entrapment, just weeks before my father’s
murder. Dad won lots of friends on the federal level by telling the
press that the FBI had botched the whole operation.
There was an ongoing series of "guest
editorials" from the Light written by another of my father’s
great admirers, Councilman Fernando Asante. He blasted my father for
everything from abuse of police power to poor taste in clothes, but
mostly Asante focused on the Sheriff’s opposition to Travis Center,
a proposed hotel-tourist complex for the southeast side of town. Back
in ’85 Asante was making Travis Center the centerpiece of his first
campaign for mayor—pushing the idea that the complex would generate
tourist dollars in the poor, largely Hispanic section of the city. My
father opposed the project because it would require the annexation of
county lands, and more importantly because it was Asante’s idea.
Then there was a report on the fall ’85 election
results, which Dad didn’t live long enough to see. The voters
showed a healthy sense of humor by voting against Asante for mayor
five to one but approving his Travis Center bond initiative by a
landslide. Now, ten years and umpteen million dollars later, Asante
was still just a councilman and Travis Center was finally complete.
I’d seen it from above on my plane’s final approach-a huge
bulbous structure, hideously painted pink and red, cutting a gash in
the hills on the edge of town like a giant flesh wound.
Finally there were stories about the assassination.
There in black and white were all the front page headlines I had
nightmares about, plus pages of follow-ups I’d never had the
stomach to read. The murder scene, the investigation, the memorial
services—all reported on in microscopic detail. Several articles
talked about Randall Halcomb, the closest thing to a real suspect the
FBI ever discussed in public. An ex-deputy, Halcomb had been fired by
my dad for insubordination in the late seventies, then arrested in
1980 for manslaughter. Halcomb was paroled from Huntsville a week
before my dad’s murder.
Convenient. Only by the time the FBI found him, two
months after Dad`s death, the ex-deputy was curled up in a deer blind
in Blanco, shot between the eyes. Inconvenient.
The last thing in Carlon’s files was a photo of my
father’s body covered with a blanket, his hand sticking out the
side like it was reaching for a beer, while a grimfaced deputy held
up his hand to block the camera, a little too slow.
I resealed the envelope. Then I stared at the neon
beer signs over the bar until I realized Carlon was talking
to me.
"— this personal vengeance theory," he was
saying, “just some ex-con with a score to settle. That’s
bullshit. Christ, if Halcomb was acting alone, how come he turned up
with a bullet between his eyes once the Feds start looking for him?"
I ate a piece of cheesecake. Suddenly it tasted like
lead.
"You’ve been doing your homework, McAffrey.
You stay up last night reading these?"
Carlon shrugged. “I’m just saying. There had to
be a cover-up here."
“ Maybe that’s the journalist in you talking."
“ My ass. Your dad was murdered and nobody ever did
time for it. Not even a fucking trial. I’m just trying to help."
Years of good living had softened Carlon’s face a
little, but you could still see the hard edge in his smile. His eyes
were cold and blue. There was energy there, self-confidence, a harsh
kind of humor. Nothing that might pass for compassion. He was still
the same college kid who pushed cows down hills for fun and laughed
shamelessly at racial jokes and broken limbs. He came through for his
friends. He probably meant what he said about helping. But if you
couldn’t use it for fun or profit it meant very little to Carlon
McAffrey.
“ Halcomb had his own motive," I reminded him.
“ Assuming he’s the one who did the shooting, he
wouldn’t have needed anyone pulling his strings."
Carlon shook his head. "My money’s on the mob.
My
murder. Dad won lots of friends on the federal level by telling the
press that the FBI had botched the whole operation.
There was an ongoing series of "guest
editorials" from the Light written by another of my father’s
great admirers, Councilman Fernando Asante. He blasted my father for
everything from abuse of police power to poor taste in clothes, but
mostly Asante focused on the Sheriff’s opposition to Travis Center,
a proposed hotel-tourist complex for the southeast side of town. Back
in ’85 Asante was making Travis Center the centerpiece of his first
campaign for mayor—pushing the idea that the complex would generate
tourist dollars in the poor, largely Hispanic section of the city. My
father opposed the project because it would require the annexation of
county lands, and more importantly because it was Asante’s idea.
Then there was a report on the fall ’85 election
results, which Dad didn’t live long enough to see. The voters
showed a healthy sense of humor by voting against Asante for mayor
five to one but approving his Travis Center bond initiative by a
landslide. Now, ten years and umpteen million dollars later, Asante
was still just a councilman and Travis Center was finally complete.
I’d seen it from above on my plane’s final approach-a huge
bulbous structure, hideously painted pink and red, cutting a gash in
the hills on the edge of town like a giant flesh wound.
Finally there were stories about the assassination.
There in black and white were all the front page headlines I had
nightmares about, plus pages of follow-ups I’d never had the
stomach to read. The murder scene, the investigation, the memorial
services—all reported on in microscopic detail. Several articles
talked about Randall Halcomb, the closest thing to a real suspect the
FBI ever discussed in public. An ex-deputy, Halcomb had been fired by
my dad for insubordination in the late seventies, then arrested in
1980 for manslaughter. Halcomb was paroled from Huntsville a week
before my dad’s murder.
Convenient. Only by the time the FBI found him, two
months after Dad`s death, the ex-deputy was curled up in a deer blind
in Blanco, shot between the eyes. Inconvenient.
The last thing in Carlon’s files was a photo of my
father’s body covered with a blanket, his hand sticking out the
side like it was reaching for a beer, while a grimfaced deputy held
up his hand to block the camera, a little too slow.
I resealed the envelope. Then I stared at the neon
beer signs over the bar until I realized Carlon was talking
to me.
"— this personal vengeance theory," he was
saying, “just some ex-con with a score to settle. That’s
bullshit. Christ, if Halcomb was acting alone, how come he turned up
with a bullet between his eyes once the Feds start looking for him?"
I ate a piece of cheesecake. Suddenly it tasted like
lead.
"You’ve been doing your homework, McAffrey.
You stay up last night reading these?"
Carlon shrugged. “I’m just saying. There had to
be a cover-up here."
“ Maybe that’s the journalist in you talking."
“ My ass. Your dad was murdered and nobody ever did
time for it. Not even a fucking trial. I’m just trying to help."
Years of good living had softened Carlon’s face a
little, but you could still see the hard edge in his smile. His eyes
were cold and blue. There was energy there, self-confidence, a harsh
kind of humor. Nothing that might pass for compassion. He was still
the same college kid who pushed cows down hills for fun and laughed
shamelessly at racial jokes and broken limbs. He came through for his
friends. He probably meant what he said about helping. But if you
couldn’t use it for fun or profit it meant very little to Carlon
McAffrey.
“ Halcomb had his own motive," I reminded him.
“ Assuming he’s the one who did the shooting, he
wouldn’t have needed anyone pulling his strings."
Carlon shook his head. "My money’s on the mob.
My
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