“A press conference?” Tad had never attended a press conference in his life, let alone been part of one. “How do you do that?”
Sheriff Hazen barked a laugh, briefly displaying a rack of yellow teeth. “We go outside and answer questions.” He went to the old glass door, unlocked it, and stuck his head out.
“How you folks all doing?”
This was greeted by a surge and an incomprehensible welter of shouted questions.
Sheriff Hazen held up an arm, palm toward the crowd. He was still wearing his short-sleeved uniform from the night before, and the gesture exposed a half-moon of sweat that reached halfway to his waist. He was short, but short like a bulldog, and there was something about him that commanded respect. Tad had seen the sheriff loosen the teeth of a suspect almost twice his size.
The sheriff dropped his arm. “My deputy, Tad Franklin, and myself will give a statement and answer questions. Let’s all behave like civilized people. What say?”
The crowd shuffled in place. Lights went on, mikes were boomed forward; there was the clicking of cassette recorders, the fluttering of camera shutters.
“Tad, let’s give these good folks some fresh coffee.”
Tad looked at Hazen. Hazen winked.
Tad grabbed the pot, peered in, gave it a quick shake. Then he reached for a stack of styrofoam cups, stepped out the door, and began doling out the coffee. There were some sips, a few furtive sniffs.
“Drink up!” Hazen cried good-naturedly. “Never let it be said we’re not hospitable folks here in Medicine Creek!”
There was a general shuffling, more sipping, a few covert glances into the cups. The coffee seemed to have subdued, if not broken, the spirit of the group. Though it was barely dawn, the heat was already oppressive. There was no place to put down the cups, no trash can to drop them in. And a sign outside the door to the sheriff’s office readNO LITTERING: $100 FINE .
Hazen adjusted his hat, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked around, his shoulders squared to the crowd as the cameras rolled. He then addressed the group. He told in dry police language of finding the body; he described the clearing, the body, and the spitted birds. It was pretty vivid stuff, but the sheriff managed to handle it matter-of-factly, throwing in a folksy comment here and there, in a way that neutralized most of the gruesome aspects. It amazed Tad how easygoing, even charming, his boss could be when he wanted to.
In the space of two minutes he was finished. A flurry of shouted questions followed Hazen’s speech.
“One at a time; raise your hands,” the sheriff said. “It’s just like in school. Anyone who shouts goes last. You begin.” And he pointed to a reporter in shirtsleeves who was enormously, spectacularly fat.
“Are there any leads or suspects?”
“We’ve got some very interesting things we’re following up. I can’t say any more than that.”
Tad looked at him with surprise. What things? So far, they had nothing.
“You,” said Hazen, pointing to another.
“Was the murder victim local?”
“No. We’re working on identification, but she wasn’t a local. I know everyone around these parts, I can vouch for that myself.”
“Do you know how the woman was killed?”
“Hopefully, the medical examiner will tell us that. The body was sent up to Garden City. When we get the autopsy results, you’ll be the first to know.”
The early morning Greyhound, northbound from Amarillo, came rumbling up the main street, stopping in front of Maisie’s Diner with a chuff of brakes. Tad was surprised; the bus almost never stopped. Whoever came or went from Medicine Creek, Kansas, anymore? Maybe it was more reporters, too cheap to provide their own transportation.
“The lady, you, there. Your question, ma’am?”
A tough-looking redhead poked a shotgun mike at Hazen. “What law enforcement agencies are involved?”
“The state police have been a big help, but since the body was found in Medicine Creek township, it’s our case.”
“FBI?”
“The FBI doesn’t get involved in local murder cases and we don’t expect them to take an interest in this one. We’ve put some pretty heavy-duty police resources on the case, including the special crime lab and homicide squad up in Dodge City, who spent the whole night at the site. Don’t you all worry that just Tad and me are going to try to solve this on our own. We’re good at hollering, and we’re going to holler loud enough to get what we need to solve this case, and quick, too.” He smiled and winked.
There was a roar as the bus pulled away in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. The sound temporarily drowned out the press conference. As the fumes cleared, they revealed a lone figure standing on the sidewalk, small leather valise sitting on the ground next to him. He was tall and thin, dressed in dead black, and in the early morning light he cast a shadow that stretched halfway across downtown Medicine Creek.
Tad glanced at the sheriff and noticed that he’d seen the man, too.
The man was staring across the street at them.
Hazen roused himself. “Next question,” he said briskly. “Smitty?” He pointed to the well-lined face of Smit Ludwig, the owner-reporter of the
