on the freeway on the way to Beaumont or Houston. You had to know it was there. You
needed
it to be there.
The sheriff nodded. “Take the river out of it. Do you know how many murders we’ve had in Murfee in, say, the last fifteen years? Hell, include all of Big Bend.” He tapped his finger on his desk on each of the last words for emphasis. Chris struggled, reaching back, came up empty.
The sheriff raised his fingers. “Two, Chris, two. And do you know how many of those remained unsolved? Exactly zero.” He stretched back in his chair, somehow still sitting ramrod straight. “Let’s see, the first was around 1992. Charlie Beamon got sideways with Morris Clayburg over a bit of fencing. A silly thing, the sort of thing two men ought to be able to talk out, but they didn’t. Charlie had a temper andliked to drink and they got into it at Earlys and Charlie pulled a little .38 he’d bought off a beaner in Nathan and put two in Morris, one in the face and the other in the foot. A helluva of a shot spread.” The sheriff laughed. “It was the bullet in the face that killed Morris, by the way.” Chris laughed too, joining him; it was expected. “Anyway, Charlie walked right over and turned himself in to me. Tears in his eyes, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He put that .38 right in my hand, and it was still hot, son, still so goddamn warm from the shooting that it felt alive.” The sheriff stood, leaving Chris’s report on the desk, walked toward the big windows, and looked down at the streets.
His streets
, Chris thought.
“The second was a few years after Charlie. Duane Dupree found her out near the Comanche, on one of the side roads. A pretty Mex girl someone had taken a knife to and dumped right out there along a cattle walk. She’d been rained on for two days straight when Duane found her. Two days . . . and it still didn’t take long to figure out who she was. Her name was Adela. She worked over at the Pizza Hut, was married to Tony Gastellum, who bounced around all the ranches out here. We later found out she was only sixteen, although both she and Tony had claimed she was nineteen, twenty, depending on who you talked to, and she looked every bit of it. Tony found out Adela was keeping time with a ranch hand at the Monument and lost it. He killed her in their kitchen and tried to wash it all up with Comet and water and did nothing but make a bigger mess. There were bloody footprints all over their trailer where he’d paced back and forth smoking a cigarette while she died in front of him. He screamed at her while she lay there, spit on her, and had sex with her after her last heartbeat, although we kept that out of the
Daily
.”
The sheriff said all this without skipping a beat.
“We knew he’d done it, he knew he’d done it, but he didn’t want to man up and admit it. He sat in front of me and denied it for three hours, even as we were taking pictures of
his
bloody handprints and footprints in that kitchen. Hell, I put a picture of her in front of him, two of them—one before, one after—and he wouldn’t look at either. You know what it took for him to finally confess? A cheeseburger and cigarettes. He said if I’d get him a burger and let him smoke a few, he’d tell me everything. And he did. More than I wanted to know.”
Sheriff Ross turned around, backlit by the windows. He was a shadow, his face a blank. Two fingers still held up. “Two murders, two stories, Chris. Murfee is too small for much of anything else. Everything else
is
a river killing. They always are. Most of our dead were dying even before they crossed that damn river, and that’s how it goes.”
• • •
The sheriff moved back toward his desk, didn’t sit down, switching gears from talking about the dead. “How’s Melissa, Chris? We didn’t see you at church this past Sunday. The last couple of Sundays, actually.”
“She wasn’t feeling well, sir. Not much more to it than that.”
“Unwell? You
needed
it to be there.
The sheriff nodded. “Take the river out of it. Do you know how many murders we’ve had in Murfee in, say, the last fifteen years? Hell, include all of Big Bend.” He tapped his finger on his desk on each of the last words for emphasis. Chris struggled, reaching back, came up empty.
The sheriff raised his fingers. “Two, Chris, two. And do you know how many of those remained unsolved? Exactly zero.” He stretched back in his chair, somehow still sitting ramrod straight. “Let’s see, the first was around 1992. Charlie Beamon got sideways with Morris Clayburg over a bit of fencing. A silly thing, the sort of thing two men ought to be able to talk out, but they didn’t. Charlie had a temper andliked to drink and they got into it at Earlys and Charlie pulled a little .38 he’d bought off a beaner in Nathan and put two in Morris, one in the face and the other in the foot. A helluva of a shot spread.” The sheriff laughed. “It was the bullet in the face that killed Morris, by the way.” Chris laughed too, joining him; it was expected. “Anyway, Charlie walked right over and turned himself in to me. Tears in his eyes, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He put that .38 right in my hand, and it was still hot, son, still so goddamn warm from the shooting that it felt alive.” The sheriff stood, leaving Chris’s report on the desk, walked toward the big windows, and looked down at the streets.
His streets
, Chris thought.
“The second was a few years after Charlie. Duane Dupree found her out near the Comanche, on one of the side roads. A pretty Mex girl someone had taken a knife to and dumped right out there along a cattle walk. She’d been rained on for two days straight when Duane found her. Two days . . . and it still didn’t take long to figure out who she was. Her name was Adela. She worked over at the Pizza Hut, was married to Tony Gastellum, who bounced around all the ranches out here. We later found out she was only sixteen, although both she and Tony had claimed she was nineteen, twenty, depending on who you talked to, and she looked every bit of it. Tony found out Adela was keeping time with a ranch hand at the Monument and lost it. He killed her in their kitchen and tried to wash it all up with Comet and water and did nothing but make a bigger mess. There were bloody footprints all over their trailer where he’d paced back and forth smoking a cigarette while she died in front of him. He screamed at her while she lay there, spit on her, and had sex with her after her last heartbeat, although we kept that out of the
Daily
.”
The sheriff said all this without skipping a beat.
“We knew he’d done it, he knew he’d done it, but he didn’t want to man up and admit it. He sat in front of me and denied it for three hours, even as we were taking pictures of
his
bloody handprints and footprints in that kitchen. Hell, I put a picture of her in front of him, two of them—one before, one after—and he wouldn’t look at either. You know what it took for him to finally confess? A cheeseburger and cigarettes. He said if I’d get him a burger and let him smoke a few, he’d tell me everything. And he did. More than I wanted to know.”
Sheriff Ross turned around, backlit by the windows. He was a shadow, his face a blank. Two fingers still held up. “Two murders, two stories, Chris. Murfee is too small for much of anything else. Everything else
is
a river killing. They always are. Most of our dead were dying even before they crossed that damn river, and that’s how it goes.”
• • •
The sheriff moved back toward his desk, didn’t sit down, switching gears from talking about the dead. “How’s Melissa, Chris? We didn’t see you at church this past Sunday. The last couple of Sundays, actually.”
“She wasn’t feeling well, sir. Not much more to it than that.”
“Unwell? You
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