“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I hate to tell you this…”
Oh-oh, Sheriff Bledsoe thought.
Robert Earl shook his square-shaped head and stared at his large hands. “I’ve had dreams about killing him.”
“Killing who?”
“Daddy.”
“Will it… you know… make me look guilty?” Robert Earl said.
“It depends. Why don’t you tell me about the dreams?”
Robert Earl scratched the top of his balding head with both hands. Dandruff sprang up and landed on his red flannel shirt and overalls. “I didn’t kill him, let’s get that understood upfront.”
“Okay, Robert Earl.”
“Like I said, I had a few dreams about killing him. Well, shoot, a lot of dreams. He treated me like dirt, I’m telling you, Sheriff. Like I was something stinky on the bottom of his shoe. I’ve seen people treat dogs better… mangy dogs… one-eyed dogs… and I was his son, his first child.”
“In the dreams, how did you do it?”
“How did I kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Sheriff, don’t forget I’m talking dreams.”
Sheriff Bledsoe dropped the cord to the floor. This was far too complicated for a fake polygraph machine. “Tell me how you killed your father in your dreams.”
A smile appeared under Robert Earl’s bushy moustache.
“One time I chopped his body in little bitty pieces with a hatchet and fed it to some hogs. Another time I booby-trapped the commode with dynamite, like in the movie. You know, the one with Danny Glover and Mel Gibson. In my dream, Daddy blew up and landed outside on the ground.”
“You ever put something in his food?”
“In my dreams, right?”
“Yes.”
The unctuous smile reappeared and he said, “In this one dream he and I were riding in my truck and he said something snotty about my wife, Estafay, so I slipped him something. Don’t remember what it was. Put it his buttermilk. He started choking and begging me to help him. I sat there watching him turn purple, thinking he shouldna said what he said about Estafay.”
“You don’t remember what you gave him?”
“No, I sure don’t. Bet you just as soon as I leave here it’ll come to me.”
“Think it mighta been a pesticide?”
“Could have been. I really don’t remember. Dreams are hazy like that. Wait a minute, wait one darn minute! I had dreams about doing it and I even thought once or twice about doing it, but I
“Not necessary. I heard you were experiencing financial difficulties and you confronted your father for an advance on your share of the money, and you and he got into a shoving match. True?”
“Yes, sorta true. He shoved me—I didn’t shove him.”
“You’re experiencing financial difficulties?”
“Yes. Me and everyone else. Estafay, my wife, she wants… You know how women are. Want this, need that.”
Sheriff Bledsoe studied him for a moment.
Robert Earl shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Why you looking at me, Sheriff? I’m telling the truth. You think I’m lying, hook me up to the lie-detector.”
Sheriff Bledsoe thought about it for a second.
Again he plugged the cord into the socket. “Okay, Robert Earl, let’s do it. If there’s any doubt of your veracity, the red light will light up.” Actually, both lights came on whenever he stepped on the pedal. “If you tell a flat-foot, bald-faced lie, both the red and black light will light up. So, Robert Earl, speak only the truth.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Sheriff, you know my full name.”
“Yes, I do. We need to establish a rapport with the machine to see if it’s working properly. Your full name?”
“Mitt Romney. Just kidding. Robert Earl Harris.”
Sheriff Bledsoe stepped on the pedal and specks of light sparkled through cracks of paint in both bulbs.
“Dang! It can detect flip-flops?”
“Yes, Robert Earl. Let’s move on. Do you like snakes?”
“Yes,” staring intently at the bulbs; they didn’t light up.
“Have you ever flunked an IQ test?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever killed anything?”
Robert Earl jerked his attention from the bulbs to Sheriff Bledsoe. “No!”
Sheriff Bledsoe stepped on the pedal and both bulbs lighted.
“Dang! Do animals count?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Yes.” The lights went off.
“Have you ever physically injured a human being?”
Robert Earl nodded.
“The machine can’t register nods. It requires a verbal response.”
Robert Earl pinched the bridge of his nose. “Uh-huh.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes,” and pounded the arm of the chair with a closed fist.
Sheriff Bledsoe noticed sweat beading on Robert Earl’s nose and forehead.
“No!” Instantly both bulbs lighted. “Aw, shoots! Yes—I mean no. Maybe. I don’t know!” He squeezed his head with both hands.
“What?”
Robert Earl pounded the top of his head. “I didn’t mean to do it, Sheriff! I swear I didn’t mean to do it! The demon got hold of me.”
“Relax, Robert Earl. I’ll help you any way I can. Tell me—”
“I knew this would happen! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” He kicked the desk. “I knew I shouldna come here. I should’ve waited till you came and got me. Noooooo! I had to go first.” He pounded his head again. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”
Sheriff Bledsoe surreptitiously patted himself for his weapon. It wasn’t strapped to his waist. He scanned the room… There it was, a good ten feet away, in a holster hanging on a hat rack.
“Calm down, Robert Earl. I’m going to do everything I can to help you.”
Robert Earl jumped to his feet, snatched the cord off his chest and threw it to the floor. He held his fists in a boxing stance. “Are you going to arrest me?”
Sheriff Bledsoe pushed his chair away from the desk, for maneuvering room, and suddenly felt that all too familiar pain in his gut. “I’m afraid so, Robert Earl. You murdered a man.”
“What man?”
“Your father.”
“I didn’t murder him!”
“You just said you did.”