Cold in Death

By Christopher C. Gibbs

Buckner looked into the wagon bed at the body, which now lay on its back, one bold onlooker having turned it to facilitate the viewing. He nodded in agreement. His lips twisted in disgust, and he found himself wondering again why he had taken a job that required him to look at the bodies of people dead by violence.

James Buckner, the new police chief of Corinth, Missouri, must root out corruption and incompetence in his department, hire new officers, and avoid the pitfalls of small-town politics. When a boy playing hooky from school discovers a woman's body under the snow at the train station, Buckner drops everything else to focus on this startling development.

During his investigation, he relies on the help of his friends, Dr. Jeff Peck, black saloonkeeper Elroy Dutton, and the attractive vice-principal of Corinth High School, Judith Lee. Buckner discovers the dead woman is a local farmer's mother, but he faces red tape when the county sheriff warns him not to go out of his jurisdiction in questioning potential suspects. However, it's when Buckner hires two black police officers in the strongly Southern town of Corinth that he faces potential career suicide.

Can Buckner find the murderer and save his job before racial tensions explode?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 23, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595841202

Christopher C. Gibbs

Christopher C. Gibbs was born in California and raised in Missouri. He served with the Military Police in Viet Nam. He is the author of works of non-fiction and fiction, including the Highland County Mystery series, featuring James Bolivar Buckner. He lives on a small farm in New Jersey.

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Contents

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

For Jean Gibbs and Jeanne Gibbs, Mother and Daughter

CHAPTER 1

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Only Yankees eat cold bread.

I was in the Yankee army for seven years. James Buckner turned and looked at his mother.

That must have been where you picked it up. She watched him sip his coffee. You were out early this morning.

Four-thirty, thereabouts. Sorry if I woke you.

I was up anyway. When you’re my age, you seldom sleep through the night. What was it all about?

Traffic accident, auto and wagon.

Who on earth was out at that time of the morning, in that storm?

Fellow bringing a wagonload of firewood into town to sell, and the auto was from Jarvic Bakery.

Oh, no. Was it old Mr. Jarvic? His eyesight is going. You can see him in the choir; he has to hold the hymnal right up to his nose. At least, you would if you came to church.

No, it was his assistant. You know, when I was in that French hospital I read up on religion. They had a small library, mostly old books folks had donated instead of throwing out, and there was a book on religions of the world. It was in French, but the fellow in the bunk next to mine was this French artillery captain who’d got a hand blown off, and he helped me through it. This fellow had served all over the world in their different colonies in North Africa and Indochina, and he explained a lot about Islam and Buddhism that the book glossed over. And he was Jewish himself, so all we really had trouble with was Hinduism. We had some pretty good conversations about one thing and another before they took him off to Paris. He was going to get him a wooden hand, supposed to look just like a regular one. Poor fellow.

Yes, it must have been very hard, losing his hand.

No, he said that wasn’t the hard part; he kept saying he didn’t want the wooden hand. ‘I was rathair ‘oping for an ‘ook,’ he used to say, and he’d laugh like crazy.

Buckner smiled, remembering. His mother stared at him in astonishment for a moment, then shook her head as though to clear it. She said, Was it Joseph Gordon? In the accident, I mean. He’s that nice young colored man who makes deliveries whenever I order anything. I hope he wasn’t badly hurt.

Got a bump on his head when he hit the steering wheel; that’s all. He went on to work, once we got everything straightened out. Trouble was, he couldn’t see too well on account of the storm, and the wagon wasn’t showing any lights, and he drove smack into them. Fortunately, he wasn’t going very fast.

Was the other man hurt?

No, but he was pretty upset. He was cussing a blue streak, all about how he was going to see Gordon in court for running into him. Buckner’s voice got harsh and tight. It took me a while to calm him down.

Will he sue Mr. Gordon?

I doubt it. I cited him for not showing any lights, which makes him more than a little responsible for the accident.

Well, I don’t see why you have to go out into the middle of the night, in the middle of a snowstorm, for every little thing that happens in this town. Why couldn’t you send someone else? Why do you have to take care of everything that comes along? No wonder you’re out of sorts.

I am not out of sorts, Buckner said. I went because the night man at the station called me and because there was nobody else I felt like sending.

You only have six officers, James. That’s not enough, even for a town the size of Corinth. You need to hire some more officers.

I know that. I’m in the middle of doing just that. But this morning there was only me.

At least nobody got hurt. She got up and went to the stove to pour more coffee. She was tall for a woman, coming almost to her son’s chin. She wore an old navy-blue wool robe that had belonged to her husband; it brushed the tops of her slippers. Her hair, iron gray now, was in that Gibson girl pile on top of her head, a style that had gone out twenty-five years before but which still, Buckner thought, looked good on her: It softened, somewhat, the hard angularity of her jaw and a certain challenging look in her eyes—a look that everybody said he inherited from her.

Fellow with the wood wagon, Buckner said, looking now out at the foot of snow that blanketed the backyard. Reason he was so upset was Gordon drove his auto into his horse, smashed both forelegs. I had to put him down.

Oh. His mother didn’t say anything for almost a minute. I’m sorry. Then, after a while, she added, You should put on a sweater before you go out.

I’m all right.

You don’t look all right; your eyes are all red and there are dark circles under them that look painted on. Won’t you be late?

I’m the commanding officer. I can’t be late. Besides, on a day like this, most of the criminals will be staying indoors. It’ll give me a chance to catch up on my filing.

You told me the town promised to hire a clerk for you when they made you chief of police.

I decided I needed another officer more than I needed a clerk. Besides, I think I ought to learn to do my own filing. He smiled. I already do my own typewriting.

I didn’t know you knew how.

He finished his coffee and rinsed the cup before putting it to drain. Judith lent me a copy of the book they use at the high school to teach it. She says a person isn’t prepared to enter the workforce unless she knows how to typewrite, so everybody in the eighth grade has to learn how, boys and girls. Can’t graduate without it.

In my day, young ladies were not expected to enter the workforce.

Not in my day, either, but it sure makes typewriting easier if you can use more than two fingers. He started for the door. I’ll shovel the walk this afternoon.

You needn’t bother. Johnny Mayhew from next door will do it for me before he leaves for school, if I pay him a quarter.

A quarter? I used to get a dime. You’re going to ruin the local economy, paying wages like that.

It is the going rate, she assured him. You were shoveling snow off sidewalks before the turn of the century.

Don’t remind me. He shook his head and turned down the hallway.

How is your leg this morning? his mother asked, reading his thoughts.

My leg is fine, he snapped. Her voice followed him.

Maybe you should have Dr. Peck look at it. You seem to limping more than usual.

I am not limping more than usual, he shouted over his shoulder.

He pulled on his hat and coat and clumped onto the front porch, closing the door tightly against her reply.

The streets and sidewalks were a foot deep—and more—with heavy, wet snow. Buckner, his jaw tight and his anger rising, ploughed the few blocks to work. Why did she have to bring up his leg? Of course it hurt; it always hurt. And hiking through this snow didn’t help. God, how he hated snow.

The stairs up to the double doors of the town hall had been freshly shoveled and spread with cinders, and at the top of the stairs, on the wide porch with its wooden Corinthian columns, Willis Johnson leaned on his shovel, grinning.

Cold day like this sure stiffens up the joints, don’t it, Buck.

Buckner only grunted and continued up the steps.

That leg botherin’ you, Buck?

Buckner stopped. You’re starting to sound like my mother, Willis.

Willis Johnson had probably looked fifty when he was twenty, and now, whatever age he actually was, he still looked fifty. He was short, potbellied, and slightly bowlegged, and according to legend he had worked as janitor, handyman, and general all-around helper in Corinth’s town hall since Rutherfraud B. Hayes and the Republicans had stolen the election of 1876 from Samuel J. Tilden. Buckner had started out as deputy sheriff in charge of the Corinth substation in 1917, and he‘d spotted Willis immediately. Seven years in the „Yankee army had taught him that company clerks and dayroom orderlies usually knew more about what was going on in a unit than anybody else. First sergeants relied on them to keep up-to-date; lieutenants counted on them to know where the latrine was. Buckner, therefore, immediately made friends with Willis Johnson. It hadn‘t been difficult; acknowledging Johnson‘s existence was a start. After that, a simple „good morning and occasionally stopping to chat and offering a cigar kept the relationship going. Few other people bothered; to them, Willis was just „that china-eyed nigger that sweeps up around here."

So Willis was invisible. Because he was always there—always sweeping up or emptying the wastebaskets or fixing something or other—and was black, nobody saw him. But Willis was only blind in one eye, and both his ears worked perfectly. So did his memory.

„I hope you‘re not listening at keyholes, Willis."

He had just presented Buckner with a nearly verbatim report on the town finance committee‘s decision on the police department‘s budget request. „Oh, hell, Buck, I don‘t need to do that. I just go on in and empty the spittoons, then I fill up the water jug, then I clean out the ashtrays, and they never even so much as stop talkin‘."

On this particular morning, Buckner‘s leg did indeed hurt a great deal. And he was no more anxious to discuss it with Willis Johnson than he had been with his mother. But he appreciated the information Willis passed along to him, and so he stopped anyway. „Yeah. Feels like somebody‘s poured scalding water on it, Willis, he said. „My fingers and toes have all gone numb, but that leg hurts just fine.

„I got some more of that stuff my missus makes you can rub on it. You want me to get you some?"

Whatever Willis Johnson‘s wife made looked like pale-yellow axle grease and smelled like a privy. Before he risked putting it on his body, Buckner had asked Jeff Peck if it was any good.

„Your leg feel better when you rub it on?" Peck had asked.

„Yes."

„Well, then?"

Buckner now smiled at Willis. „I ran out of the last batch, Willis, so I‘d appreciate it."

Johnson nodded. „I‘ll have it by your office ‚fore lunch."

„Don‘t suppose you could ask her to do something about the smell?"

„Pretty bad, ain‘t it. Johnson shook his head. „I asked her about that. She said that was the part that made it work.

„Uh-huh. Well, all right. Thanks, Willis." Buckner went through the double doors, turned left, and descended the stairs that led to the police department in the basement. Behind the swinging doors was the booking desk, where Givens, the night man, was holding his nose and laughing at a large, heavyset man in a wet, stained coat and trousers.

„Morning, Givens, Buckner said. He turned to the heavyset man. „Morning, Roy. You look like hell and smell worse. What happened?

„Fell in cow flop."

„I see. Well, I‘d appreciate it if you‘d get on home and change clothes. You‘re stinking up my police department."

„It‘s what I aim to do, first thing, Buck, but I figured I‘d better report in before I do anything. You know how Sheriff Foote is about reportin‘ in."

„Yes, Roy, I do." Buckner took off his hat and coat. „You want to tell me about it? You know, just in case it involves something in my jurisdiction?

„Well, I‘m pretty sure it‘s county business. The big man grinned with embarrassment. „But I wouldn‘t mind a little help anyway, unofficial like.

„Come on back," Buckner said. He turned down the right-hand corridor that led to his office.

Buckner had once been deputy sheriff. He had gotten the job because Sheriff Elmer Aubuchon thought he owed Dr. Buckner a favor for saving the life of one of the sheriff‘s numerous children, and he sought to return the favor by hiring the doctor‘s son after he was mustered out of the Canadian army as an invalid in 1917. Now Buckner was chief of police, and Deputy Roy Kelly kept his old office on the other side of the basement from where the two men sat.

„All right, Roy, tell me how you come to smell like cow shit."

Kelly shook his head and laughed ruefully. „You know somebody‘s been stea-lin‘ yearlin‘ heifers from Lester Staple."

Buckner nodded. „I heard that."

„Well, he must‘ve raised holy hell all the way to the governor‘s office because Sheriff Foote got a telephone call from the attorney general‘s office ‚bout how one of the state‘s most prominent agriculturalists—that‘s what they called him, an agriculturalist—was the victim of a crime spree. They couldn‘t understand how the county sheriff‘s office wasn‘t doing its utmost to put an immediate stop to it."

Buckner nodded again. „Which, in practice, means you."

„You know damned well it does. Foote‘s on the telephone to me two minutes later, yellin‘ and carryin‘ on like it was my fault and how if I wanted to keep my job, I‘d better get out there and catch whoever was doin‘ it. He shrugged. „So I went on out there, and Staple told me that once a month or so, somebody‘d steal one of his yearlin‘ heifers.

„Just one?"

„Yeah, one at a time."

„How long has this been going on?"

„He said he talked to his foreman, and nobody noticed anything about it until just recently, but then they started countin‘, and they figure they‘re missin‘ upwards of a dozen."

Buckner whistled. „No wonder Lester‘s upset. That‘s a lot of money, and Lester dearly loves money."

„Ain‘t that the truth."

„So how was he doing it?"

„Well, it looks like whoever was doin‘ it would find someplace where they bunched up, someplace near a gate, and he‘d pull up with a motor and a trailer hooked on back, go through the gate, cut out one heifer, load it in the trailer, close the gate, and head on out."

„And since it was just one at a time, nobody noticed right off, and even if they did, you figure it could‘ve just wandered off or dropped dead in a gully somewhere."

„Yep."

„So you decided to stake it out."

„Yep." Kelly smiled.

„That‘s the logical thing to do," Buckner said.

„That‘s what I figured. Kelly sat up a little straighter and gave Buckner a confident smile. „Picked me the perfect spot. You know that road that winds around and eventually ends up in Elvins? Well, Staple‘s got a stock tank right by the road, and there‘s a gate there, down the bottom of a hill, and up the top of the hill‘s a half-dozen oak trees, kinda spaced out, and I figured I could set up there in the Tin Lizzie and keep an eye on that gate, and catch anybody tried to use it.

„Not bad, Roy, Buckner admitted. „‘Course, I can think of two or three other places on Staple‘s land that‘d do just as well.

„Sure, Buck. In fact, there‘s three of ‚em altogether, ‚cause me and Staple and that big foreman of his, Dooling—looks like a pirate with that beard—went over a map together. But hell, I can‘t be at all of ‚em at once."

„No, that‘s right, Roy. You just gotta pick one and hope it pays off."

„And it did. Or it would‘ve, if it wasn‘t for the damned snow-storm. See, I was settin‘ up there, quiet as you please, and it was actually kinda warm, you know, and then the temperature starts to go down, and then, right around midnight, it commences in to snow, and I tell you, by one o‘clock, it musta been a half-foot deep, and I couldn‘t hardly see the gate anymore. But pretty soon I seen some headlights, and a motor stops, down the bottom of the hill. I waited to see what was happenin‘, and sure enough, I could see somebody get out with a lantern and open the gate. Right then, I jumped out and went to crank the Ford."

„You didn‘t have it running?"

Kelly looked chagrined. „Forgot. Anyway, it‘d got cold and wouldn‘t start, so I pulled out the choke, and she started right up, only, when I got back in and started off, I forgot to put the choke back in, and she stalled out on me. So I got out and pulled out my pistol and started runnin‘ down the hill, only by that time, the feller, whoever he was, already had the heifer loaded into the trailer. I got off a couple of shots in his direction but didn‘t hit nothin‘, and he didn‘t bother closin‘ the gate—just got in and drove away. So I stopped and tried to get off one last shot, but when I tried to stop, I hit a patch of cow flop in the road, under the snow and all, and next thing I know I‘m flat on my back on the ground. By the time I got up, he was long gone."

„Get a look at whatever he was driving?"

„Not too good of one, but it was big, whatever it was. Packard, maybe one of them big new Studebakers. And it had one of them starters, too, you know, where you just stomp on this button on the floor and the engine starts right up. Or I guess it did, since he didn‘t do no crankin‘."

That’d make it a new one, all right, Buckner said. Or he just kept the engine running, Roy, he thought, like you should have done.

Kelly got to his feet. Anyway, I’d sure appreciate it if you could kinda ask around about this, Buck, maybe you could get a line on whoever’s doin’ this. I’d sure appreciate it.

I’ll do what I can, Roy. Can’t promise any more than that. Anyway, go change clothes and get cleaned up before my whole department starts smelling like a barnyard.

After Kelly left, Buckner turned the story over and over in his head. Eventually, he decided it wasn’t his problem, and he was just as glad it wasn’t. He didn’t like Sheriff Foote and was perfectly happy not to be working for him. Instead, he got up and went to the row of filing cabinets that stood against the wall. He opened a top drawer and contemplated its contents: A grease-stained paper bag that must have once held a lunch he could not remember eating went straight into the trash. A bundle of loose papers, bulging files, envelopes (opened and unopened), he put on a chair. Then he opened the next drawer and repeated the process.

Two hours later, the file drawers were empty, and Buckner was surrounded by piles of paper, some of it in folders, but not all of it by any means. That was all the farther he gotten in his filing when he heard voices in the hallway. He opened his door and leaned out. At the end of the hall, Givens was confronting a slim black man in a long black overcoat, black gloves, and a pearl-gray homburg.

What’s going on? Buckner called.

You wait right there, Givens said to the black man. He went down the hallway toward Buckner. It’s that darky saloon keeper from across the tracks, he announced loudly. The one always actin’ like he’s better’n ever’body else.

What’s he want?

Says he wants to see you.

Well, send him on back. Givens turned to go, but Buckner stopped him, speaking softly. Another thing, and I’ve told you this before, don’t call him a ‘darky’ where I can hear it. Or hear about it.

Givens looked as though he was going to say something, but somehow, the pleasant smile on Buckner’s face made him change his mind. He muttered, Sure, Buck, and walked off down the hall. Buckner went back into his office. In a minute the black man joined him.

What are you doing out so early on a morning like this? Buckner asked.

And good morning to you, too, replied Elroy Dutton with a grin. He looked for a place to sit, but there wasn’t one. File drawers gaped open. Stacks of files were piled on the floor, on Buckner’s desk, on his swivel chair, and on the two straight-backed chairs in front of the desk.

Hand me those. Buckner pointed to a pile on one of the chairs. Dutton scooped it up and handed it to him, and sat. He took off his homburg and his gloves, folded the gloves together neatly, and put them in the hat. Then he put the hat on top of the pile of files in the chair next to him.

OK, good morning, Buckner said. What can I do for you?

More like what I can do for you. Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for a while, but we’ll get to that in a minute. First, I want to thank you for helping out Joe Gordon this morning.

Just another traffic accident, Buckner said. But it wasn’t. The horse, crazed and crying out in pain and fear, struggled to rise on its shattered forelegs. He remembered the look in its wildly rolling eyes as he