talking loudly and animatedly about what they thought had happened insideHobie's trailer. One squat ugly woman with huge curlers in her hair insisted that she'd known for years the auto teacher was a practicingsatanist .

Doug walked slowly back to his car. He wanted to run, he was so pumped up with adrenaline, but he forced himself to move deliberately, trying to keep under control the conflicting emotions raging through him. There was a lot to do. He had to find a lawyer, a good lawyer, getHobie's stuff together, find out whatHobie's rights were, what could be done for him, whether he was going to be kept in Willis, taken to the county jail, or put in the state prison in Florence. But nothing could be done until morning.

He started the Bronco and backed up. He had not accomplished anything by coming over, he realized, had not helped his friend in any way, although perhaps he had succeeded in gettingHobie to keep quiet until he had legal counsel. What he really needed to do was to nail the mailman, to prove that the mailman had really committed the murder. But that was going to be impossible. There had been no witnesses; andHobie himself was too far gone to be believable to anyone.

He turned the corner and saw the mailman's car on the next street over. He watched as the mailman's pale hand opened the mailbox in front of a house and inserted a stack of letters.

The hand rose up above the roof of the car and waved once, lazily.

Doug turned in the opposite direction, toward home.

37

Yard Stevens, the lawyer Doug retained forHobie , was a southern gentleman of the old school who had emigrated to Arizona late in life and still retained many of the mannerisms of the Deep South. He lived and practiced in Phoenix but had a vacation home in Willis, where he spent the summers to escape the heat. He was well-known for both accepting and winning garish tabloid murder cases, and when Doug described to himHobie's situation, he agreed to take it, even though it meant cutting his vacation short. Stevens' fees were so astronomical as to be unbelievable, but Doug was assured by a school-district representative that Hobie'sinsurance would cover the cost.

"You know," the lawyer drawled as they drove over to the police station in a huge white Lincoln, "I've been having trouble with the mail myself this summer. I have tried several times to speak to the postmaster about this, but he never seems to be in when I call."

Doug had debated whether or not to tell Stevens all, and he had decided it would be better forHobie if he did not. At least not yet. He didn't want the lawyer to think both of them were nuts, and if Stevens discovered during his research what was really going on here, well, then they'd have another ally on their side. If he discovered nothing, Doug could always fill him in on the details later. "I've had trouble too," Doug admitted.

"If, as I believe, this is atownwide problem, we may be able to work this to our advantage."

Doug smiled. "Let's hope so."

The lawyer looked at him. "Do you think your Mend's guilty? Tell me the truth. We're covered here by lawyer-client privilege, and it will never go further than this."

Doug was surprised by the forthrightness of the question. "He's innocent,"

he said.

"That's what I like to hear."

"What do you think?"

Stevens 'chuckled, a low mellifluous comforting sound. "I'll make my decision once I talk to my client."

At the police station, they were searched, then led into a small room empty save for three chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor.Hobie was brought in, handcuffed, and remained silent until his guard left the room. He looked even worse, even crazier, than he had last night, and Doug had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been hopingHobie would make a good impression on the lawyer.

"Okay," Doug said. "Now we can talk."

Hobieglanced furtively around. He looked under the table, felt under the chair, as if searching for electronic listening devices. Under other circumstances, the paranoia ofHobie's reaction would have been funny. But nothing seemed funny anymore.

"There're no bugs," Doug said. "Our police department can't afford any."

"And even if there were," Stevens said, "evidence gathered through their use would not be admissible in court."

"This is your lawyer," Doug said. "Yard Stevens."

The lawyer held out a thick pink hand. "How do you do?"

"How do you think? I'm in jail for murder."

"Did you do it?"

"Hell, no."

Doug felt a little better.Hobie still looked awful, but the shocked incoherence of last night and the dissolution of the past few weeks seemed to have disappeared. He seemed more confident now, closer to his normally abrasive self.

"Doug?" Stevens turned toward him. "I would like to speak to my client alone from here on. I may need your testimony in court, and I don't want to jeopardize its validity by allowing you access to privileged information."

Doug nodded. "Okay. I'll be waiting right outside."

"Fine."

"Thanks,"Hobie said.

"I'll be by to see you later." Doug knocked on the closed door and it was opened from the outside. He was walking down the hall toward the front office when he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Mr.Albin ? Can I talk to you for a moment?"

He turned to see Mike Trenton beckoning him from the doorway of an office.

"Doug. I thought I told you to call me Doug."

"Doug?"

He followed Mike into a small room dominated by a huge desk. Two walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with textbooks and bound case studies. "This used to be the police library," Mike explained, noticing his glance. "Well, it still is, but now it doubles as my office."

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Mr. Beecham."

"I thought you were off all mailman cases."

Mike shrugged. "It's a small department. A lot's been happening. We're shorthanded. Besides, this is not a 'mailman case.' "

"It is too, and you know it."

"I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Mr. Beecham."

Doug began pacing up and down the length of the tiny crowded room. "Come on, Mike. You know damn well thatHobie didn't kill that girl."

"I know no such thing. I'd like to help you, I really would, but Mr.

Beecham's fingerprints -- bloody fingerprints, I might add -- were found all over the murder weapon and all over the room. And those photos on the wall . .