Whit, for your help. We appreciate it.’
They said their good-byes and hung up. Whit wondered exactly what kind of help he was supposed to provide, unasked.
Whit transferred his field notes to an inquest report andassigned the death a case number. He had called the ME’s office in Corpus Christi as soon as he got into his office to report
Pete’s death and the body’s expected arrival at their facility. The on-call ME had phoned back and Whit gave her a brief summation
of the case. He asked her to be sure and check the corpse for any signs of foul play, although from the body’s condition suicide
was indicated. He hung up and watched the clouds begin to pour a thin, steady rain on the sleeping town.
He gathered up a notebook from the JP Training Center that offered details on conducting a formal death inquest, locked up
his office, and headed down the darkened hallways of the courthouse.
Grief, in whatever variety, reminded Whit of his mother. When he was two, she had packed up and walked away from her husband
and six sons and vanished into the great blue of the world, and in odd moments he ached for her touch as he might ache for
a missing limb. For the first time in weeks he wondered where his mother was, if she were dead or alive. He imagined her buried
under an assumed name, or her unmourned bones bleached by the sun, a victim of terrible evil. But not always. He also imagined
her munching a peanut butter sandwich, licking stray dabs of plum jelly from her fingers, watching
The Tonight Show,
curled on a bed with green sheets. Green had been her favorite color, she often wore a thin green ribbon in her blond hair,
at least in pictures. He could not remember if he ever played with the ribbon.
He wondered if she ever thought of him. Perhaps five sons had seemed manageable and six was just one son too many.
His mother. Corey Hubble. Both gone into the maw of the world.
The difference between Whit and Pete, Whit mused,was that Pete acted. Or at least attempted to peel back the layers of years toward truth and document what had happened to
Corey.
Whit admired his guts.
So what had Pete found?
The police station’s night dispatcher, a she-grizzly named Nelda, buzzed him into the building. Whit free-loaded a cup of
high-voltage, road-tar coffee from her and collapsed on a rough old bench. Velvet was giving a statement to Claudia Salazar,
he was told, and Nelda peered at him strangely when he said he’d wait.
Being a shoulder for Velvet was fine. A moron’s level of political astuteness demanded that he do nothing more. But he knew
she was alone, and he knew the shock of sudden, paralyzing loss. No harm in being friendly. Bitter pills were harder to swallow
alone.
Delford Spires ambled toward him while he sipped his coffee.
‘Hello, partner,’ Delford said. ‘You’re not usually such a dedicated public servant.’
‘Just waiting for Claudia to finish up with Velvet.’
‘Claud can give the lady a ride to her hotel. Maybe you and I can chat for a second.’
Whit followed Delford to the station’s back entrance, where the smokers were exiled under a metal canopy. The rain fell steadily
and lightning webbed the sky over the Gulf.
Delford dug in his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and waited until he had one lit and two puffs down before he spoke. ‘So
you were gonna wait on Velvet?’
‘I told her I’d give her a ride and talk to her about Pete.’
‘A ride. I’ll bet.’ Delford blew out a calculated plume of smoke, edging Whit’s face.
‘I’m just being a nice guy.’
‘You know what nice gets you with a loose woman?’Delford rubbed the smooth dome of his balding head. ‘A burning need for penicillin.’
Whit waited for the next nugget of wisdom to fall from Delford’s lips.
Delford exhaled another stream of smoke. ‘This is a hell of a mess, Whit. Hell of a mess.’
‘Yes. I feel bad for Lucinda Hubble.’ Whit tossed out a verbal card to see if
They said their good-byes and hung up. Whit wondered exactly what kind of help he was supposed to provide, unasked.
Whit transferred his field notes to an inquest report andassigned the death a case number. He had called the ME’s office in Corpus Christi as soon as he got into his office to report
Pete’s death and the body’s expected arrival at their facility. The on-call ME had phoned back and Whit gave her a brief summation
of the case. He asked her to be sure and check the corpse for any signs of foul play, although from the body’s condition suicide
was indicated. He hung up and watched the clouds begin to pour a thin, steady rain on the sleeping town.
He gathered up a notebook from the JP Training Center that offered details on conducting a formal death inquest, locked up
his office, and headed down the darkened hallways of the courthouse.
Grief, in whatever variety, reminded Whit of his mother. When he was two, she had packed up and walked away from her husband
and six sons and vanished into the great blue of the world, and in odd moments he ached for her touch as he might ache for
a missing limb. For the first time in weeks he wondered where his mother was, if she were dead or alive. He imagined her buried
under an assumed name, or her unmourned bones bleached by the sun, a victim of terrible evil. But not always. He also imagined
her munching a peanut butter sandwich, licking stray dabs of plum jelly from her fingers, watching
The Tonight Show,
curled on a bed with green sheets. Green had been her favorite color, she often wore a thin green ribbon in her blond hair,
at least in pictures. He could not remember if he ever played with the ribbon.
He wondered if she ever thought of him. Perhaps five sons had seemed manageable and six was just one son too many.
His mother. Corey Hubble. Both gone into the maw of the world.
The difference between Whit and Pete, Whit mused,was that Pete acted. Or at least attempted to peel back the layers of years toward truth and document what had happened to
Corey.
Whit admired his guts.
So what had Pete found?
The police station’s night dispatcher, a she-grizzly named Nelda, buzzed him into the building. Whit free-loaded a cup of
high-voltage, road-tar coffee from her and collapsed on a rough old bench. Velvet was giving a statement to Claudia Salazar,
he was told, and Nelda peered at him strangely when he said he’d wait.
Being a shoulder for Velvet was fine. A moron’s level of political astuteness demanded that he do nothing more. But he knew
she was alone, and he knew the shock of sudden, paralyzing loss. No harm in being friendly. Bitter pills were harder to swallow
alone.
Delford Spires ambled toward him while he sipped his coffee.
‘Hello, partner,’ Delford said. ‘You’re not usually such a dedicated public servant.’
‘Just waiting for Claudia to finish up with Velvet.’
‘Claud can give the lady a ride to her hotel. Maybe you and I can chat for a second.’
Whit followed Delford to the station’s back entrance, where the smokers were exiled under a metal canopy. The rain fell steadily
and lightning webbed the sky over the Gulf.
Delford dug in his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and waited until he had one lit and two puffs down before he spoke. ‘So
you were gonna wait on Velvet?’
‘I told her I’d give her a ride and talk to her about Pete.’
‘A ride. I’ll bet.’ Delford blew out a calculated plume of smoke, edging Whit’s face.
‘I’m just being a nice guy.’
‘You know what nice gets you with a loose woman?’Delford rubbed the smooth dome of his balding head. ‘A burning need for penicillin.’
Whit waited for the next nugget of wisdom to fall from Delford’s lips.
Delford exhaled another stream of smoke. ‘This is a hell of a mess, Whit. Hell of a mess.’
‘Yes. I feel bad for Lucinda Hubble.’ Whit tossed out a verbal card to see if
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