“You knew Lucky?” I asked.
“Knew of him. He’s Lucky’s Naked Chili. He’s been on the chili cook-off circuit for years,” Ellis said.
“I guess I should feel relieved that he was wearing his pants.”
Ellis rolled his eyes. “You’re not kidding.”
“How’d you get here so fast?” Many times, the officers at the scene would certify a body was officially dead because of the pure size of Big Bend County, exactly 6,192 square miles.
“My wife’s warming our vegetarian chili in booth number ten.”
I froze in disbelief. “How come I didn’t know you entered?” Uncle Eddie and I had pored over each entry a dozen times, checking for errors or blanks left open.
“She’s not an Ellis.” He waggled his eyebrows and laughed. “Said she didn’t want to marry down.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Starr.” He cleared his throat. “Her name is Brenda Starr.”
I chuckled. “Come on.” The famous comic strip about a buxom, glamorous reporter was popular way before my time, but every woman I’d worked with in the news business had been ribbed with comparisons to Brenda Starr.
“You think I would make something like that up?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. Her name is Brenda Smith.”
A weight lifted off my chest. “Thanks.”
“For what? Brenda Ellis would have been a fine name.”
“For helping me forget for a split second why we’re here.”
When he was finished, he placed the camera on the tripod and pointed it toward the body, fiddling with the zoom until satisfied. He stood in front of the camera. “This is JP Howard Ellis, Big Bend County. The date is May 4, 2018. Body found is a Caucasian male, approximately fifty to fifty-six years old. Identification found on the body belongs to Lucky Straw of Odessa, Texas.”
My gooseflesh vanished as my journalistic side oohed and aahed over the shiny video camera. How easy was that? Instead of writing all these notes that I might or might not be able to read after spilling my coffee on them in the Prius on the way home, I could video my impressions along with actual images of the scene and the cadaver. “Can I take a look through the lens?”
“No, ma’am.” He made an adjustment to the height of the tripod, and then slowly swiveled it from the left side of the tent to the right.
Inside, the deputies went about the methodical task of collecting evidence. All three officers, including Detective Lightfoot, wore gloves. Lightfoot, as the highest-ranking officer, observed as Pleasant took photos of the body and Barnes collected small items of interest from the ground and the nearby surfaces. Barnes, the redheaded, fair-skinned deputy, wore purple gloves as he used tweezers to collect the detritus of Lucky’s life that might or might not provide a clue to how he died.
“Turn him over.” Lightfoot’s deep voice vibrated with quiet authority.
“Wait,” Ellis said. “Let me adjust the zoom.”
By this time he and I stood side by side. I’d snuck close for a better look—close enough for me to catch a whiff of onions—but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Go ahead.”
With care and a specific hold, Barnes flipped Lucky’s body over onto a blue plastic tarp. “Burnt grits and gravy!”
“Good call, Deputy Lightfoot.” Ellis snapped a few photos with his dual-purpose camera.
“Detective,” I murmured.
“What was that?” The JP’s expression said he didn’t know whether to be salty or sweet.
I shrugged. “Sorry. It’s just that Lightfoot’s a detective, and, uh, well, I’m a Callahan.”
His expression clouded with confusion, and then cleared. “That right?”
“Not the end of the world. Let’s get on with it.” Lightfoot gestured toward the body. “Your camera’s rolling.” Once all eyes refocused on Lucky, he shot me a warning look. If I wanted to stay, I’d better zip it.
Ellis double-checked that his video was recording every detail and then knelt down near Lucky’s head. Snapping away with the sheriff office’s Nikon, Pleasant inched closer until all four surrounded the body, blocking my view.
“What is it?” My question busted out before I could harness it.
“Good. Night,” Ellis muttered.
“Someone hit him over the head with a sledgehammer, if you ask me.” Deputy Barnes crossed his arms across his chest.
I rose on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder to get a better look.
“What killed him?” Lightfoot asked.
“Can’t say . . . not until I give him a thorough going-over, and maybe not even then. We’ll have to wait on the state for the official cause of death.”
Which would be an excruciatingly long and frustrating wait. The state often took months to perform routine autopsies. If murder was suspected, the time frame shortened to a mere three to four weeks.
Finally Barnes moved to one side, giving me a clear view. “How did I miss all that blood?” I asked, remarkably calm. Lucky’s expression was peaceful, as if dreaming of trophies and cook-off titles.
“That’s not surprising, Josie.” Ellis continued adjusting his camera. “He was on his back and most of the blood soaked into the ground.”
“Head injuries flow as free as Texas tea.” Barnes cleared his throat. “Uh, at least that’s what my mother always said.”
“In my years of experience, I can tell you I’ve never seen a hammer shaped like this one. Whatever did this was round, flat, and heavy.”
“Sounds like an iron skillet.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. You could have heard the proverbial pin hit the floor. I cringed, expecting to be booted from the proceedings.
Lightfoot gave me a warning glance. “Pleasant. You and Barnes search his things. Don’t leave a fork or a side of beef unturned.”
A large metal pot sat on the cooktop, surrounded by bottles of cumin, chili powder, salt, and pepper. On the wooden cutting board lay a paring knife, plus onion peels, bits of bell pepper, and tomato stems.
Slowly Barnes removed a wooden spoon, dripping with chili, from the pot. “Looks like Lucky got a bit of a jump on the competition.”
“The big cheat,” Pleasant said with a look of disgust.
“What do ya want me to do with this?” Barnes held the spoon at arm’s length as if it might be tainted with the dead man’s blood.
“Give
