tables with that fuzzy wariness of people who had sobered too quickly. An impassive officer stood guard over them, rocking slightly from heel to toe.
Max talked to the patrolman who had answered the call; Wager walked around the body sprawled on its back in a large smear of blood that had spread across the wooden floor in clotted pools. The medical examiner was just finishing his work. He dropped the stethoscope into his bag and stripped off the rubber gloves. Then he carefully folded the square of oilcloth he liked to use for a kneeling pad to protect his trousers. Job done, he nodded busily to Wager—”All yours, Officer”—and hustled out past the uniform guarding the door.
The victim was Hispanic or Native American, possibly in his forties, though the dirt on his face and the lack of light made it hard to tell. Wager glanced at the bartender. “Turn up the lights, Floyd.”
“They’re up. That’s as far as they go. You know that.”
The old-fashioned pressed-tin ceiling was high, and a line of unshaded bulbs dangled down the center of it on a row of wires. Most of the room’s light came from the pale neon running behind the bar, and Wager guessed that the dimness, with the help of booze, covered a lot of blemishes in the decor and the patrons, both. He reached under the dead man’s hip and, with two fingers, lifted out a bent and shiny leather wallet that, like the man’s clothes, had seen a lot of wear. Most of the scratched plastic windows were empty. One held the grinning face of a girl, about ten, whose black hair was parted like a curtain and tucked behind large ears. It looked like a school photograph. Behind that was a South Dakota driver’s license whose picture identified the victim as James Littletree. His home address was a rural route number in Wanblee, S.D. Wager jotted down the information and then counted the bills in the money pocket—seven dollars. He stuffed the wallet back into the stiff cloth of the man’s jeans and looked up to catch Floyd’s eyes sliding away.
Wager started with the bartender and with the routine questions. “Do you know the victim?”
“No. He’s been in here a couple times. But I don’t know his name.”
The answers, too, were routine. As he went through the litany, Wager tried to remember how many murders the bar had seen. Most had been closed out. Two, neither of which were Wager’s, were still open—the suspects were Mexican nationals who apparently ran back across the border. “What’s this make in three years, Floyd? Eight? Nine?”
“How the shit do I know, Wager? I don’t keep count.”
“I think this is nine, Floyd. Your bar’s a hazard to the community’s health.”
The bartender rubbed a finger across a large mole on his cheek. “It ain’t my whiskey kills them, Wager. And I can’t do a goddamn thing about what they bring in from the street.”
“Is that what this was? A fight from the street?”
The man’s lips tightened. He’d let something slip. “I don’t know.”
A muffled clatter of equipment said tonight’s forensics team was setting up. Wager glanced around to see Hawkins aim his video camera. A few moments later, a bright gleam pulled the sprawled victim out of the bar’s dim light as the police photographer on duty began recording the body and its environment. The videotapes were expensive to make and bulky to store, but the DA preferred them to still shots; they were a hell of a lot more effective in jury trials. Hawkins’s voice was a low murmur as he talked into the hooded microphone and identified each shot. Max had moved from the uniformed officer to one of the witnesses, who seemed eager to tell what he’d seen and downright pleased at being asked first. Max nodded as he took notes.
Wager turned back to the bartender. “Last week it was a brawl, week before that we had complaints about people getting beat up in the alley out back. Floyd, this bullshit has to come to a screeching halt, or you’re going
Max talked to the patrolman who had answered the call; Wager walked around the body sprawled on its back in a large smear of blood that had spread across the wooden floor in clotted pools. The medical examiner was just finishing his work. He dropped the stethoscope into his bag and stripped off the rubber gloves. Then he carefully folded the square of oilcloth he liked to use for a kneeling pad to protect his trousers. Job done, he nodded busily to Wager—”All yours, Officer”—and hustled out past the uniform guarding the door.
The victim was Hispanic or Native American, possibly in his forties, though the dirt on his face and the lack of light made it hard to tell. Wager glanced at the bartender. “Turn up the lights, Floyd.”
“They’re up. That’s as far as they go. You know that.”
The old-fashioned pressed-tin ceiling was high, and a line of unshaded bulbs dangled down the center of it on a row of wires. Most of the room’s light came from the pale neon running behind the bar, and Wager guessed that the dimness, with the help of booze, covered a lot of blemishes in the decor and the patrons, both. He reached under the dead man’s hip and, with two fingers, lifted out a bent and shiny leather wallet that, like the man’s clothes, had seen a lot of wear. Most of the scratched plastic windows were empty. One held the grinning face of a girl, about ten, whose black hair was parted like a curtain and tucked behind large ears. It looked like a school photograph. Behind that was a South Dakota driver’s license whose picture identified the victim as James Littletree. His home address was a rural route number in Wanblee, S.D. Wager jotted down the information and then counted the bills in the money pocket—seven dollars. He stuffed the wallet back into the stiff cloth of the man’s jeans and looked up to catch Floyd’s eyes sliding away.
Wager started with the bartender and with the routine questions. “Do you know the victim?”
“No. He’s been in here a couple times. But I don’t know his name.”
The answers, too, were routine. As he went through the litany, Wager tried to remember how many murders the bar had seen. Most had been closed out. Two, neither of which were Wager’s, were still open—the suspects were Mexican nationals who apparently ran back across the border. “What’s this make in three years, Floyd? Eight? Nine?”
“How the shit do I know, Wager? I don’t keep count.”
“I think this is nine, Floyd. Your bar’s a hazard to the community’s health.”
The bartender rubbed a finger across a large mole on his cheek. “It ain’t my whiskey kills them, Wager. And I can’t do a goddamn thing about what they bring in from the street.”
“Is that what this was? A fight from the street?”
The man’s lips tightened. He’d let something slip. “I don’t know.”
A muffled clatter of equipment said tonight’s forensics team was setting up. Wager glanced around to see Hawkins aim his video camera. A few moments later, a bright gleam pulled the sprawled victim out of the bar’s dim light as the police photographer on duty began recording the body and its environment. The videotapes were expensive to make and bulky to store, but the DA preferred them to still shots; they were a hell of a lot more effective in jury trials. Hawkins’s voice was a low murmur as he talked into the hooded microphone and identified each shot. Max had moved from the uniformed officer to one of the witnesses, who seemed eager to tell what he’d seen and downright pleased at being asked first. Max nodded as he took notes.
Wager turned back to the bartender. “Last week it was a brawl, week before that we had complaints about people getting beat up in the alley out back. Floyd, this bullshit has to come to a screeching halt, or you’re going
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