Read Online Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) by Joel B Reed - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joel B Reed
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“I’ll be discreet,” he promised. “I’ll ask for Casey by name.” Kermit Charles Jones is the physician who heads up our state forensic team. Years ago he began signing his name using only his initials, and K.C., or Casey, quickly became his sobriquet among the other members of the CID. Yet, to the press, he was still Dr. Kermit Jones and we kept it that way in public situations, not only for him, but for the rest of us. It seemed to work. It gave us a degree of anonymity over the air.
I walked around to the front of the smithy while Dee was gone. Sure enough, I could see faint smudges on the weathered wood outside, but no sign of new cutting. We were dealing with a very careful killer, and it crossed my mind again that we might be dealing with a professional.
There was nothing else to see at the moment, so I walked around to the back to secure the building. When I did, I saw Robert coming out of the back of the store with a soda in his hand. He saw me and walked over. I closed the back door to the blacksmith shop and leaned against it. “Didn’t know that door worked,” he told me. “Whatcha find?”
“I’m not sure, Robert,” I told him. I took a bottle of water out of my sack and took a sip. “It may be something or it may not. You ever see anyone hanging around back here?”
He gave me an appraising look. I pulled out the torn five and handed to him. “Why don’t you see if they will take this at the store? Bring me a couple of diet cokes and a couple of bags of peanuts, and you can keep the change.”
“This ain’t no good,” he protested, lapsing into his rural Arkansas accent. “I done tole you that already!”
“You’re wrong, but never mind, then,” I answered, reaching for the torn halves.
“We out of everything but Pepsi,” he told me. “We do have diet that.”
“Sure,” I said. I’ve always thought diet Pepsi tastes like watered bleach smells, but it was caffeine I was after…and information.
Robert was back inside a minute. I saw his mother looking out the door to see who he was coming to see, and I waved. She stared at me for a long moment, then disappeared into the store without waving. After a moment, a tall, husky man came out of the store and walked in our direction. Determination was written all over his face and punctuated by his stride.
I decided to beat him to the punch. I handed him a card and introduced myself before he had a chance to speak. “I bet you’re Robert’s dad.”
He acknowledged this with a curt nod, glancing at my card. “What you want with Robert?” he said in a tone that was just inside being civil. Thirty years ago such a tone with a white officer would have earned him thirty days and some hard knocks as a guest of the county.
“We were just talking,” I answered gently. “Robert has been telling me a little about the town here.”
“He ain’t been here long enough to know anything worth telling,” he answered.
“I don’t think I got your name,” I replied.
“I didn’t give it,” he told me.
“Is there some reason why?” I asked, raising an eyebrow and letting him hear just a hint of official tone. It was a warning, and one I could see he understood. But rather than answer, he took Robert by the arm and turned on his heel to go back to the store. Just then Dee came around the corner of the store and saw us.
I mimicked holding up a badge and Dee held up his identification folder. Robert and the tall man stopped and looked back at me. “You can talk to me or him,” I said. “I’m easier.”
“I ain’t done nothing wrong!” the tall man said. The lapse into rural speak told he was frightened, more than one would expect. I wondered why.
“No, you haven’t done anything wrong,” I agreed. “Not yet. On the other hand, a police investigator has asked you to identify yourself and you have refused. It was a reasonable question.”
The man looked back and forth at us, then shrugged. “McNutt,” he said in a
I walked around to the front of the smithy while Dee was gone. Sure enough, I could see faint smudges on the weathered wood outside, but no sign of new cutting. We were dealing with a very careful killer, and it crossed my mind again that we might be dealing with a professional.
There was nothing else to see at the moment, so I walked around to the back to secure the building. When I did, I saw Robert coming out of the back of the store with a soda in his hand. He saw me and walked over. I closed the back door to the blacksmith shop and leaned against it. “Didn’t know that door worked,” he told me. “Whatcha find?”
“I’m not sure, Robert,” I told him. I took a bottle of water out of my sack and took a sip. “It may be something or it may not. You ever see anyone hanging around back here?”
He gave me an appraising look. I pulled out the torn five and handed to him. “Why don’t you see if they will take this at the store? Bring me a couple of diet cokes and a couple of bags of peanuts, and you can keep the change.”
“This ain’t no good,” he protested, lapsing into his rural Arkansas accent. “I done tole you that already!”
“You’re wrong, but never mind, then,” I answered, reaching for the torn halves.
“We out of everything but Pepsi,” he told me. “We do have diet that.”
“Sure,” I said. I’ve always thought diet Pepsi tastes like watered bleach smells, but it was caffeine I was after…and information.
Robert was back inside a minute. I saw his mother looking out the door to see who he was coming to see, and I waved. She stared at me for a long moment, then disappeared into the store without waving. After a moment, a tall, husky man came out of the store and walked in our direction. Determination was written all over his face and punctuated by his stride.
I decided to beat him to the punch. I handed him a card and introduced myself before he had a chance to speak. “I bet you’re Robert’s dad.”
He acknowledged this with a curt nod, glancing at my card. “What you want with Robert?” he said in a tone that was just inside being civil. Thirty years ago such a tone with a white officer would have earned him thirty days and some hard knocks as a guest of the county.
“We were just talking,” I answered gently. “Robert has been telling me a little about the town here.”
“He ain’t been here long enough to know anything worth telling,” he answered.
“I don’t think I got your name,” I replied.
“I didn’t give it,” he told me.
“Is there some reason why?” I asked, raising an eyebrow and letting him hear just a hint of official tone. It was a warning, and one I could see he understood. But rather than answer, he took Robert by the arm and turned on his heel to go back to the store. Just then Dee came around the corner of the store and saw us.
I mimicked holding up a badge and Dee held up his identification folder. Robert and the tall man stopped and looked back at me. “You can talk to me or him,” I said. “I’m easier.”
“I ain’t done nothing wrong!” the tall man said. The lapse into rural speak told he was frightened, more than one would expect. I wondered why.
“No, you haven’t done anything wrong,” I agreed. “Not yet. On the other hand, a police investigator has asked you to identify yourself and you have refused. It was a reasonable question.”
The man looked back and forth at us, then shrugged. “McNutt,” he said in a
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