The man surprised him by flipping open a badge. A U.S. marshal. “Smedley Poindexter,” the man said, extending his hand.
Garza shook it. Pudgy, but firm. “Sheriff Bobby Garza. How can I help you? I hadn’t heard the Feds were coming.”
“Oh, this isn’t official, Sheriff,” the man said, his accent identifying him as a Central Texas native. “I work out of Austin, but I was in the area and decided to stop by and offer moral support. Tough situation you got here.”
It struck Garza as a little odd that a U.S. marshal would drop by, especially since the standoff was not the type of thing that would ever fall under federal jurisdiction.
Garza gave Poindexter a quick recap of the events of the previous three days, starting with the discovery of Bert Gammel’s body and the evidence that pointed toward Jack Corey. He noted that the man nodded approvingly when Garza described his strategy to wait Corey out.
“So you think Corey’s good for it, then?” Poindexter asked, meaning the murder of Gammel.
“We’re still waiting on the results from the DPS lab, but yeah, that’s the way it looks. And I know I shouldn’t infer anything from Corey’s actions in there”-he gestured toward the building-“but it sure doesn’t help his case.”
Poindexter stared at the sheriff’s office for a few moments. “You know Corey well?”
“Sure. He grew up a few years ahead of me.”
“Any previous record?”
“None at all.” Garza eyed Poindexter, who returned his gaze calmly.
“What about this missing-persons report? Man named Emmett Slaton?”
“What about him?”
“Any leads on that?”
Garza hesitated, feeling that he was being probed. These questions seemed like more than casual interest. “Nothing so far. Blood at the scene, but it was animal blood.”
Poindexter raised his eyebrows.
“Slaton had a dog,” Garza explained. “We’re wondering if the dog might have been injured. There’s nothing to indicate that anything happened to Slaton, other than the fact that we can’t find him.”
The marshal frowned, but remained silent.
“Look, Marshal Poindexter-”
“Call me Smedley.”
“All right, Smedley. Is something going on here that I need to know about? I appreciate you dropping by and all, but it seems kind of strange….”
The big man opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to reconsider. After a moment, he said, “I’m just checking into something, Sheriff. I’m working a confidential federal case and…” Poindexter appeared to choose his words carefully. “I just wanted to make sure it had no connection to all the excitement you’re having around here.”
“And?”
Poindexter shook his head. “I don’t see any connection at all.”
“Let me ask you something, Maynard….” Marlin was back in Clements’s office, just after lunchtime, Maynard sucking the last few drops out of a soft drink from Burger King. Marlin leaned in close again. “Anyone ever try to bribe you?”
Clements chuckled, then realized it was a serious question. “Not once in twenty-three years on the job. Nobody ever even hinted around it. I got a plate of chocolate-chip cookies from an old lady once,” he smiled. “After we patched up the road in front of her house. That’s about as close to a bribe as I ever got.” Clements smacked his lips as if he was thinking about those cookies.
Marlin felt a little foolish. “Then I guess you never heard Bert Gammel mention anything along those lines.”
“No, never. And, see, John, there wouldn’t be any use in trying to bribe me or Bert anyway. We go out and solicit bids, but we’re not in charge of awarding the actual contracts-the county commissioners are. Then we manage the projects after they’ve been awarded.” Clements kicked his boots up onto his desk. “Hell, I wish someone
“You know, this is all your fault,” Jack Corey said, rousing Wylie Smith from his nap. The deputy was stretched out on the couch, wrists still cuffed, his wounded hand heavily bandaged. Corey was back to his usual position: sitting on the floor, his back against the door.
Corey glared at Wylie, who didn’t reply. In fact, the deputy hadn’t spoken since Corey had imposed the “no- talking rule.” Corey wondered whether he could get Wylie talking now.
“You just had to keep pushin’ me, didn’t you?” Corey continued. “But the thing you don’t understand is, how can I confess to somethin’ I didn’t do?”
Wylie swung his legs around and sat upright. He stared into space, apparently groggy from the painkillers Marlin had brought in.
Corey tried to sound reasonable, tried to keep the threatening edge out of his voice. “You kept talkin’ to me about tire marks and boot prints, but come on, that’s pretty shitty evidence, ain’t it? I’m not the only guy around the county with a Firestone tire and Red Wing boots.”
Finally, Wylie spoke in a raspy voice: “Don’t forget the tobacco spit. If you didn’t do it, then the smartest thing to do is give up. The DNA evidence will clear you.”
Corey snorted. “Yeah, right. I know what you’re capable of. Hell, you pointed a gun at my head, threatened me with Death Row. Planting evidence would be no big deal for a guy like you.”
Wylie shook his head, like he was talking to a slow child. That made Corey angry, but he swallowed it down.
Wylie said, “Now, tell me, where would I get a puddle of your saliva?”
Corey had an answer ready. “I done some thinkin’ about that, and you coulda stolen a spitcan out of my truck.”
“But I didn’t even find the spit,” Wylie said, his voice rising. “Marlin found it. I hadn’t even gotten to the scene yet. Can’t you understand that?”
“You coulda put it there earlier.”
Wylie leaned back against the couch. Quietly, he said, “What you’re talking about is crazy, Jack. If I framed you for Bert Gammel’s murder, that would mean I probably killed him myself.”
“How do I know you didn’t?”
“You gotta be kidding me.” Wylie shook his head. “I had no motive, for starters. I didn’t even know the guy. And secondly, on the day Gammel was killed, I was in Austin with my wife. It was my day off. We spent the night with her sister. You’re really grasping at straws here, Jack.”
Both men fell silent. Corey felt so tired, so ready to give in. If he could just sleep for a few minutes…but he had to keep Wylie talking. “At least tell me why you pointed your gun at my head. Don’t you know a man can’t think straight in a position like that?”
Wylie sighed. A few heartbeats passed and Corey thought the deputy wasn’t going to respond.
“Well?” Corey said.
Wylie licked his lips and said, “Okay, I’m sorry about that. I really am. But when I’m investigating a guy for murder, and I feel like I have some solid evidence, I tend to go at him pretty hard. It’s just my style. Let’s say, worst-case scenario, you confess to the murder but you didn’t really do it. We’d
Corey smiled at Wylie and rose off the floor. He walked to the table and stared down at the tape recorder that had been sitting there all along. Such an innocent-looking device. Last night, before this whole ordeal started, Wylie had wanted to record Corey’s confession.
“Thanks, Wylie,” Corey said. He reached down and pushed the STOP button.
Wylie was staring at him now, eyes bulging, mouth agape. Then his jaw snapped shut, like a dog trying to catch a passing fly.
