“Uh-uh. I prefer you didn’t, not until we clear this up.”
“I can’t stay!” Leonard said, raising his voice. “I have a job, a life, in Chicago.”
“Your father was murdered during a family gathering. And not only were you there, you threatened him.”
“I didn’t threaten him. Who said I threatened him? Who?” He waited…Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond. “No way can you construe what I told my father as a threat. Please! I just told you we, Victor and myself, arrived late. Everybody knows that. This is a waste of time!”
“I’ve got plenty of time, Mr. Harris.” Leonard stood abruptly. “If you leave town prematurely, Mr. Harris, I will issue a warrant for your arrest.”
Leonard stared at him. He wanted to say high cholesterol makes rational thinking difficult, doesn’t it? Instead: “This is ridiculous!”
“Maybe so. Here in the country we treat murder seriously.”
“How long will it take you to complete your investigation?”
Three creases appeared on Sheriff Bledsoe’s forehead. “Not too long,” he said, and Leonard detected a tinge of doubt.
“I heard a murder investigation runs cold if the perpetrator isn’t caught within the first forty-eight hours. My father’s murder is, what, four-days-old? You’re not sure how long this investigation will take, are you?”
Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond.
Leonard crossed his arms and scrunched up his nose. “I’ll stick around for as long as it takes. I’m not the litigious sort, but if I lose my job before you realize I did not murder my father…well, as the old saying goes--”
“I will see you in court,” Sheriff Bledsoe finished for him. “You’re free to go, Mr. Harris.”
Leonard walked to the door, opened it and then stopped. “Have you ever lost a family member to murder?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response. “Words can’t describe it. Numb, anguish, pain--don’t even come close. Then to be suspected--”
A black truck drove by, a rebel flag in the back window. Leonard lost his train of thought. “Have a good day, Sheriff,” and stepped out into the afternoon’s heat.
Chapter 4
Along Highway 10, two miles east of Dawson’s city limits, a mile or so short of a vacant lot where Robert Earl planned to build a gas station and exotic snake farm, stood the Blinky Motel. The only building before a ten-mile stretch to the next town, Hamburg, it lit up the sky for miles around.
A full moon hovered above. A large neon sign in front flashed INKY, missing the first two letters. Along the edge of the roof, red Christmas lights blinked intermittently from one end to the other.
Nine rooms comprised the single-level building, one inhabited by the manager, an Iranian who boasted American citizenship; thus the sign American Owned and Operated in the office window.
Three cars were parked in front on the gravel lot. In back, a late-model Chevrolet S10 truck hid among a copse of pine trees. Its owner, Eric Barnes, sat on a bed in room number seven, watching a video, Deep Throat.
Mesmerized by Linda Lovelace’s oral resuscitations, Eric didn’t hear the soft knock at the door.
“Eric?” a woman whispered, followed by a tap on the window. “Eric!” This time he heard and hastily took out the video and changed the channel, The Cartoon Network .
“Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
Eric opened the door and Ruth Ann, wrapped in a trench coat, stepped in.
“I’ve been out there a long time,” she said, looking around the room. “What you doing you didn’t hear the door?”
“I musta dozed off.” Ruth Ann brushed past him and sat on the bed. He wondered why she wore a coat in the middle of July. “Something wrong?”
She stared at the television; a petite woman slammed Johnny Bravo on his head. “The funeral, my father, everything, really…” She shook her head.
He sat beside her and ran his hand through her hair. “What you talking about, baby?” She
“I can’t stay!” Leonard said, raising his voice. “I have a job, a life, in Chicago.”
“Your father was murdered during a family gathering. And not only were you there, you threatened him.”
“I didn’t threaten him. Who said I threatened him? Who?” He waited…Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond. “No way can you construe what I told my father as a threat. Please! I just told you we, Victor and myself, arrived late. Everybody knows that. This is a waste of time!”
“I’ve got plenty of time, Mr. Harris.” Leonard stood abruptly. “If you leave town prematurely, Mr. Harris, I will issue a warrant for your arrest.”
Leonard stared at him. He wanted to say high cholesterol makes rational thinking difficult, doesn’t it? Instead: “This is ridiculous!”
“Maybe so. Here in the country we treat murder seriously.”
“How long will it take you to complete your investigation?”
Three creases appeared on Sheriff Bledsoe’s forehead. “Not too long,” he said, and Leonard detected a tinge of doubt.
“I heard a murder investigation runs cold if the perpetrator isn’t caught within the first forty-eight hours. My father’s murder is, what, four-days-old? You’re not sure how long this investigation will take, are you?”
Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond.
Leonard crossed his arms and scrunched up his nose. “I’ll stick around for as long as it takes. I’m not the litigious sort, but if I lose my job before you realize I did not murder my father…well, as the old saying goes--”
“I will see you in court,” Sheriff Bledsoe finished for him. “You’re free to go, Mr. Harris.”
Leonard walked to the door, opened it and then stopped. “Have you ever lost a family member to murder?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response. “Words can’t describe it. Numb, anguish, pain--don’t even come close. Then to be suspected--”
A black truck drove by, a rebel flag in the back window. Leonard lost his train of thought. “Have a good day, Sheriff,” and stepped out into the afternoon’s heat.
Chapter 4
Along Highway 10, two miles east of Dawson’s city limits, a mile or so short of a vacant lot where Robert Earl planned to build a gas station and exotic snake farm, stood the Blinky Motel. The only building before a ten-mile stretch to the next town, Hamburg, it lit up the sky for miles around.
A full moon hovered above. A large neon sign in front flashed INKY, missing the first two letters. Along the edge of the roof, red Christmas lights blinked intermittently from one end to the other.
Nine rooms comprised the single-level building, one inhabited by the manager, an Iranian who boasted American citizenship; thus the sign American Owned and Operated in the office window.
Three cars were parked in front on the gravel lot. In back, a late-model Chevrolet S10 truck hid among a copse of pine trees. Its owner, Eric Barnes, sat on a bed in room number seven, watching a video, Deep Throat.
Mesmerized by Linda Lovelace’s oral resuscitations, Eric didn’t hear the soft knock at the door.
“Eric?” a woman whispered, followed by a tap on the window. “Eric!” This time he heard and hastily took out the video and changed the channel, The Cartoon Network .
“Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
Eric opened the door and Ruth Ann, wrapped in a trench coat, stepped in.
“I’ve been out there a long time,” she said, looking around the room. “What you doing you didn’t hear the door?”
“I musta dozed off.” Ruth Ann brushed past him and sat on the bed. He wondered why she wore a coat in the middle of July. “Something wrong?”
She stared at the television; a petite woman slammed Johnny Bravo on his head. “The funeral, my father, everything, really…” She shook her head.
He sat beside her and ran his hand through her hair. “What you talking about, baby?” She
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