sheriff's department vehicles were parked outside the yellow crime-scene tape that had been strung through the oak trees. The coroner had not arrived but our forensic chemist, Mack Bertrand, was kneeling beside the body, slipping plastic bags over the hands of the dead man. A small man in tattered clothes and tennis shoes without socks sat outside the tape his back against a tree trunk, his knees drawn up before him.
"How do you read it, Mack?" I said.
"The shooter used a revolver or he picked up his brass. I'd say the wounds were made with either a .38 or a nine-millimeter," he replied. He had ascetic features and wore a clip-on bow tie, suspenders, a crinkling white shirt, and a briar pipe in a little leather holster on his belt.
He lifted the dead man's right wrist. "It looks like there's shoe polish under his fingernails," he said. "My guess is the first round was fired from a distance and hit him in the chest. Then the shooter walked up close and put the next two in him point-blank. The victim probably looked up into the shooter's face and grabbed his shoe before he died."
"Why would he do that?" Helen asked.
Mack shook his head. He popped open another plastic bag and with a pair of tweezers lifted the coned plastic cup from the dead man's mouth, then dropped it inside the bag. "Take a look at this," he said, getting to his feet. "There's blood on the bottom of the cup. That means the victim's heart was probably still pumping when the cup was shoved into his mouth."
"Meaning?" Helen said.
"Who knows?" he said.
"No forced entry on the building?" I said.
"None that I could see," he said.
"How about tire impressions?" Helen asked.
"Probably every kind of tire made in the western world has been through here. Did y'all know this guy?" Mack said.
"He moved back here from L.A. He used to sell burial insurance," Helen said.
I looked at the small man in tattered clothes sitting against the tree trunk outside the tape "Is that the guy who found the victim?"
"Yeah, good luck. I get the impression he's a traveling wine connoisseur," Mack said.
I stepped outside the crime-scene tape and squatted down eye-level with the man in tattered clothes. His skin was grimed with dirt and he wore a greasy cap crimped down on his head. Like all men of his kind, his origins, the people who had conceived him, the place or home where he grew up had probably long ago ceased being of any importance to him.
"You were sleeping by the tracks?" I said.
"I fell off the train. I was pretty much knocked out," he said.
"Did you see or hear anything that might be helpful to us?" I asked.
"I told it to that other guy." He nodded toward Mack Bertrand.
"Nothing bad is going to happen to you, podna. You're not going to jail. We're not holding you as a material witness. All those things are off the table Just tell me what you saw."
He wiped his nose with his wrist. "Late last night I heard some thing go 'pop." Then I heard it again. Maybe twice. Then a pickup truck drove off."
"Did you see the driver?"
"No."
"What did the pickup truck look like?"
"Just a truck. It was going down toward the bridge there."
"Why'd you come across the road this morning?"
"They got free coffee at the hospital," he replied.
My knees ached when I stood up. I took two dollars from my wallet and gave it to him. "There's a donut shop back toward town. Why don't you get yourself something to eat?" I said. I started to walk away from him.
"I seen something go flying out the truck window. Under the streetlight. Down toward the drawbridge. I don't know if that's any help to you or not," he said.
A few minutes later the coroner arrived. Later, the paramedics unzipped a black body bag and placed the remains of Leon Hebert inside it and lifted it onto a gurney. Mack Bertrand fiddled with his pipe and put it between his teeth, upside down. He was a family man, a Little League coach and regular churchgoer and usually not given to a public expression of sentiment.
"You
"How do you read it, Mack?" I said.
"The shooter used a revolver or he picked up his brass. I'd say the wounds were made with either a .38 or a nine-millimeter," he replied. He had ascetic features and wore a clip-on bow tie, suspenders, a crinkling white shirt, and a briar pipe in a little leather holster on his belt.
He lifted the dead man's right wrist. "It looks like there's shoe polish under his fingernails," he said. "My guess is the first round was fired from a distance and hit him in the chest. Then the shooter walked up close and put the next two in him point-blank. The victim probably looked up into the shooter's face and grabbed his shoe before he died."
"Why would he do that?" Helen asked.
Mack shook his head. He popped open another plastic bag and with a pair of tweezers lifted the coned plastic cup from the dead man's mouth, then dropped it inside the bag. "Take a look at this," he said, getting to his feet. "There's blood on the bottom of the cup. That means the victim's heart was probably still pumping when the cup was shoved into his mouth."
"Meaning?" Helen said.
"Who knows?" he said.
"No forced entry on the building?" I said.
"None that I could see," he said.
"How about tire impressions?" Helen asked.
"Probably every kind of tire made in the western world has been through here. Did y'all know this guy?" Mack said.
"He moved back here from L.A. He used to sell burial insurance," Helen said.
I looked at the small man in tattered clothes sitting against the tree trunk outside the tape "Is that the guy who found the victim?"
"Yeah, good luck. I get the impression he's a traveling wine connoisseur," Mack said.
I stepped outside the crime-scene tape and squatted down eye-level with the man in tattered clothes. His skin was grimed with dirt and he wore a greasy cap crimped down on his head. Like all men of his kind, his origins, the people who had conceived him, the place or home where he grew up had probably long ago ceased being of any importance to him.
"You were sleeping by the tracks?" I said.
"I fell off the train. I was pretty much knocked out," he said.
"Did you see or hear anything that might be helpful to us?" I asked.
"I told it to that other guy." He nodded toward Mack Bertrand.
"Nothing bad is going to happen to you, podna. You're not going to jail. We're not holding you as a material witness. All those things are off the table Just tell me what you saw."
He wiped his nose with his wrist. "Late last night I heard some thing go 'pop." Then I heard it again. Maybe twice. Then a pickup truck drove off."
"Did you see the driver?"
"No."
"What did the pickup truck look like?"
"Just a truck. It was going down toward the bridge there."
"Why'd you come across the road this morning?"
"They got free coffee at the hospital," he replied.
My knees ached when I stood up. I took two dollars from my wallet and gave it to him. "There's a donut shop back toward town. Why don't you get yourself something to eat?" I said. I started to walk away from him.
"I seen something go flying out the truck window. Under the streetlight. Down toward the drawbridge. I don't know if that's any help to you or not," he said.
A few minutes later the coroner arrived. Later, the paramedics unzipped a black body bag and placed the remains of Leon Hebert inside it and lifted it onto a gurney. Mack Bertrand fiddled with his pipe and put it between his teeth, upside down. He was a family man, a Little League coach and regular churchgoer and usually not given to a public expression of sentiment.
"You
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