I didn’t recall a single question of that nature from the press, but I said, “Law officers don’t engage in speculation in front of the press.”
“Hell, no. Me and the general get along fine, and I wouldn’t want to see his girl talked about after she’s dead.”
“If you’re leading up to something, Chief, spit it out.”
“Well, it occurs to me that maybe people think the Army CID pulled a fast one on me, and when y’all catch this guy, my organization won’t get no credit.”
Double negatives annoy me, but Burt Yardley annoyed me more. I said, “Rest assured, Chief, your department will get all the credit it deserves.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of, son. We need to get involved in this here case.”
“Take it up with the FBI. They’re in charge as of tomorrow.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sure is.”
“Okay. Meantime, you write a nice report sayin’ how the Midland police helped you.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you’re runnin’ around talkin’ about subpoena’n’ my records, because the goddamn reporters are askin’ questions about my boy’s involvement with the deceased, because you’re startin’ to make me look like a damn fool ‘cause I don’t know shit, and because you goddamn well need me.” He added, “You’re goin’ to make things right.”
The man was obviously annoyed, and I really couldn’t blame him. There is a strange symbiotic relationship between an Army post and the local community, especially in the South. At its worst, the relationship seems like one of an army of occupation ensconced in the defeated old Dixieland. At its best, the locals realize that most of the officers and enlisted personnel are southerners themselves, and the post is no more intrusive than a big auto factory. But big auto factories don’t have their own laws and customs, so the reality is somewhere in between. Anyway, in the spirit of cooperation, I said to Burt Yardley, “I’ll introduce you to the FBI man in charge when I know who it is and give him a glowing report of your assistance and accomplishments.”
“That’s real decent of you, Paul. You write somethin’ out, too. Bill Kent’s doin’ that right now. Why don’t we call him in here, and we’ll have that big sit-down your little assistant there talked about.”
“I don’t have a lot of time for big sit-downs, Chief. You’ll be involved in the continuing investigation to the fullest extent possible. Don’t worry about it.”
“Why do I think you’re bullshittin’ me, Paul?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you why. ’Cause you don’t think I got one goddamn thing you want, and you don’t give nothin’ for nothin’. Fact is, I think I got what you need to wrap up this here case.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sure is. I found some evidence in the deceased’s house that you overlooked, son. But it’s goin’ to take a lot of work between us to sort it out.”
“Right. You mean the stuff in the basement bedroom.”
His eyes got wide, and he didn’t speak for a second, which was a treat, but then he said, “Why’d you leave all that shit there?”
“I thought you were too stupid to find it.”
He laughed. “Now who’s stupid?”
“But I didn’t leave it all. We carried some bags of photos and videotapes out of there.” I didn’t, but I should have.
He regarded me closely for a moment, and I could tell he was not real happy with that possibility. He said, “Well, ain’t you a smart boy.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Where’s that stuff?”
“In my trailer. You missed it.”
“Don’t mess with me, son. There ain’t nothin’ in that trailer.”
“Why do you care where the stuff is?”
“ ’Cause it’s my stuff.”
“Wrong.”
He cleared his throat and said, “There’s some dumb-ass guys who got a shitload of explainin’ to do when I do fingerprints in that there room, and when we match those pictures and those movie tapes to their buck-naked bodies.”
“Right. Including you.”
He stared at me, and I stared back. Finally, he said, “I don’t bluff real easy.”
“You see, Chief, I think that Wes and Ann had more going for them than Wes is letting on. They weren’t the happiest couple who ever came down the pike, but they did go out for almost two years, and my information says they were hot and heavy. Now the question I have for you is this—did your son know you were fucking his girlfriend?”
Chief Yardley seemed to be mulling over his answer, so, to fill the silence, I asked, “And did Mrs. Yardley know you were fucking the general’s daughter? Hey, I wouldn’t want to have dinner at your house tonight, Burt.”
The chief was still mulling, so I said, “You didn’t find that room by accident, but that’s what you told Wes. Maybe Wes knew that his girlfriend dated on the side now and then, but when he screwed her, he did it in her bedroom, because if he’d seen that room downstairs, he’d have beat the shit out of her and left her like any good gentleman of the South. You, on the other hand, knew all about her but never told your son, because Ann Campbell told you you’d better not. She liked Wes. You were just someone she screwed because you had influence over Wes, and because you could fix things for her in town if she ever needed anything fixed. You were kind of an afterthought, extra insurance, and maybe you came through for her a few times. So, anyway, you and Wes have more in common than blood, and Ann Campbell made your life exciting and damned scary. She told you at some point that if you broke into her place and took that stuff, it didn’t matter, because she had copies of the photos and videotapes someplace else. It wouldn’t be too hard to identify your fat ass in those pictures. So you get to thinking about your wife, your son, your other sons, your standing in the community, your pastor and Sunday church socials, your thirty years on the force to get to the top, and one day, you decide to get rid of this time bomb.” I looked at him and said, “Correct?”
Yardley’s ruddy face had not gone pale, but it had gone redder. Finally, he said, “I wasn’t dumb enough to have my picture taken.”
“Are you sure about that? Are you sure your voice isn’t on an audiotape?”
“That ain’t good enough.”
“It’s good enough to smear your name like shit on the mayor’s new carpet.”
We both sat awhile, like two checker players trying to see three moves down the road. Yardley nodded to himself, then looked me in the eye. “I thought about killing her once or twice.”
“No kidding?”
“But I couldn’t bring myself to kill a woman for somethin’ stupid that I did.”
“Chivalry is not dead.”
“Yeah… anyway, I was in Atlanta overnight on business when it happened. Got lots of witnesses.”
“Good. I’ll talk to them.”
“You go right ahead and make a fool out of yourself.”
“I’m not the one with a motive for murder.” Actually, I didn’t think Burt Yardley was the murderer, but people get nervous when you tell them you have to check out their alibis. It’s embarrassing and causes all sorts of awkwardness. That’s why cops do it to people that are holding back, and who piss them off.
Yardley said, “You can take your motives, put a light coat of oil on them, and shove ’em up your butt. But I might be interested in what you got regardin’ me and the deceased.”
“Might you? Well, I might have a photo of you when you were sleeping in her bed.”
“Then again, you might not.”
“Then again, how did I connect your fat ass to that room?”
