Two of his friends were dead—and why? Because he was too late, too slow, too tired? That’s a hell of an excuse, Jim! Try telling that to Buck and Rick! You’ve failed them! He’d let himself go over the years. His mind and body weren’t as quick or as well tuned as they use to be. He’d lost his edge and let his friends down.
At least, that’s how he saw it. He’d let himself be out maneuvered. Sure, maybe not today or yesterday, when circumstances and things were against him, but over the years he’d set himself up for this failure. This wouldn’t have happened thirty years ago! He reminded himself.
Back then you were sharp, prepared and ready for anything and you wouldn’t have let it get this far. When you’re prepared, the breaks fall your way and time is your ally. But you’ve grown complacent!
Sure you may not have been able to save Buck, but after that you knew there was a threat! No one else should’ve been allowed to get hurt. You took your eye off the ball and it hit you in the gut!
The instant he had suspected Bradley, he should’ve put someone on him to follow him. He should’ve been watching the enemy, but he hadn’t. He allowed the enemy to flank him and attack yet again. It was a costly mistake and in this case—deadly.
Jim drove slowly with the speed of traffic. Visions of the diving plane filled his mind and with every blink of his eyes the explosion replayed on his flash burnt retinas. He knew that every detail would haunt him for the rest of his life.
As the scene replayed in his mind, he felt a helplessness that only comes from not being able to control events. He tried to push the memory from his mind, but couldn’t. How could he? He’d watched a friend die and was powerless to prevent it.
A short time earlier he’d been filled with rage and adrenaline. The slow drive had allowed him to calm down. The caffeine and adrenaline had now worn off and his exhausted body sunk low in the driver’s seat. Refusing to work, his tired mind was again on autopilot, maneuvering the Blazer and replaying events from that morning.
He thought of Nikki and how he wished that they were together. He wanted her to hold and reassure him that everything would be okay, but he knew that was impossible.
He was still the Sheriff and had a job to do. There was no time for grief, feelings of insecurity, or for being comforted. Again, he’d have to bury his feelings and save them for a later date, which was something he’d grown all too accustomed to.
He didn’t know where he was driving, just that he was. It wasn’t until the Blazer turned off the highway and into Centralia that he realized he’d be back at the station soon. He had no idea what he’d do when he got there, but he would worry about that later.
As he approached the station, his attention was drawn to a crowd of people around it. Six satellite vans were outside and their crews appeared to be filming reports from different angles. Three of the truck logo’s he recognized as domestic, and the other three weren’t hard to figure out.
One, he saw from the symbols, had to be from somewhere in Asia. Another was definitely South American, and the last had BBC on its side. You’d think the Brits would have enough scandal with the Royal family. Why would they want more? he wondered.
He had no strength left for a confrontation, so Jim drove through the parking lot to the back of the station. He had to move fast, the moment they saw him, reports and cameramen ran to his location.
A tall man with a British accent stuck a microphone in his face. “Sheriff! Have you got any idea where the D.B. Cooper gang is hiding out?”
Jim had barely enough energy to muster the words, “No comment.” He slowly pushed through them to the door. Inside the station, Jim saw that it was empty except for the dispatcher who was frantically answering the phones and putting people on hold as he put out radio calls to patrol units.
“Peterson, get Rissley on the phone and patch it though to my office,” Jim said. He felt depressed and helpless and wanted to talk to someone he could rely on.
“Yes sir, right away.” Peterson nodded.
Jim felt old and as depression caught up to him, he started to doubt his ability to do this job. No, he told himself. It was just that he wasn’t used to the pace. He’d be his normal self after a cup of coffee.
Jim found his cup and went to the coffee pot. As he filled it, he heard the dispatcher talking on the radio to Rissley. Not bothering to measure, he dumped a large amount of sugar into the cup and stirred it. By the time he got to his desk, the phone was ringing and he picked up the receiver. “Joe?”
“Hello, Sheriff. I’m sorry about Rick,” she said thoughtfully. “If you need someone to talk to or if there is anything else I can do, I’d be happy to help.”
The kind words helped him somehow and he didn’t quite feel as alone as he did a few moments ago. “Thank you, Joe.” He smiled at her through the phone. There is something you can do. You can cheer me up by telling me you’ve found that bullet.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she said discouragingly. “We’ve made several more sweeps of the porch. We’ve combed the tree line along the side of the house and used the metal detectors to search the dirt and grass along the projected flight path. We even expanded the search to allow for different variations in flight paths, but found nothing.”
Jim’s heart sank to a new low after hearing this. He sat back in his chair in frustration, sipped from his cup and tried to think.
“Sheriff? Are you still there?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, Joe, good work. I was just trying to think where we should go from here.” Jim wanted to regroup. The only thing he could come up with was to gather up everything they knew and look at it from another angle. Perhaps then he could come up with something that would help him nail Bradley. “Has everyone filled out a shift report for yesterday and today?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got them here and could fax them to you if you’d like.”
“Yes, do that right away,” Jim confirmed. “You’ve done everything possible out there, Joe. Put a guard at the entrance to the road then send everyone else out on patrol. From what I could gather from listening to Peterson’s radio calls, the roads are a mess out there.” Jim looked at his watch. It was already three o’clock in the afternoon. “Let’s plan on meeting back here at eighteen hundred hours. Perhaps, when we’re together, we can put this case back on track.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe was also at her wit’s end and was looking forward to a brainstorming session. “You should have the fax in a few minutes, then you’ll know everything we did. I only wish there was something in the shift reports that could help, but I looked them over and have to admit their pretty boring.”
“You’re probably right, but it doesn’t hurt to look. I’ll see you in a few hours.” With that, Jim hung up the phone.
Jim took a long gulp of his coffee and finished what was in his cup. Then wiping his face with his hands, he stretched and took a deep breath. I’ve got to pull myself together. Two men are dead and I can’t allow this to go on any farther, Jim thought to himself.
What now? If the bullet can’t be found then I’ll have to cut my losses and move on. Rissley’s words about the shift reports were discouraging, but that seemed to be the standard for this case. Maybe there is something in the shift reports and maybe there wasn’t, but he couldn’t give up. He had to press on. Perhaps there was something one deputy noticed that the others missed. It was a long shot, but he had nothing else to go on.
Standing up, he grabbed his now empty cup and walked back to the pot. Milhouse was leaning over the counter talking softly to Peterson when Jim walked out of the office. “Milhouse, come in here,” he said sternly, then turned around and walked back in.
Milhouse walked to the office door then stepped reluctantly inside. “Yes, sir?”
“You intentionally disobeyed orders and helped Agent Bradley without notifying me first. Isn’t that correct?” Jim scowled.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I was just?
??”
“Just what!” Jim cut him off loudly. “I drove past the Super Mart on my way back here. You obviously didn’t obey my orders to clear the campers out. Isn’t that correct?!”
“Yes, sir,” Milhouse replied as he fidgeted nervously with the feeling of guilt as he looked at the floor.
“I suggest that you get over there now and do that!” Jim ordered.
“But, Sheriff! What about the investigation?” Milhouse exclaimed.
Jim walked to the front of his desk. “As of this moment, you’re officially off this case. I expected more from you, Milhouse. You’ve disobeyed orders and breached the chain of command. If you would’ve come to me before you got the warrant, we could’ve taken Schaffer into custody properly. He’d be locked up instead of dead!” Jim said, angrily.
“Still blaming someone else for your screw ups, Sheriff?” Came a voice from the doorway. Milhouse stepped out of the way to reveal Alan standing at the door.
“Bradley!” Jim said, angrily. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Since my last lead killed himself, I thought I’d go through the evidence again to see if there is something I missed.”
Jim thought for a moment, then turned his attention back to Milhouse. “We’ll discuss your conduct later. I suggest you get moving. You’ve got campers to roust.”
“Yes, sir,” Milhouse said, disappointed, then turned and walked past Bradley. He stopped just past the door and turned around. “Did Rissley turn up anything on that bullet?”
“Bullet?” Alan said with surprise as he looked from Milhouse to Jim. “What bullet?”
“It’s nothing.” Jim brushed it off calmly. “Rissley was searching for a bullet and found nothing.”
“That’s too bad,” Milhouse said, quietly, then turned and left.
“Why wasn’t I notified that you were still looking for a bullet?” Alan asked in an irritated voice.
“I don’t have to notify you on aspects of my investigation. Besides, when I get off the phone with your superiors, you’ll be headed back to Seattle with your tail between your legs!” Jim said sharply.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Sheriff!” Alan snapped as he stepped up to Jim’s face. “I’ll be making a few phone calls of my own, and when I’m through, you’ll be the one packing your bags!”
“That’s enough, Bradley!” A voice from behind him said.
Alan turned quickly to see a tall black man filling the doorway. “Cranston! It’s about time!”
Cranston didn’t answer him. Turning his attention to Jim, he walked up to him, removed his badge from his pocket and handed it over. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. I’m Deputy Director Cranston of the Drug Enforcement Agency,” he said with a smile.
Jim watched the other two agents file into the room, then he examined the ID and handed it back. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re here to take over the investigation,” Jim said, defensively.
“Relax, Sheriff,” Cranston said with a smile. “We’re here to help.”
“Really,” Jim said, sarcastically. “You can start by sending this hot shot home!”
“That’s bull!” Alan said angrily as he stepped back into Jim’s face. “You’re finished! When I get through with you—” he started to say but was interrupted.
“That’s enough, Bradley!” Cranston’s temper started to flare.
“No, it’s not! Not even close!” Alan turned on Cranston. “You’re responsible, too! If you’d been here earlier and kept this incompetent Sheriff out of my way, I’d have the whole operation behind bars!”
“I’m warning you, Bradley, one more word and I’ll remove you from this case!” Cranston barked.
“Like hell!” Alan snapped. “Heads are going to roll on this one, I promise you. And you two are first!” With that, Alan turned and rushed out of the office.
“Bradley! Come back here. That’s an order!” Cranston yelled furiously, but Alan kept walking down the hall and out the door.
Cranston tried to calm himself. He slowly pulled the bottle of Pepto from his pocket and took a large gulp. Jim could see Cranston’s hands shaking as he drank. When he lowered the bottle he seemed more composed.
“Sheriff, if you don’t mind, I’d like these two agents to look over the evidence. Maybe their expertise can shed some light on this case.”
Jim thought about it for a moment then said. “Come with me. I’ll show you where it is.”
Cranston watched Sheriff Harper walked out of the office with O’Leary and Anderson in tow. After taking another drink from the Pepto, he was able to calm himself further and he glanced around the room. It wasn’t too much different from his own in Seattle.
Paperwork was stacked a mile high on the desk. There were a few pictures on the wall, and what was this? Seeing the familiar item, Cranston stepped forward to examine it more closely. In a small frame with a navy blue background were Harper’s Purple Heart and Silver Star along with a picture of him in uniform. Cranston read the inscription, and immediately felt guilty.
Yesterday, he’d left Bradley on his own, glad to be rid of him if only for a short while, but he neglected to consider how Bradley might affect someone else’s department. Bradley was Cranston’s responsibility not Harper’s. It was selfish of him to drop Bradley on someone else’s shoulders, especially a fellow soldier.
Like Cranston, Harper had seen combat first hand and up close. They’d fought the enemy face-to-face and hand-to-hand, unlike the flyboys or Navy pukes that fought the war from a comfortable distance.
Cranston remembered the dark circles under Harper’s sunken eyes and recalled looking that same way himself when Bradley was around. Suddenly, he felt ashamed at being derelict in his duties. He decided he’d make it up to Harper if he could. Cranston then examined his own situation and with a heavy sigh of despair. He looked out the window and off into space.
Jim grabbed the fax that Joe had sent from the machine as he and the agents walked to the conference room. Jim opened the door, turned on the lights, and placed the shift reports on the table. “Help yourselves.” Neither agent said a word. They filed past Jim and went to work.
Jim turned and from the hallway watched Cranston in the office. Cranston leaned against the desk and took another drink from the bottle. He had a distant look on his face, almost sad, Jim thought. Even from a distance, Cranston looked like a broken man. This obviously wasn’t the first time Cranston and Bradley had locked horns. There is definitely no love lost between those two, Jim thought to himself.
He watched as Cranston walked slowly to the window and looked out at the horizon. Walking to the coffee pot, Jim picked up a spare cup and filled it up. He added a hearty dose of cream and sugar, then stopped and looked back into the office. Cranston hadn’t moved from the window.
Maybe I should tell him, Jim thought to himself. No, he’s DEA, he’d arrest me for sure. Jim thought about it from another angle. Maybe not. Maybe he really is here to help.
“If I only had more time,” he swore under his breath. But it was too late for that, he need an ally. Someone who had almost as much to lose as Jim did. Could Cranston be that person? Jim asked himself as he walked to the office door and looked in.
Bradley did say both their heads would roll. It didn’t matter now, he didn’t have a choice. Time had run out. Jim decided to test the water a little, then if he didn’t get a favorable response, he’d stop.
Walking up to Cranston, Jim held out the cup. “Coffee?”
Cranston looked startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sheriff. I guess I was in my own little world there for a second,” he said as he took the cup. “Thank you.”
“I took the liberty of adding cream and sugar.”
“Thanks again. My stomach can’t handle it black anymore.” Cranston looked at Jim and saw the questioning look on his face. “What is it, Sheriff? What’s on your mind?”
Voices came fro
m the hall as three deputies came walking in the door of the station. Jim walked back to the office door and closed it. The room was suddenly dead silent. Jim turned slowly and again looked at Cranston. “Director Cranston,” Jim started to say slowly. “What if I told you I think Agent Bradley is making this whole story up.”
“Why do you say that?” Cranston asked, curiously.
“Come on,” Jim tried to reason with him. “The D.B. Cooper gang? Give me a break.”
That brought a short burst of laughter from Cranston. “I see your point. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put it past that little jerk.”
Jim suddenly relaxed. The ice was broken and he decided to wade in farther. “What if I also told you that I have a theory about what happened yesterday? Would you listen to it without departmental prejudice?”
Cranston thought for a moment. “I don’t see why not. Shoot.”
Jim studied Cranston’s face as he spoke. “I believe that Agent Bradley got a bad tip from an informant. Then, in too big of a hurry to do the job right, he rushed down here without backup and unprepared for what he’d be up against. Something went wrong and Bradley accidentally killed Henderson. Then, he started this fiasco in order to cover his tracks.”
At hearing this, Cranston became defensive and his mood suddenly turned sour. “You’d better have proof before you start accusing a Federal officer of murder,” he warned as he pointed a finger at Jim.
“I’m not accusing anybody of anything, yet.” Jim backed off a bit. “Although, there is evidence to show that Bradley’s story about what happened yesterday is far from accurate.”
Cranston reminded himself which of his agents they were talking about and immediately felt bad for jumping down Harper’s throat. The thought that Harper might have something on Bradley was compelling enough to at least listen to. He looked over at Jim. “What evidence is that?”
“First of all, Bradley claims that he and that reporter, Chet Green, showed up at Henderson’s place at seven and found the body. I’ve got a motel manager who says that Bradley and Green, checked in at four. After getting directions to Henderson’s, they unpacked their stuff and left by four-thirty. That puts them at the scene with plenty of time to spare.” Jim reported.
“So what? That doesn’t mean anything,” Cranston argued. “Maybe they did something before going there. Maybe they went out to breakfast or something. Going up there with a reporter doesn’t make Bradley a murderer and neither does being late.”
“It wouldn’t make sense to stop for anything. Bradley wanted to get up there and get the drop on Henderson, then he botched the arrest,” Jim said.
Cranston thought for a moment. “What else do you have?”
“Bradley has purposely overlooked evidence in order to influence the investigation.” Jim stepped over to the desk, opened the manila envelope, and poured its contents onto it.
“Here look.” Jim put several photos in a row on the desk in front of Cranston. “Bradley told my deputies that the bullets landed in the lake and were unrecoverable. So no search was made for them until I noticed the angle of the body.” Jim pointed to the pictures.
Cranston pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, and examined the photos. “Yes, I see what you mean. The angle of the body indicates that the bullets had to fly over this short stretch of land and the boat dock in order to land in the water. Bradley should never have missed this.”
“That’s not all. The coroner’s report indicates that one of the bullets grazed the backbone which caused it to change course slightly. It could never have reached the water,” Jim replied.
“Coroner’s report?” Cranston asked, questioningly. “I read the report Bradley faxed in last night. It didn’t say anything about a coroner’s report. I assumed that it wasn’t complete yet. I wonder why he didn’t send it.”
“I’m not surprised. Bradley didn’t seem interested in it. He didn’t go talk to the doctor who did the autopsy, and he never asked for the report. Almost as if he already knew what it would say,” Jim replied.
“What does it say?”
“Henderson was shot with two rounds from a large caliber hand gun. No smaller than a forty-one caliber, and no larger than a forty-five. The doctor couldn’t be sure because of all the damage that was done. The shooter placed these two bullets in the center of Henderson’s chest less than an inch apart, and from a distance– from what I could gather from the scene– of just over forty feet,” Jim said.
Cranston’s eyes widened. “That’s good shooting, but sophisticated drug operations have been known to hire professionals.”
“Bradley carries a forty-four magnum,” Jim continued. “Yesterday he demonstrated it out at the range. He put two rounds within a one inch spread at fifty feet.”
“Yes, I know,” Cranston said as his mind took in the information and pondered the possibilities. “I’ve seen him shoot. He’s an expert marksman. The best in my department.”
“Since late yesterday, I’ve put my deputies on an all out effort to locate the ricocheted bullet,” Jim said.
Cranston’s eyes lit up as he looked excitedly at Jim over the top of his reading glasses. “Did you find it? Do you have the bullet?”
“No, we couldn’t locate it,” Jim said with a discouraged voice.
Cranston’s mood suddenly dropped. “That’s too damn bad.” The room went silent for a few moments as Cranston thought about the information presented to him. “What about this pilot fellow?”
“Rick Schaffer. What about him?” Jim replied.
“I was listening to the news report on the way down here. Bradley said he confessed to having a drug smuggling operation going on with Henderson.”
Jim leaned back in his chair as he explained. “I’ve known both of these men for years. There’s no way that they could be drug smugglers. Besides, no one else heard this so called confession. Even if he did confess, it was done under duress.
“Schaffer was a POW in Vietnam and had a history of mental problems. They really screwed with his mind over there, and, periodically, he still has flashbacks. Rick would’ve confessed to anything if he thought it would keep him out of prison. Hell, he killed himself to keep from being put behind bars.”
Cranston gave Jim an understanding nod. He had known people who’d been POWs and knew how screwed up some of them were. He then continued his questioning. “In Bradley’s report, it says that someone driving a truck and trailer killed Henderson. Bradley calls him D.B. Cooper. Now we both know that’s bull, but for the sake of argument, let’s call him Mr. X. What about him?”
Jim reached to the photos on the desk and scattered them out until he found the one he wanted. “Look, the man with the truck and trailer couldn’t have killed him. Henderson is lying on top of the vehicle’s tracks. The truck and trailer had to have been gone before the murder otherwise the truck would have had to drive over him to get away.”
Cranston took the photo and examined it closely. “I see what you’re saying. It’s unlike Bradley to miss such an obvious clue, but that doesn’t prove anything. The driver could’ve stopped up the road then walked back to Henderson’s and killed him.”
“But he didn’t!” Jim exclaimed.
“How do you know? If he didn’t do it, why doesn’t he come forward and say so?” Cranston asked.
“Maybe he’s afraid he’ll get arrested,” Jim replied as he stood up and began to pace nervously.
“Well, he should turn himself in as soon as possible. The longer he waits, the guiltier he looks, especially to a jury. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before we find him. The Federal computer banks are busy on the fingerprints right now. And another thing, if you’re right, where did the drugs come from?” Cranston said.
“I don’t know,” Jim admitted. “Bradley was the first person at each scene. He could’ve planted it. He is a drug agent. He probably has access to all kinds of stuff
.”
Cranston shrugged his shoulders then continued. “What else do you have?”
“That’s it. There’s nothing else,” Jim replied.
“That’s it?” Cranston exclaimed. “Everything you’ve told me so far is pure theory. There’s no proof to back it up. You can’t find a bullet, and without that you have no case. I admit that Bradley hasn’t used proper procedure in conducting his investigation, but that means nothing. Mr. X is still the most likely suspect.” Cranston tossed the photos back on the desk. “I would really like to believe you, Sheriff. But I’m afraid my money is on Mr. X.”
Jim paced behind his desk nervously. I’ve got to tell him, I’ve got to come clean, he thought to himself. I can’t continue my investigation without his help. As he stopped in front of the window and stared out at the parking lot filled with reporters he knew he had to put his cards on the table.
Cranston was standing in front of the desk reading the coroner’s report when Jim began to speak. “I know that Mr. X didn’t kill Henderson,” Jim said then slowly turned and looked Cranston in the eye. “Because I’m Mr. X.”
Cranston’s jaw dropped open as he placed a hand on the desk to steady himself. “You’re Mr. X? Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because that hot shot agent of yours would’ve tried to arrest me. I can’t exactly conduct my investigation from a jail cell, can I?” Jim replied.
Still slightly stunned, Cranston sat down in the chair across from Jim slowly and thought for a moment. “What exactly were you doing out there, anyway?”
“Henderson had a load of garbage that needed to be taken to the dump. He couldn’t do it so he called me,” Jim replied.
“That early in the morning and in a rainstorm?” Cranston looked at him cockeyed.
“Anthony Marcellous, the man who runs the landfill, was taking a few days off and going to Portland. He agreed to open the landfill first thing yesterday morning if the trash could be delivered before he left. Otherwise, it would have had to stay at Henderson’s until Monday,” Jim answered.
Lifting his hand to his face, Cranston rubbed his jaw. “What time did you get to Henderson’s?”
“I’m not sure, exactly,” Jim replied. “I only stayed a short time and left exactly at five. I remember because I checked my watch.”
“What time did you reach the landfill?”
“About five-thirty,” Jim replied.
“How long did it take to dump the garbage?”
“Only a couple of minutes. I just had Marcellous disconnect the trailer and I left.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went home and got some rest.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Yes, my girlfriend was there when I got home. That was about seven,” Jim replied.
“That’s no good, Sheriff. The coroner’s report says that Henderson was killed around six. There’s no way to prove that you didn’t go back to Henderson’s and kill him.” Cranston folded up the report and tossed it on the desk.
“But I’m telling you I didn’t do it!” Jim exclaimed.
“Your word isn’t enough. You have no alibi. That makes you a suspect.”
“Bradley is the only one who could’ve done it. I need you to help me start an investigation into that possibility.” Jim urged.
Cranston took a step back and looked at Jim in a strange manner. “I’m not Internal Affairs. I can’t launch an investigation of one of my agents without proof. All you’ve got is speculation and hear say. If you had a bullet it would be a different story, but you have nothing.”
“Bradley has nothing, as well! It’s his word against mine,” Jim replied.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Sheriff. Bradley found opium at both scenes. That’s hard evidence. It holds his story together. It makes it plausible. While your’s folds like a card house.” Cranston was starting to feel a little irritated.
Jim didn’t know what to say, he was at the end of his rope. Then it came to him. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. Cranston looked over to him. “I may not have a bullet, but I have a witness.”
Cranston looked at Jim as if he were crazy. “What are you talking about?”
“Chet Green,” Jim replied. “He was up there with Bradley. He has to know exactly what happened.”
“He hasn’t said anything so far. What makes you think he’ll talk now?”
“He’ll have to! We’ll bring him in for questioning and confront him.” Jim again stood up and paced nervously as his mind toyed with the idea.
“Now you’re getting desperate! This is the nineties and that only works in the movies.” Cranston argued as he looked at Jim. He saw a man that was exhausted and not thinking clearly.
The stress had taken its toll and Jim looked fifteen years older than he was. Cranston had already written this case off as a loss. Sure, he had hopes of resurrecting his career, but he wasn’t going to risk his pension by doing something foolish.
“Why won’t it work?” Harper asked. “If he knows we’re on to him, he may want to swing a deal.”
“Green isn’t going to talk because he’s too smart! He knows what the law says and what his rights are. Heck, he’s a reporter! Do you know what that means?” Cranston leaned on the desk and looked at Jim. “He’ll crucify us on national television if we so much as shine a light in his face!” Cranston shook his head decisively. “No, Sheriff. There will be no interrogation of the press!”
Jim slowly stepped back from the desk and stared at the floor. Turning towards the window, he gazed aimlessly at the distant mountains. After a few moments, Jim spoke quietly. “Now that you know I’m Mr. X, are you going to turn me in?”
Cranston felt sorry for Jim and decided that this man could use a break. In many ways they were in the same situation—only Jim’s was worse. He suddenly remembered that he’d felt bad for neglecting his responsibility with regards to Bradley and he wanted to make it up to Harper.
“No, I’m not, Sheriff,” he replied thoughtfully. “I think it would be better for both of us if this discussion never happened. Besides, I believe you. I wish I could help, but without that bullet, my hands are tied.”
Jim continued to stare at the mountains. “So what’s going to happen now?” he said after a long moment of consideration.
Taking a deep breath, Cranston thought about the question as he let it out slowly. “Well, your investigation has stalled.” He walked to the window next to Jim and stared out. “It looks like Bradley’s has also come to a dead end. The only lead left is the fingerprints and knowing Bradley, he’ll probably lose interest before he finds a match and move onto something else. However, eventually, they’ll be matched to you using your military file. At which point, you’ll have to explain yourself so you’d better have your story straight.” Cranston continued to stare out the window as he spoke. “But in the long run, there’s not enough real evidence for a conviction, so it’ll go nowhere.”
Jim felt depressed. “So it’s all over…case closed.”
“Not in the least.” Cranston glanced at Jim then back at the mountains. “You don’t think it could be over without someone taking the blame, do you? Bradley was right, you know, he has powerful friends. We’re through.”
“Do you think we’ll be fired?”
“No, I don’t think the Governor could do that, but he can force us to retire,” Cranston replied.
Jim let out a heavy sigh. Two of his best friends were dead, and his life was in ruins. He used to feel so confident, sometimes cocky. Now he realized how powerless he was in stopping the events of the last couple of days and his heart sank.
At that moment the lack of sleep and exhaustion caught up with him. His head ached and his eyes were red and soar. He needed a cup of coffee to hold himself together. He turned around slowly. Picking up his cup from the desk, he slowly walked to the door and opened it. As he walked to t
he pot, Jim could hear his deputies discussing the case, but he really wasn’t listening very closely.
Agent O’Leary stepped out of the conference room holding a pile of shift reports. “Which one of you is Simms?”
“That would be me,” a man said from the desk behind Jim.
O’Leary stepped over to the desk. “I was just going over your shift report from yesterday and I found a discrepancy. Its nothing really, but I hope you can help me correct it.”
“What’s wrong?” Simms asked as he leaned over the desk to look at the report.
“Well, it’s like this,” O’Leary started to explain. “You wrote here that you relieved Rissley from sentry duty on Henderson’s porch at 8 a.m. this morning.”
“That’s right, what’s the problem?” Simms replied.
“Rissley’s report says you relieved her at 6 a.m… Which is it? Eight or six?” O’Leary asked.
“Come to think of it,” Simms said as he sat back in his chair. “It didn’t start to get light until two to three hours after I started duty. It must’ve been six o’clock. Otherwise, I would’ve noticed it getting lighter when I relieved her.”
“Well I suggest you get your watch fixed,” O’Leary said.
“I wasn’t wearing a watch. I got the time from that weird clock on Henderson’s porch. It must be two hours fast.”
That can’t be right, Jim thought to himself as he poured the coffee. When he’d left Buck’s place, the clock was an hour slow. Even if Buck corrected the time after he’d left, he wouldn’t have set it two hours fast.
Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. “Dang! That’s hot!” He exclaimed. The whole office looked at him. In the excitement of the moment, Jim had forgotten what he was doing and poured coffee on himself. Setting the pot down on the counter, he rushed back to his office. Cranston was a still staring out of the window as if he was the one who’d lost his best friend.
Jim grabbed Cranston. “I know where the bullet is!”
Cranston’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Are you sure?” The news was too good to be true.
“It’s got to be there. There’s no other possibility.”
“If you’re right, Sheriff, we’ll be able to nail that little jerk.” Cranston’s body filled with a strange and welcome new energy. “Where is it?”
“Come with me. I’ll explain on the way.”
Cranston followed Jim out of the office and to the back door. As they exited the building, a herd of reporters noticed them and rushed toward them.
“Get in quick!” Jim said loudly as he jumped in the driver’s side of the Blazer, slamming it shut just as the reporters closed in on them. Cranston was in the passenger seat a moment later just as a young woman with a microphone started pounding on the side of the truck. Jim pulled out quickly to avoid the crowd.
“Whew! That was close,” Cranston said as he caught his breath. “We almost didn’t make it out of there.”
Jim flipped on his lights and siren as he raced down the street. Barely waiting for vehicles to move, he swerved in and out of traffic as car horns blared in reply.
“My Lord, Sheriff! I didn’t know we were in this big of a hurry!” Cranston said as he struggled to stay in his seat. “Exactly what are we doing?”
Jim began to explain. “Remember I told you that I knew I’d left Henderson’s before the murder at 5 a.m., because I had checked my watch.”
“Yeah, so what of it?” Cranston shrugged.
“Well, when I checked my watch I noticed that Henderson’s porch clock was one hour slow,” Jim said without taking his eyes off the road. “But one of my deputies just stated that the porch clock is now two hours fast. That clock is in the line of flight of the bullet we’re looking for.”
“So you think that the bullet hit the hour hand and moved it three hours ahead?”
“It’s a strange clock, it has no hands,” Jim replied. “Each hour of the day is painted on a shingle and placed on the end of a spoke of a wheel. The clock has a cover with a pie shape window cut at the top of it. Whatever time of the day it is, hours one through twelve, that shingle shows up in the window.”
So you think that the bullet went through that little window and is lodged somewhere inside the clock.” Cranston said.
“If Henderson was killed any time during the six o’clock hour—” Jim started to say but was interrupted.
“Then the five o’clock shingle would’ve been in the window because the clock was slow.”
“How much do you want to bet the five o’clock shingle has a hole in it?” Jim asked.
This brought a huge smile to Cranston’s face. “Can’t this thing go any faster? We’ve got a bullet to find!”
Jim didn’t answer him. As he turned onto the highway, his foot was heavy on the pedal until the speedometer was out of sight.