Road Kill on Main Street

By Ronal Burris

A young, handsome handyman is found dead. Clues and hunches lead Detective Captain Sam Arbuckle from the gigolos death to a hit and run accident he investigated 25 years before or was it an accident? A second look into the files sends Arbuckle from the bleak North Side of Fort Worth, to Viet Nam, to the outskirts of an eastern Oklahoma chop shop where a quarter century of revenge, schemes, and greed culminate. A colorful cast of bored, rich housewives, penny-anti thieves, drug dealers, and a duo of young, ambitious detectives challenge Arbuckle into solving one last case before retirement. His plan was retire quietly, but an unmatched fingerprint from his first case tweaks Arbuckles pride in his lifelong career record. No big deal. Just one more case to close.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 16, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469755489

Ronal Burris

Ron Burris is a software engineer, 21 year veteran of the U.S. Air Force, and author of the “A Martian Adventure” young adult sci-fi series. Lives with his mystery author wife, Margaret Moseley, and their beagle, Bonita Faye’s Harmon in Euless, Texas.

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© 2001 by Ronal S. Burris Jr.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse.com

For information address:

iUniverse.com

5220 S 16th, Ste. 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

This book is a work of fiction, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-18461-8

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5548-9 (ebook)

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

For Margee

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge the contributions of my companion, mentor, and (at long last) wife, Lili Margaret Dawson Moseley Burris for providing the inspiration and support that allowed me to write this story. She created several of the characters and helped craft some key elements in this story.

Captain Ray Stewart of the Manchester, Tennessee, Police Department provided the basis for several police war stories and editorial comment on the completed manuscript.

Finally, I would like to thank Bradley Kirkland for instituting the Writers Club Press and guiding it through its early days to its current association with iUniverse.

PROLOGUE

Main Street. Broadway. Central Avenue. Every town has them. Main Street starts on the north side of the courthouse, right about in the center of the old army fort, Fort Worth. A broad, four-lane concrete ribbon drops off of the bluff and stretches north across the Trinity River and crosses Central as black tarmac as it heads into The Stockyards.

No, not the stockyards–The Stockyards–you can hear the capitalization when you talk to a native. The old meat packing plant holding pens turned into a tourist attraction. The Stockyards line Main with such attractions as Cattleman’s Restaurant, Ryan’s Saddle Shop, and the Stockyard Hotel. Not to mention Los Vaqueros with the best top shelf Margarita north of San Antonio.

Marvin Washington jammed the accelerator of the stolen green and white ’57 Plymouth Savoy convertible to the floor, flying down the bluff. Thief and car hurtled across the Trinity River concrete surfaced bridge, gaining speed on the down slope to the hot tarmac. The hot May evening wind whipped past the driver’s ears. Faster, man, faster.

An old Mexican woman scurried in the crosswalk at Central. Not fast enough. Marvin lined up the hood ornament, a marksman picking his target. His grin was a flash of white teeth splitting a black face. Faster, man, faster.

A frail scream escaped the woman’s throat, cut short by the thud of her body landing thirty feet away.

No traffic. No witnesses. Main Street returned to its typical pre-twilight quiet.

Panicked, Marvin let off on the accelerator. The Plymouth slowed to a normal pace; his heart didn’t. He struggled for calm. Be cool, man. Nuthin’ happened. Be cool.

He turned into the parking lot behind Joe T. Garcia’s ramshackle restaurant that covered the back corner of the block, facing away from Main Street. Joe T’s small parking lot fronted Main Street and was almost full—a testament to the restaurant’s popularity. Marvin pulled into the one empty spot against the corrugated tin wall of the building occupying the next lot on Main Street. He turned off the ignition. There. The cops won’t find it until morning. Now just walk away cool-like.

*          *          *

What the hell? Bubba Townsend pulled the cruiser to a halt in the middle of the intersection, headlights turned to illuminate the body of an old woman. He turned on the flashing red lights and got out of the car. Patrolmen Sam Arbuckle opened the passenger door and ran to the woman’s side. She was lying half on the sidewalk, half in the street. One leg stuck out at an odd angle. He knelt to check the woman’s carotid artery.

There’s still a pulse, Bubba. The rookie told his partner.

Get on the radio and get an ambulance out here. The veteran sergeant instructed his trainee. Under his breath Bubba added, My God, she’s a mess.

Sam ran back to the cruiser. Bubba surveyed the scene in the twilight. Blood was beginning to pool under the old woman’s head. A large, cheap straw purse lay ten feet away on the sidewalk. Its contents, precious to the woman, worthless to others, spilled into the gutter.

Convinced that the woman’s possessions were not going to disappear, Bubba knelt by the woman and again checked her pulse. He was gently probing the smashed back of her head, trying to determine the extent of her injuries, when Sam returned from calling in to the dispatcher. Bubba started to speak as Sam turned, took a few steps, and then spewed the contents of his stomach into the gutter.

Shit, rookie, pull yourself together. Wipe your mouth and go put out some flares. Keep the traffic moving and out of our way.

Sam nodded weakly and went to obey his partner. Bubba returned his attention to the dying woman as sirens began sounding in the distance. He whispered urgently, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help this poor woman.

The weak pulse under his fingers ceased.

*          *          *

Bill Gormley stood outside the Paris Café, comparing headlines in the newspaper dispensers. The Fort Worth Press was the previous afternoon’s edition, but the Fort Worth Star-Telegram banner declared it to be Saturday, May 9, 1964. At least the report about my car being stolen isn’t in the headlines. Maybe Dad won’t notice it. Bill stuck a dime in the slot and took a Star Telegram from the dispenser. Under the fold a two-inch story caught his eye. Main Hit And Run.

Bill entered the café, took a stool at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. While he waited for the coffee, he read the story. The cops didn’t know who had run down the old woman, no surprise there he thought. They had no witnesses, no vehicle, and no suspects. I hope it wasn’t my car. Dad will shit a brick when he finds out it was stolen. If he finds out. I sure as hell ain’t gonna tell him. And I don’t think Betty Jo will tell him, either.

*          *          *

Jesus Raul Garcia waited while his cousin, Pedro Ramirez, climbed out of the weathered cab of the Holmes wrecker. Pedro slammed the door shut and walked over the green Plymouth convertible as Raul backed the wrecker into towing position. Raul left the wrecker’s engine idling while the two positioned and attached the tow bar to the rear axle of the stolen vehicle.

Look, Pedro, just because Yaya Luisa died last night is no reason for you to quit school. Raul continued the conversation they’d begun during the short trip to the parking lot of Joe T’s. You can move in with us and keep working with me when you’re not in school. You know how much Yaya wanted you to finish school.

"Yaya didn’t just die, Raul. She was murdered. Just the same as if some gringo or nigger stuck her with a blade." Pedro spat out bitterly.

I’m just as pissed as you are, cuz’–but one thing you gotta know by now is that you can’t stop living just ‘cause life is shit. Raul paused and regarded his sixteen year old cousin seriously before continuing, And you know damned well that the gringos ain’t gonna let you live in Yaya’s house by yourself. Some do-gooder gringo dolly will be down there in a heartbeat.

Pedro stared back at his older cousin sullenly while a small dust devil danced and died between them.

"Okay, man, do what you want. But remember this, our door is open and you’re always welcome. Familia. We’re all the family you got left."

I know. Pedro nodded, resigned.

Okay, let’s haul this heap to the impound lot so we can get paid.

CHAPTER 1

Captain Sam Arbuckle glanced up from the pile of arrest reports stacked on his desk as Detective Luis Cisneros entered his small office. Luis placed a manila folder in the top basket on Sam’s desk. Here’s the blotter from last night, boss. Nothing special happened, just the usual few DWIs, several spats of family violence, a couple of bar fights and a stolen vehicle. Pretty quiet overall.

Thanks, Luis. Sam smiled up at the tall, thin young man. It’s a welcome change when the natives are quiet.

Your cup’s empty, want a refill?

Sam picked up the large mug and glanced at its coffee-stained interior. The bottom was barely covered by the remainders of the first cup he had poured when he came into work a half-hour earlier. He handed the mug to Luis with a smile. Thanks, I’m going to need it to get through this stack of reports.

Better you than me, boss. Luis chuckled. Sam’s hatred of paperwork was common knowledge in the department.

As Luis left Sam opened the newly arrived folder and laid it on top of the stack of arrest reports. He frowned as he read the name on the first DWI entry and copied it onto the pad of yellow Post-Its he kept handy on the desktop. He quickly scanned the rest of the log and initialed it on the bottom of the last page. Sam flipped the folder shut as Luis returned with two mugs of coffee. Luis put Sam’s mug on its coaster.

Here’s the log, go ahead and file it. Sam handed the folder to Luis and then ripped the top sheet from the pad of Post-Its. Oh, and would you check up on this guy, uh…William Gormley. He was one of last night’s DWIs.

Sure thing. You know him? Luis took the Post-It and stuck it on the folder.

I’m not sure. I’ve just got an itchy feeling about him. Anyhow, let me know what you dig up, okay?

Luis glanced at his watch before he replied, He’s probably still down in the drunk tank. Do you want me to talk to him?

Nah. Just check him out.

Okay, boss. I’ll get right on it. Luis said as he left Sam’s office.

Sam took a sip of the hot coffee. The gold framed picture on the corner of his desk of his wife Mary Beth and their two sons caught his eye over the rim of the mug. The photo was taken a few years before, when their oldest son, Jack, graduated from TCU. Mary Beth died of cancer two years after the photo was taken. I miss you, dear. We had such plans for retirement, and now it’s almost here. Don’t know what I’m going to do without you.

Sighing, Sam picked up the next arrest report and began reading it. A bar fight, no charges filed. Boring. Then his eye caught the name of the guy arrested. Pedro Ramirez. Could this be the same one, the son, no wait… the grandson of that old lady? A picture from long ago of the old woman lying in the gutter like a discarded rag doll formed unbidden in his mind. Sam’s gut churned, an echo of that long forgotten event.

Luis! Hey, come here, please. I’ve got another one for you to check on. Sam yelled through the open door. He scribbled Pedro’s name on a Post-It while he waited for Luis.

You’re on a roll this morning, boss. Fighting retirement? Luis grinned as he entered Sam’s office.

Sam chuckled. No. Just got a hunch about something. Something from long ago.

Got a bad case of Stan Freiburg, huh? Luis continued, quoting from the comedy sketch, It’s just a hunch. Only a hunch, just a hunch.

Yeah, something like that. It’s just a hunch–that itchy feeling in the back of my head. What I need to know is if this guy Pedro Ramirez was a relative of an old woman who was run down on Main Street in, um…1964.

Sixty four? That’s ancient history. Hell, I was just a babe in arms then.

I hear that’s what Rachel down in booking calls you, too. Sam retorted. He grinned as a flush spread across Luis’ face.

Rumors and propaganda, boss, rumors and propaganda. Luis turned to leave, then hesitated. You gonna give me a clue about what you’ve got on your mind?

We’ll see how these two pan out, first. I may be totally out in left field, okay?

Okay, you’re the boss, boss. Luis waved a sloppy salute.

CHAPTER 2

The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds in interlaced streaks of bright gold and shimmering dark. It highlighted the collection of plaques, certificates, pictures, and awards on the wall behind Sam’s desk, reflecting the captain’s soon to be concluded career.

Luis returned with two manila file folders. Here’s all I could find on those two jokers, Captain. Sorry it took so long, but I had to go into the archives to dig them out. There isn’t much on that Gormley guy, but our friend Ramirez has a little rap sheet.

Thanks, Luis. Sam opened the top folder that Luis had placed in the middle of his desk.

Uh, boss, I noticed that the one report we have on Gormley was signed by Bubba Townsend and had you listed as his partner. I didn’t know that you knew Bubba.

That was a long time ago, Luis. I was a rookie, fresh out of the academy and he trained me for a few weeks, until he went and got himself killed.

He was a legend at the academy. Luis commented, settling into one of the two straight-backed chairs facing the Captain’s desk. Were you with him when he got killed?

Yes. He was the first partner I lost. It was kind of stupid.

Sam sighed and slowly shook his head. Luis waited patiently, knowing that Sam would tell the story in his own sweet time. Luis knew from past experience that all you had to do was prime the pump and wait for the results.

We were responding to an alarm at a pawn shop on Hemphill one evening in the middle of summer. We spotted this guy running around the corner just as we got there and chased him in the cruiser. He cut into a back yard and we started chasing him on foot. Over a couple of fences, of course. Sam took a sip of coffee and Luis grinned knowingly.

Why they always have to go over fences, I don’t know. Bubba was a big guy, so I got a fence ahead of him. The perp ran up some outside stairs to a second floor apartment in one of those old houses down there. I could hear Bubba coming over the last fence as I ran up the stairs after the guy. He slammed the door shut as I got to the top of the stairs. It didn’t catch closed, just bounced open again. I drew my gun and pushed the door all the way open. I saw this figure at the end of the hall in the dark. It looked like it had a gun drawn. I fell to the floor and emptied my pistol at it. Six shots, just as fast as I could pull the trigger.

Sam paused for a moment and raised his coffee mug. He peered into the empty mug, grimaced and set it back on its coaster. Luis couldn’t tell if the grimace was from the story Sam was remembering or from the bitter coffee.

What happened then, boss? Luis prompted.

"Well, Bubba was clumping up the stairs while I was firing away. The perp must’ve been counting my shots, because as soon as I’d emptied my gun, he stepped out into the hallway and fired. Bubba fired at the same time. Bubba fell on top of me. The perp stepped on my hand on his way out the door. I heard him going down the steps while I was trying to roll Bubba off my back. Bubba was still alive, but unconscious. He’d been hit in the head.

I left him there and went down the stairs, reloading my gun as I did. Our backup arrived as I got to the bottom of the stairs. They searched the surrounding yards and found the guy hiding behind a shed. He pumped off a couple of shots before someone killed him. Bubba sur vived for a couple of days in a coma, then just sort of gave up the fight.

So who did you kill with all those shots you fired? Luis asked.

I killed a god-damned mirror. All six shots dead center in a damned mirror.

Luis choked back a laugh without much success. Bet you were the laughing stock of the squad room.

"Hell, the squad room was crowded the next day after the old Press headlined the story. ‘Mirror Killed in Shootout.’ It took forever for people to get over that."

It didn’t seem to ruin your career. Luis was still grinning.

No, I guess it didn’t. But I still wonder if I could’ve prevented Bubba’s death if I hadn’t been so eager to shoot.Sam frowned.I’ve lost a lot of sleep over the years wondering about that.

CHAPTER 3

Bill Gormley stood in the open door of his Lincoln Towncar dismayed at the scene on the front lawn of his house. His head throbbed, the hangover sending waves of nausea