CHAPTER 6
The only industry in Calhoun besides the refinery was the old gravel pit. It was on the outskirts of town, on the Old River Road. I never did know exactly what they did there; I guess they dug gravel out of the ground and sold it to construction companies or something. There was a big silver conveyor-looking thing that ran over the road from one part of the operations to another part, and gritty dump trucks ran in and out of the place all day. A fine white dust covered everything around there; the trees along the road for a half a mile in either direction were coated with it. Kids would go swimming in some of the old unused pits that filled up with rain water. A kid drowned a few years ago, I guess because he couldn't climb out. My Grandparents had warned me how dangerous it was back there for as long as I could remember, so naturally I'd sneaked off to check it out a couple of times.
This was where Reba's body had been found, in the wooded area between the old unused part of the gravel pit and the river, a place where a brave couple would go parking late at night once in a while. Tramps hung out there and it was supposed to be haunted.
"Tommy Andrews and Alvin Carruthers found her, the poor dear, at dawn this morning. They were out there fishing, though why their parents let them go fishing in that place is more than I can say," Josephine Cowan said.
Josephine was in her Sunday best, a flowery purple dress and a broad-brimmed white hat, ready for church. She smelled like lilac. She nervously sipped the cup of coffee Grandma had poured for her and wiped her eyes with a lace hanky. "She was such a sweet girl, never gave anybody any trouble."
Josephine had really knocked us out when she had come over with the news. We were eating breakfast. Grandpa's fork clattered to the floor and Grandma, who was standing at the stove working on a second pan of bacon, muttered "Land'O'Goshen" and sat down heavily in a red kitchen chair. Grandpa picked up his fork and moved the bacon off the burner. Josephine told us what she knew.
"She was strangled. Strangled!" she repeated in a hushed voice. "And left laying back there in that old woods behind the gravel pit. Oh, it just makes me ill, I don't know if I'm even up to going to church this morning. Good Lord, it's so terrible. Terrible."
"Yes, it is," Grandma said, patting her on the shoulder. "I just don't know what to think lately. So many bad things happening. More like a big city." She was twisting her apron into a knot as she talked.
"And, anyway, Tommy and Alvin ran home and told Tommy's dad, you know Edward's with the Civil Defense, and he called the State Police."
"Any idea who did it?" Grandpa asked, pulling at his mustache.
"Not that I heard. The police are over there now."
Grandma went to church with Josephine, and Grandpa, who wasn't the religious type, settled down with the Sunday sports section and his pipe. I ran over to Ricky's. I met him running out of his front door. He had already heard about it; I guess it was too much to expect to spring this one on him, too.
"Hey, let's go!" he said, reading my mind.
"I'm with you!"
We heard a siren wailing as we ran toward the gravel pit. It was quite a ways, and it took us about ten or fifteen minutes to make it. A narrow dirt road led back to the woods where the body had been found. Thick underbrush and low-hanging trees gave the place a gloomy atmosphere, and the closer you got to the river the fishier the air became. Beer cans and other trash lay along the side of the dirt road and an old rusted Ford was parked behind a pile of old tires. It had been a couple of years since I had been back there; Ricky and I used to play Tarzan there. There were a lot of vines to swing on and some good climbing trees with sturdy branches. But we had come across a tramp sleeping under a tree and that had scared us away. Ricky had wanted to come back and talk to him, to tell him we were reporters doing a feature article for the kids' section of the Sunday paper about hobos. But I said no way and he didn't want to go back by himself. Ricky had told me that some gangster from Covington had been knocked off back there in the 20's by a rival bootlegger, and I believed him; it looked like a good place for a murder, if there was such a thing.
"Whew, this place is still creepy," I said. I had kinda thought that it might look a little better now that I was older, but it still had a sinister aspect, especially now, when I knew what had happened here last night. And the day had turned dark gray, with black-looking clouds moving in from the north.
"Yeah, you'd think this'd be a good place to hide a body." Ricky answered. "I bet the murderer didn't think it'd turn up so soon."
We came to the murder site. There were a bunch of cop cars and a TV truck. I recognized a reporter I'd seen on the evening news. A weedy area under some willow trees about twenty feet off the road was roped and a crowd of people were ringing it. Cops were keeping people from getting too close. We got as close as we could and then we saw it - Reba's body lying there on the ground. This was the second dead body I'd even seen, and a sick feeling ran through me. She looked fragile, like a bird that had fallen from the sky. Her head was at an odd angle and her face looked bluish. She had on the same clothes we had seen her in last night when she left with Nick, only one shoe was missing.
"Holy shit!" Ricky said under his breath, his eyes wide.
I couldn't say anything; my throat felt like it had closed up, and a cold chill ran through me.
People mumbled and whispered softly as they stared at the gruesome sight. Debbie and Sherry stood at the rear of the crowd, looking numb and red-eyed. We went over to them as they were turning away.
"Oh, my God," Debbie said in a choked voice, squeezing my hand hard with both of hers. She was shivering, and I put an arm around her.
"We just saw her last night," Sherry said in a small voice.
"Yeah, we saw Nick bring her home," Ricky said.
"What happened? How did she get out here?" Debbie wailed softly.
The cops were loading Reba into an ambulance. A TV cameraman filmed them as they drove off with her. Bodiford, the sheriff from Bloomburg, was talking with a State cop who looked like he was trying to ignore him. Other cops were trying to clear the crowd out of the way, and we moved a little farther back.
"Y'know," I said slowly, "I saw something last night."
"What?" Ricky asked.
"Well, I don't know if it means anything or not. Probably not."
"What? What?"
"I saw Ol' Man Davis driving away after I got home."
"After we left the girls?"
"Yeah."
"Where was he goin'?"
"I dunno. I didn't think too much about it at the time."
"Was there a body in the car?" Ricky was getting excited.
"A body in the car? Hell, how would I know?"
"Was he alone?"
"I dunno. It was dark."
"Gets like that every night."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"What direction was he goin'?"
"He went left out of his back yard."
"Toward the gravel pit!"
"Yeah."
"Well?" Ricky asked.
"Well, what?"
"Do you think he did it?" Debbie asked us breathlessly, her eyes wide.
"Hell, I don't know," I said. "I just saw him drive off, that's all."
"Looks pretty suspicious to me," Ricky said.
"Me, too," Sherry said.
"Who asked you?" I said.
"Debbie."
"Did you see him come back?" Ricky asked.
"Nah. I went to bed."
"Was the car there this morning?"
"I dunno."
"Man, I bet he did it!" Ricky said, excitedly. "He was plenty pissed off last night after that fight."
"Pissed off at Nick," I said.
"Hell, Reba, too. He might have got drunk and beat the shit outta her when she got home and then dumped the body out here."
"You really think so?" Sherry asked.
"Sure. He figured the cops would hang it on Nick."
"Oooh, Nick'll be in trouble now," Debbie said.
"Not when we tell the cops that we saw him bringing her home last night," Ricky said.
"Yeah," Debbie said.
"And not when you tell 'em that you saw Ol' Man Davis drive off with a body in the car."
"Goddamnit, I didn't see a body in the car!"
"You gotta tell 'em what you saw, though," Ricky said.
"Yeah, I guess."
We watched the cops going over the murder site - if it was the murder site, and not just the place where the body had been dumped- putting some things they found on the ground in plastic bags and making plaster casts of tire prints. The reporter from the TV station was interviewing a detective. Bodiford was combing his hair and straightening his tie, like he thought maybe he was next. The wind had whipped up a little and it was getting darker. The smell of rain was in the air and the crowd began to drift off.
I wasn't too hip on talking to a bunch of cops. Then a thought occurred to me. "Hey, we can't say we were over at Debbie's when we saw Nick bring Reba home," I said.
"No, we can't," Ricky agreed.
"Yeah, my Mom would have a cow if she found out you guys were over there," Debbie said.
"Hell, a half dozen of you girls saw Nick bring her home. That's all the witnesses they need," Ricky said.
"And I can just say I saw him from my house," I said.
"OK, we're agreed," Ricky said. "No mention of us being at your house."
"Right," Debbie said.
"Tell all your little friends not to say anything," Ricky said.
"They won't."
"OK."
"I don't feel very good," Debbie said. "I'm going home."
"Yeah, we're gonna get wet if we don't get going," Ricky said. "Let's go."
We walked the girls home and then I went out on the back porch and plunked moodily on my guitar while I watched the rain come down.
Did the Ol' Man really kill her? Ricky thought so. But he was always ready to believe whatever was the most exciting thing about a situation. The Ol' Man was a drunken slob, a lazy bum, a small time crook, but was he a murderer? Why would he want to kill Reba? Because he didn't like Nick? Because he got so drunk he didn't know what he was doing? I looked at the spot in Davis's back yard next to the old Ford where Reba had been lying in the sun yesterday. It was muddy, now; I imagined the impression on her warm body in the slick wet grass.
The afternoon became almost as dark as night. Suddenly thunder boomed and lightening flashed across the sky and I banged louder on my guitar. I hoped Grandma wouldn't make us go into the basement while the storm raged. That's what she did once when she came to Chicago to take care of Dad and me while Mom was in the hospital having my sister.
We hadn't seen Nick at the gravel pit, and I wondered if he'd heard the news yet. Jeez, first his sister and now his girl friend. I remembered reading something about Teddy Roosevelt's mother and wife dying the same day. I wondered if something like this would ever happen to me.
After the storm had dwindled to a mere drizzle a couple of detectives went up and down the street asking questions. A guy who looked just like Stuart Bailey had our side of the street. He was dressed in a worn blue suit and a wrinkled trenchcoat that looked out of place with his perfectly combed hair. His name was Chapman and he spoke in a low voice, pronouncing his words carefully. He explained to Grandpa that he was investigating the murder of Reba Davis and Grandpa invited him in and sat him down in the straight-backed chair in the living room. Grandma, nervously twisting her apron, asked him if he would like some iced tea and he smiled tightly and said no thanks. He wanted to know if any of us had seen Reba yesterday.
Grandpa scratched a match against his shoe and fired up his pipe. "I said hello to her when I walked to the Post Office. She was coming out of the grocery store."
"What time was this, sir?"
"Oh, a little before noon."
"How did she seem?"
"Seemed fine."
"Where was she going?"
"Headed in the direction of her house."
"Did you see her again yesterday?"
"No." Puff, puff.
"Ma'am?" Chapman looked at Grandma, hovering behind Grandpa's chair, and raised his eyebrows.
"She was out in her back yard yesterday afternoon, poor thing," she said, shaking her head sadly.
Then he looked at me. "Did you see her yesterday, young man?"
He stroked his chin and looked real stern, like Ward looked when he lectured Wally and the Beav, when I told him about the fight between the Ol' Man and Nick. He wanted to know all the details, and I told him how Nick had creamed the Ol' Man and how scared Reba had looked watching it and about Vito Siri hanging around. He perked up at the mention of Siri and got out a little spiral notebook and scribbled in it with a ball point pen. He wanted to know how many times Siri had been next door and what his driver had looked like and did he go anywhere else in town and had he ever been there before. Grandpa and I told him what we could, that Siri had been to Davis's on Friday, too, and he scribbled some more in his notebook.
"I saw something else later last night," I said when Chapman asked us if we had seen anything else that might have anything to do with the case.
"Yes?" he said.
"I had to go to the bathroom about one o'clock and I happened to look out the window and I saw Ol' - I mean Mr. Davis - drive out of the back yard in his station wagon."
Chapman raised his eyebrows at this. "Was he alone?"
"I couldn't tell. It's real dark back there." Hell, he could've had Vada Pinson and Oscar Robertson in the car and I wouldn't have been able to tell.
"What direction did he go?"
"Left."
"Did you see or hear him return?"
"No, sir."
He asked my Grandparents if they had been witness to this and they said they hadn't. Then he got up and thanked us and gave us his card and said to call if we thought of anything else.
"D'ja talk to the cops?" Ricky asked. He was sitting on the rock with his arm draped around Sherry's shoulders.
"Yeah, guy named Chapman. He looked just like..."
"Stuart Bailey," Ricky cut in. "77 Sunset Strip" was one of
Ricky's favorite shows, too.
"Heh, you thought so, too."
"What did you tell him?" Debbie asked anxiously. She had her hair in a pony tail and was twisting it furiously while she chomped on her gum.
"About the fight and then about seeing Ol' Man Davis drive off when I went to the bathroom about one."
"You didn't say that you were over at my house that night?"
"No." Jeez, we had all agreed that we wouldn't say anything about that.
"Good. Ricky didn't, either."
"What'chou think? We're gonna change our story?" Ricky said. "We are gentlemen, y'know."
"Yeah, you and Cary Grant," Debbie said.
"So I've been told," Ricky said airily. "Suave and de-boner."
"De-boner?" Sherry asked.
"French for debonair," I said.
"Oh."
"You guys talk to the cops?" I asked, putting an arm around Debbie's shoulders. She had on a sleeveless white blouse; her skin was hot and the tip of her pony tail tickled my arm when she turned her head to look up into my face.
"Yeah, some guy named Koslewski," Ricky said.
"What was he like?" I asked.
"He made me nervous," Debbie said.
"He smelled like cigars," Sherry said.
"Aaahh, he was tryin' to be a big shot," Ricky said. "He was a goof. Been watchin' too many Sam Spade movies."
"We told him we saw Nick bring Reba home from their date about 11:30," Debbie said.
"You told him about the slumber party?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Ricky's the only one who isn't a witness," Sherry said.
"Yeah, I was home in bed two blocks away at 11:30. I didn't see nothin' except the big fight."
"You saw something last night," Sherry giggled softly.
"Yeah, I did," Ricky laughed, trying to look down Sherry's blouse.
"Ooohh, you guys are awful," Debbie said, giggling.
"Yeah, we are," Ricky said.
"Speak for yourself," Sherry said.
"So what'd Chapman say when you told him about Ol' Man Davis taking off in the middle of the night with a body in the car?" Ricky asked.
"Goddamnit, I told you..."
"Yeah, yeah. You didn't see the body," Ricky laughed. "But it had to be there, dont'cha think so?"
"I dunno. Maybe," I said.
"I bet it was," Debbie said.
"I bet it was, too," Ricky said. "So whatd'd he say?"
"Was he alone, did I see him come back. Sumbitch had a lot of questions."
"Cops are like that."
"You don't think we're gonna get in trouble for fibbing to the police, do you?" Sherry asked Ricky.
"Aaahh, what trouble? You girls are just tellin' what you saw."
"And I'm tellin' what I saw," I said.
"But...'
"Aaahh, it'll be OK," Ricky said. "Nobody's really fibbing."
"Well... I guess not," Sherry said.
The drizzle had stopped a couple of hours ago, but the sky was still dark and it looked like it was going to rain some more. There were puddles in the street and everything looked real green against the gray sky. There was no breeze, and the air was heavy with humidity. I dabbed at the perspiration on my forehead with a shirt sleeve.
"Reba and I were supposed to go shopping at Western Hills Plaza tomorrow," Debbie said in a tiny voice.
"I wonder if Nick's OK," Sherry said.
Then we heard a distant rumble that I first thought was thunder. But it was Nick's Chevy. In a moment he came into view, rounding the corner at Elm and coming slowly down Front Street, carefully avoiding the glassy-looking puddles.
"Oh, there he is," Sherry said sadly.
His car was immaculate. Well, it always was, but he was the only guy who could keep it that way on a rainy day. No shit, he must wipe it down every time he drove it. The red paint looked almost black in the half-light of the early evening and the exhaust sounded deeper in the wet air.
His sunglasses were hooked in the neck of his T-shirt and he was smoking a cigarette. We could hear his radio playing "Can't Help Falling In Love With You." He slowed down a little when he saw us, and I thought he was going to stop, but he just gave us a casual wave and went down to the stop sign at the corner and turned right and went out of sight.
"Aww," Debbie groaned, burying her face in my shoulder.
"Wonder where he's goin'?" I said morosely.
"He must feel awful," Sherry said. "I wish there was something we could do."
"He'll be OK," Ricky said.
"How do you know?" Sherry asked.
"He's tough. He's had a lot of bad stuff happen to him - the way his parents were and all that. Makes you hard."
"You really think so?"
"Sure."
"That's awful," Debbie said. "You're saying that the worse your life is, the easier it is to handle bad things that happen to you."
"Some German philosopher said that anything that doesn't kill you just makes you stronger," Ricky said. "Sounds reasonable to me."
"Sounds cold-blooded to me," Debbie said.
"Hey, look," I said. "Cops."
Two cop cars and the unmarked car that I had seen Chapman in earlier drove up and stopped in front of Davis's. Chapman and another guy in a suit wearing a raincoat and a hat pulled low over his forehead got out of the unmarked car.
"Chapman and Koslewski," Ricky muttered, and we walked up to King's front yard to get a closer look at the action. Other neighbors were gawking, too.
Two cops in uniform got out of one of the other cars and all four had a brief conference at Davis's gate.
"Whew, looks bad for the Ol' Man," Ricky said, excited.
"You think they're going to arrest him?" Sherry asked breathlessly, clutching Ricky's arm.
"Looks like it."
"I see another cop car around back," I said.
"In case he makes a run for it," Ricky said.
The four cops went up to Davis's front door, leaving the other two out in the cruiser. They stood on either side of the door and knocked, waited about ten seconds, and knocked again. Someone peeked out the front window and a moment later the door was opened by Mrs. Davis and the two detectives went inside, leaving the uniforms on the porch.
We all looked at each other, fascinated.
"Wow, he's a goner," I said in a whisper.
"And all because of your testimony," Ricky said.
"Testimony, your ass," I growled.
"Well, you told 'em you saw him drivin' off in the middle of the night.
"So what?"
"Pretty damning."
"Your face is pretty damning. Forty other people might have seen him driving off last night."
"Yeah, at least forty."
"Real funny, Ricky."
I wasn't real crazy about him going to jail because of something I told the cops. I hoped forty other people had seen him last night. I hoped someone had seen more than that. I hoped someone had been a fucking eyewitness to the murder. So far it just looked like circumstantial evidence.
"Ooohh, here they come," Sherry said in a hushed voice.
They had Ol' Man Davis handcuffed, leading him down the porch steps, a detective on either side of him. He was wearing baggy old pants spotted with paint and a ragged undershirt and his face was bruised and his lip puffed out from the fight with Nick the night before. He was looking down at the ground and stumbled over a rusty tricycle and nearly fell and Koslewski jerked him roughly to his feet. He was mumbling something, but we were too far away to make it out.
He looked around helplessly as they put him in the back seat of one of the cruisers, pushing his head down so he wouldn't bang it. Koslewski and Chapman got into their car and they all took off. The cops' faces were grim when they passed us and it gave me the creeps when the Ol' Man's eyes swept over us and I wondered if he knew what I had told them. I imagined him breaking out of jail and coming after me some dark night.
Mrs. Davis, in a ratty brown housecoat and hair curlers, stood at the front door snuffling and watching her husband being carted off to jail. A couple of dirty-faced kids stood at her side tugging on her skirt and sucking their fingers. Their dog, Jax, an ugly black and brown part-mastiff with only one ear, took a leak on one of the stumps in the front yard and wandered off around the side of the house to the back yard.
"Wow!" Debbie whispered in awe. "They just come and get you."