No, almost certainly not. He had finished his examination before the man in the CPO coat burst in. He (Jimmy) would not be willing-or able-to state just how the woman
Could they describe this fella?
They answered in terms of the story they had worked out. Ben added a pair of brown work boots just so they wouldn’t sound too much like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
McCaslin asked a few more questions, and Ben was just beginning to feel that they were going to get out of it unscathed when McCaslin turned to him and asked:
‘What are you doing in this, Mears? You ain’t no doctor.’
His watchful eyes twinkled benignly. Jimmy opened his mouth to answer, but the sheriff quieted him with a single hand gesture.
If the purpose of McCaslin’s sudden shot had been to startle Ben into a guilty expression or gesture, it failed. He was too emotionally wrung out to react much. Being caught in a misstatement did not seem too shattering after what had gone before. ‘I’m a writer, not a doctor. I write novels. I’m writing one currently where one of the important secondary characters is a mortician’s son. I just wanted a look into the back room. I hitched a ride with Jimmy here. He told me he would rather not reveal his business, and I didn’t ask.’ He rubbed his chin, where a small, knotted bump had risen. ‘I got more than I bargained for.’
McCaslin looked neither pleased nor disappointed in Ben’s answer. ‘I should say you did. You’re the fella that wrote
‘Yes.’
‘My wife read part of that in some woman’s magazine.
‘No,’ Ben said, looking McCaslin in the eye. ‘I didn’t see anything funny about it, either.’
‘This new book the one they say you been workin’ on up to the Lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘P’raps you’d like Moe Green here to read it over,’ McCaslin remarked. ‘See if you got the undertaken’ parts right.’
‘That section isn’t written yet,’ Ben said. ‘I always research before I write. It’s easier.’
McCaslin shook his head wonderingly. ‘You know, your story sounds just like one of those Fu Manchu books. Some guy breaks in here an’ overpowers two strong men an’ makes off with the body of some poor woman who died of unknown causes.’
‘Listen, Homer-’ Jimmy began.
‘Don’t you Homer me,’ McCaslin said. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like any part of it. This encephalitis is catchin’, ain’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s infectious,’ Jimmy said warily.
‘An’ you still brought this writer along? Knowin’ she might be infected with somethin’ like that?’
Jimmy shrugged and looked angry. ‘I don’t question your professional judgments, Sheriff. You’ll just have to bear with mine. Encephalitis is a fairly low-grade infection which gains slowly in the human blood stream. I felt there would be no danger to either of us. Now, wouldn’t you be better off trying to find out who carted away Mrs Glick’s body-Fu Manchu or otherwise-or are you just having fun questioning us?’
McCaslin fetched a deep sigh from his not inconsiderable belly, flipped his notebook closed, and stored it in the depths of his hip pocket again. ‘Well, we’ll put the word out, Jimmy. Doubt if we’ll get much on this unless the kook comes out of the woodwork again-if there ever was a kook, which I doubt.’
Jimmy raised his eyebrows.
‘You’re lyin’ to me,’ McCaslin said patiently. ‘I know it, these deputies know it, prob’ly even ole Moe knows it. I don’t know how much you’re lyin’-a little or a lot-but I know I can’t prove you’re lyin’ as long as you both stick to the same story. I could take you both down to the cooler, but the rules say I gotta give you one phone call, an’ even the greenest kid fresh out of law school could spring you on what I got, which could best be described as Suspicion of Unknown Hanky-panky. An’ I bet your lawyer ain’t fresh out of law school, is he?’
‘No,’ Jimmy said. ‘He’s not.’
‘I’d take you down just the same and put you to the inconvenience except I get a feelin’ you ain’t lyin’ because you did somethin’ against the law.’ He hit the pedal at the foot of the stainless-steel waste can by the mortician’s table. The top banged up and McCaslin shot a brown stream of tobacco juice into it. Maury Green jumped. ‘Would either of you like to sort of revise your story?’ he asked quietly, and the back-country twang was gone from his voice. ‘This is serious business. We’ve had four deaths in the Lot, and all four bodies are gone. I want to know what’s happening.’
‘We’ve told you everything we know,’ Jimmy said with quiet firmness. He looked directly at McCaslin. ‘If we could tell you more, we would.’
McCaslin looked back at him, just as keenly. ‘You’re scared shitless,’ he said. ‘You and this writer, both of you. You look the way some of the guys in Korea looked when they brought ‘em back from the front lines.’
The deputies were looking at them. Ben and Jimmy said nothing.
McCaslin sighed again. ‘Go on.’ get out of here. I want you both down to my office tomorrow by ten to make statements. If you ain’t there by ten, I’ll send a patrol car out to get you.’
‘You won’t have to do that,’ Ben said.
McCaslin looked at him mournfully and shook his head. ‘You ought to write books with better sense. Like the guy who writes those Travis McGee stories. A man can sink his teeth into one of those.’
