quarter-horse race in the world, was won by Eastex, whose owner was an Ada dentist named H. D. Hall; he had an office right there on Arlington. Eastex was the second Ada horse in three years to win the Futurity. Local horsemen strutted with pride.
Dennis Smith did not have to work on Labor Day. Neither did his wife. Dennis asked her how she would like to spend the holiday.
“Let’s go look for Denice Haraway’s body,” Sandi said.
The detective agreed. They got into the family car to search, as they had done together once before, the night of the psychic’s vision. They drove this time, for no particular reason, to an area near the Reeves Packing Plant, on the western edge of town. They climbed out and looked in fields and woodlands, creeks and ravines. In time, at the edge of Sandy Creek, amid a site common in Ada—old stoves and refrigerators and mattresses dumped where they should not have been—Smith saw a cardboard box with bloodstains on the lid. The blood, to his practiced eye, looked too fresh; Denice Haraway, he felt fairly certain, had been dead for four months.
“Well, take the cover off!” Sandi urged.
The detective removed the lid. Inside the box, peering up at them with mournful eyes, was the severed head of a deer.
Smith had run out of ideas, had run out of places to search. In his office during the next few weeks, he could only put shreds of tobacco in his mouth and spit the brown juice and try to accept the fact that the mystery of Denice Haraway’s disappearance was going to remain unsolved. There were no more leads to check out. The file would remain open, but in the public mind it would be another case that the local police and the OSBI couldn’t handle—like the disappearance of Patty Hamilton up in Seminole, like the murder of Debbie Carter.
Then, one day in early October, a young man named Jeff Miller walked into police headquarters. He wanted to talk to Dennis Smith, he told the officer at the desk; he had some information about the Haraway case.
3
SUSPECTS
I n Ada, despite its Bible Belt moorings and its pastoral locale, there is a substantial underclass of young people whose roots are in the town but whose daily existence drifts with the passing breeze. Mostly high school dropouts, they tend to find employment in the local factories, work for several weeks, then stop showing up at work, often after an all-night party. Between sporadic employment their primary activity is “running” together: cruising the area in whatever pickup is available, getting hold of a keg of beer or a few six-packs and partying—out by a creek or river in the warm months, in someone’s pad in the cold—smoking or snorting whatever dope is available. The pushers among their number, coming into a good supply, will rent a room in one of Ada’s nine motels. Word will spread through the grapevine like a brushfire: there’s dope at room 52 of the such and such motel: the Village Inn or the Holiday Inn, the Rainbow Motel, the Indian Hills Motel—whatever. A steady stream of beat-up cars and pickups will arrive at the motel in search of the room in question. Or long-haired youths will stop at the front desk and ask what room so-and-so is in. The clerks understand what is going on. They do not call the police, because they don’t want a scene at the motel; they don’t want the place to get a bad reputation. On the contrary, they hope the pusher does well, that he exhausts his supply quickly; then he will be gone in a few hours. Usually he is. The dope fuels a few more nights or weeks of partying, until, flat broke, with no money for the two indispensable needs of running together—beer and gas—the runners will surrender to the society around them, get a job for a while, confine their partying to nights and weekends—till the job pales in the torpor of a late binge, a new person to shack up with, and they don’t show up at work again. The town points with pride to the solid
Dennis Smith did not have to work on Labor Day. Neither did his wife. Dennis asked her how she would like to spend the holiday.
“Let’s go look for Denice Haraway’s body,” Sandi said.
The detective agreed. They got into the family car to search, as they had done together once before, the night of the psychic’s vision. They drove this time, for no particular reason, to an area near the Reeves Packing Plant, on the western edge of town. They climbed out and looked in fields and woodlands, creeks and ravines. In time, at the edge of Sandy Creek, amid a site common in Ada—old stoves and refrigerators and mattresses dumped where they should not have been—Smith saw a cardboard box with bloodstains on the lid. The blood, to his practiced eye, looked too fresh; Denice Haraway, he felt fairly certain, had been dead for four months.
“Well, take the cover off!” Sandi urged.
The detective removed the lid. Inside the box, peering up at them with mournful eyes, was the severed head of a deer.
Smith had run out of ideas, had run out of places to search. In his office during the next few weeks, he could only put shreds of tobacco in his mouth and spit the brown juice and try to accept the fact that the mystery of Denice Haraway’s disappearance was going to remain unsolved. There were no more leads to check out. The file would remain open, but in the public mind it would be another case that the local police and the OSBI couldn’t handle—like the disappearance of Patty Hamilton up in Seminole, like the murder of Debbie Carter.
Then, one day in early October, a young man named Jeff Miller walked into police headquarters. He wanted to talk to Dennis Smith, he told the officer at the desk; he had some information about the Haraway case.
3
SUSPECTS
I n Ada, despite its Bible Belt moorings and its pastoral locale, there is a substantial underclass of young people whose roots are in the town but whose daily existence drifts with the passing breeze. Mostly high school dropouts, they tend to find employment in the local factories, work for several weeks, then stop showing up at work, often after an all-night party. Between sporadic employment their primary activity is “running” together: cruising the area in whatever pickup is available, getting hold of a keg of beer or a few six-packs and partying—out by a creek or river in the warm months, in someone’s pad in the cold—smoking or snorting whatever dope is available. The pushers among their number, coming into a good supply, will rent a room in one of Ada’s nine motels. Word will spread through the grapevine like a brushfire: there’s dope at room 52 of the such and such motel: the Village Inn or the Holiday Inn, the Rainbow Motel, the Indian Hills Motel—whatever. A steady stream of beat-up cars and pickups will arrive at the motel in search of the room in question. Or long-haired youths will stop at the front desk and ask what room so-and-so is in. The clerks understand what is going on. They do not call the police, because they don’t want a scene at the motel; they don’t want the place to get a bad reputation. On the contrary, they hope the pusher does well, that he exhausts his supply quickly; then he will be gone in a few hours. Usually he is. The dope fuels a few more nights or weeks of partying, until, flat broke, with no money for the two indispensable needs of running together—beer and gas—the runners will surrender to the society around them, get a job for a while, confine their partying to nights and weekends—till the job pales in the torpor of a late binge, a new person to shack up with, and they don’t show up at work again. The town points with pride to the solid
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