afraid.”
Freddy shrugged. “So what’s the NAACP saying? Do they think the Giles killing was racially motivated?”
Deciding to finally toss Freddy his bone in the hope that it might get him to leave, the sheriff said, “It’s sure soundin’ like they do. I had the president of the local chapter down in Cheyenne, a preacher named Wilson Jackson, puffin’ at me like a lovesick toad, right there where you’re sittin’, first thing this mornin’. Made me late deliverin’ my prisoner up north to Douglas, damn it. Maybe Jackson’s the one you should be talking to instead of me. Why so late in gettin’ to the hate-crime issue, Mr. Dames?”
“Because nukes are a bigger story, Sheriff.”
“But there aren’t any nuclear weapons involved here.”
“As far as you know.”
Wagging an index finger at Freddy, Bosack said, “You wouldn’t put somethin’ out there on the World Wide Web that’s not true just to garner headlines, would you, Mr. Dames?”
“Nope. I wouldn’t. But I’m not so certain about my competitors. It’s a get-there-first-or-be-squeezed-out-of-existence world we live in these days, Sheriff.”
“Well, do me a favor and try and keep all of your news-business backstabbin’ down south there in Denver, where it won’t taint my little burg up here.” The sheriff made a final adjustment to the blinds. “I’m thinkin’ we’re pretty much done for now, Mr. Dames. If I get anything worth reportin’ back to you, I’ll let you know.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” Freddy said. “Got a final question for you. It’s about the number of stab wounds the murder victim sustained. I understand that there were five.”
“And where’d the bird come from told you that?” Bosack said, clearly surprised.
“Can’t reveal my sources, Sheriff. That would be unprofessional.”
“Well, professional or not, looks like I’m gonna have to put a muzzle on Doc Reed,” the sheriff said, still fishing for Freddy’s source.
Freddy flashed the sheriff the blankest of stares, unwilling to tell him that he’d hijacked the information about the stab wounds from someone other than Dr. Reed. “So I’m guessing we can call it a day,” Freddy said, rising from his chair, shaking the sheriff’s hand, and heading briskly for the door. As he pulled the door open, he called back over his shoulder, “You’ve got my card.”
“Right there on my desk.” The sheriff nodded toward the desktop.
“Good.” Freddy closed the office door silently behind him, thinking as he did that Bosack might well blow a gasket if he ever found out how Freddy had learned that retired air force sergeant Thurmond Giles had died from blood loss and the irreversible shock caused by the five stab wounds in his back.
Muttering, “Money talks and bullshit walks,” Freddy foundhimself thanking Wally Sykes and humming a favorite Motown tune as, grinning from ear to ear, he headed across the sheriff’s office parking lot, ready for the two-mile walk back to his motel and car. For a young newlywed like Sykes, with his first child on the way and in his first real job, two thousand dollars represented a lot of money. So confirming the number of stab wounds that a murder victim had sustained to a reporter, when in fact word was already out that the victim had been stabbed to death, wasn’t much of an ethical breach as far as Sykes was concerned. In fact, what did it matter when from what Doc Reed had told the young deputy, three of the five stab wounds would have been fatal? And in the end, what did two thousand dollars really matter to Freddy? It was no more than what he paid his gardener each month to keep his lawn healthy and mowed and his shrubs trimmed.
Even after a thirty-year absence, Sarah Goldbeck had no trouble finding Kimiko Takata’s russet Queen Anne cottage with its recently painted white trim and robin’s-egg-blue gutters. The cottage on Fourth Street in downtown Laramie was a place where Sarah had spent
Freddy shrugged. “So what’s the NAACP saying? Do they think the Giles killing was racially motivated?”
Deciding to finally toss Freddy his bone in the hope that it might get him to leave, the sheriff said, “It’s sure soundin’ like they do. I had the president of the local chapter down in Cheyenne, a preacher named Wilson Jackson, puffin’ at me like a lovesick toad, right there where you’re sittin’, first thing this mornin’. Made me late deliverin’ my prisoner up north to Douglas, damn it. Maybe Jackson’s the one you should be talking to instead of me. Why so late in gettin’ to the hate-crime issue, Mr. Dames?”
“Because nukes are a bigger story, Sheriff.”
“But there aren’t any nuclear weapons involved here.”
“As far as you know.”
Wagging an index finger at Freddy, Bosack said, “You wouldn’t put somethin’ out there on the World Wide Web that’s not true just to garner headlines, would you, Mr. Dames?”
“Nope. I wouldn’t. But I’m not so certain about my competitors. It’s a get-there-first-or-be-squeezed-out-of-existence world we live in these days, Sheriff.”
“Well, do me a favor and try and keep all of your news-business backstabbin’ down south there in Denver, where it won’t taint my little burg up here.” The sheriff made a final adjustment to the blinds. “I’m thinkin’ we’re pretty much done for now, Mr. Dames. If I get anything worth reportin’ back to you, I’ll let you know.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” Freddy said. “Got a final question for you. It’s about the number of stab wounds the murder victim sustained. I understand that there were five.”
“And where’d the bird come from told you that?” Bosack said, clearly surprised.
“Can’t reveal my sources, Sheriff. That would be unprofessional.”
“Well, professional or not, looks like I’m gonna have to put a muzzle on Doc Reed,” the sheriff said, still fishing for Freddy’s source.
Freddy flashed the sheriff the blankest of stares, unwilling to tell him that he’d hijacked the information about the stab wounds from someone other than Dr. Reed. “So I’m guessing we can call it a day,” Freddy said, rising from his chair, shaking the sheriff’s hand, and heading briskly for the door. As he pulled the door open, he called back over his shoulder, “You’ve got my card.”
“Right there on my desk.” The sheriff nodded toward the desktop.
“Good.” Freddy closed the office door silently behind him, thinking as he did that Bosack might well blow a gasket if he ever found out how Freddy had learned that retired air force sergeant Thurmond Giles had died from blood loss and the irreversible shock caused by the five stab wounds in his back.
Muttering, “Money talks and bullshit walks,” Freddy foundhimself thanking Wally Sykes and humming a favorite Motown tune as, grinning from ear to ear, he headed across the sheriff’s office parking lot, ready for the two-mile walk back to his motel and car. For a young newlywed like Sykes, with his first child on the way and in his first real job, two thousand dollars represented a lot of money. So confirming the number of stab wounds that a murder victim had sustained to a reporter, when in fact word was already out that the victim had been stabbed to death, wasn’t much of an ethical breach as far as Sykes was concerned. In fact, what did it matter when from what Doc Reed had told the young deputy, three of the five stab wounds would have been fatal? And in the end, what did two thousand dollars really matter to Freddy? It was no more than what he paid his gardener each month to keep his lawn healthy and mowed and his shrubs trimmed.
Even after a thirty-year absence, Sarah Goldbeck had no trouble finding Kimiko Takata’s russet Queen Anne cottage with its recently painted white trim and robin’s-egg-blue gutters. The cottage on Fourth Street in downtown Laramie was a place where Sarah had spent
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