Chapter 15 #2
The frozen rain turned to sleet and the tiny pieces of ice stuck in his hair and bounced on the sidewalk around him. He looked at his watch.
There were footsteps and a figure in a hurry walking toward the cannons. Whoever it was stopped, then approached slowly.
“Mitch?” It was Eddie Lomax, dressed in jeans and a full-length rabbit coat. With his thick mustache and white cowboy hat he looked like an ad for a cigarette. The Marlboro Man.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Lomax walked closer, to the other side of the cannon. They stood like Confederate sentries watching the river.
“Have you been followed?” Mitch asked. “No, I don’t think so. You?”
“No.”
Mitch stared at the traffic on Riverside Drive, and beyond, to the river. Lomax thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “You talked to Ray, lately?” Lomax asked.
“No.” The answer was short, as if to say, “I’m not standing here in the sleet to chitchat.”
“What’d you find?” Mitch asked, without looking.
Lomax lit a cigarette, and now he was the Marlboro Man.
“On the three lawyers, I found a little info. Alice Knauss was killed in a car wreck in 1977. Police report said she was hit by a drunk driver, but oddly enough, no such driver was ever found. The wreck happened around midnight on a Wednesday. She had worked late down at the office and was driving home. She lived out east, in Sycamore View, and about a mile from her condo she gets hit head-on by a one-ton pickup. Happened on New London Road. She was driving a fancy little Fiat and it was blown to pieces. No witnesses. When the cops got there, the truck was empty. No sign of a driver. They ran the plates and found that the truck had been stolen in St. Louis three days earlier. No fingerprints or nothing.”
“They dusted for prints?”
“Yeah. I know the investigator who handled it. They were suspicious but had zero to go on. There was a broken bottle of whiskey on the floorboard, so they blamed it on a drunk driver and closed the file.”
“Autopsy?”
“No. It was pretty obvious how she died.”
“Sounds suspicious.”
“Very much so. All three of them are suspicious. Robert Lamm was the deer hunter in Arkansas. He and some friends had a deer camp in Izard County in the Ozarks. They went over two or three times a year during the season. After a morning in the woods, everyone returned to the cabin but Lamm. They searched for two weeks and found him in a ravine, partially covered with leaves. He had been shot once through the head, and that’s about all they know.
They ruled out suicide, but there was simply no evidence to begin an investigation. ”
“So he was murdered?”
“Apparently so. Autopsy showed an entry at the base of the skull and an exit wound that removed most of his face. Suicide would have been impossible.”
“It could have been an accident.”
“Possibly. He could have caught a bullet intended for a deer, but it’s unlikely.
He was found a good distance from the camp, in an area seldom used by hunters.
His friends said they neither heard nor saw other hunters the morning he disappeared.
I talked to the sheriff, who is now the ex-sheriff, and he’s convinced it was murder.
He claims there was evidence that the body had been covered intentionally. ”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah, on Lamm.”
“What about Mickel?”
“Pretty sad. He committed suicide in 1984 at the age of thirty-four. Shot himself in the right temple with a Smith transferred in here about two years ago.”
“From where?”
“New York.”
The wino rolled from under the bronze horse and fell to the sidewalk. He grunted, staggered to his feet, retrieved his cardboard box and quilt and left in the direction of downtown. Lomax jerked around and watched anxiously. “It’s just a tramp,” Mitch said. They both relaxed.
“Who are we hiding from?” Lomax asked.
“I wish I knew.”
Lomax studied his face carefully. “I think you know.”
Mitch said nothing.
“Look, Mitch, you’re not paying me to get involved. I realize that. But my instincts tell me you’re in trouble, and I think you need a friend, someone to trust. I can help, if you need me. I don’t know who the bad guys are, but I’m convinced they’re very dangerous.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said softly without looking, as if it was time for Lomax to leave and let him stand there in the sleet for a while.
“I would jump in that river for Ray McDeere, and I can certainly help his little brother.”
Mitch nodded slightly, but said nothing. Lomax lit another cigarette and kicked the ice from his lizard-skins. “Just call me anytime. And be careful. They’re out there, and they play for keeps.”