Melting Clock by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

“I’ve recovered the bullet Death took place last night or early this morning. I called Hal Overmeyer. He’ll bring the corpus to San Plentia Hospital and I’ll play with it till I know more.”
    Doc looked at me and shifted his black bag to his other hand.
    “Want me to look at your nose?” he asked.
    “I’ll be peachy,” I said.
    “Any other wounds need tending?” he asked. “I usually have to do a little patching in the wake of the Rangleys.”
    My head was throbbing and the ache in my side sucked deep and sharp.
    “I feel great,” I said. “Trooper Rangley knows how to treat a fella.”
    Doc looked at me and shook his head.
    “Never that simple, mister,” he said. “Beau and Mel are the last of the Rangley brothers. Rick died on Guam. Sam got killed in Morocco on a tank. And Harry, well, they never found enough of him to make it official. The oldest brother, Carl, he took a broken beer bottle in the gut half a year before the war broke out. Beau and Mel are draft-free and they promised their mother they wouldn’t join. So, every time they’re introduced to a new friend like you, they make ’em welcome. Rangleys are none too brilliant. You know what sublimate means?”
    “No,” I said. “Let me guess. They feel better when they kick someone’s teeth out.”
    “Something like that,” Doc agreed. “But to give you your due, the Rangleys weren’t a friendly bunch even when there was an even half dozen of them. Sheriff Nelson, what say you let the innocent man out and all of us go over to Hijo’s and have a few beers before my date with the deceased?”
    Nelson’s legs were back, at least back enough for him to nod and get up.
    “Why not?” he said wearily. “I’ve got to give my wife a call first.”
    Doc took the keys from Nelson and moved toward me as Nelson picked up the phone.
    “One more painting?” Doc asked as he opened the cell door.
    “One more clock,” I added, stepping into the office where Nelson was whispering into the receiver.
    “Running out of time,” said Doc, looking at the keys.
    I looked out the window at the retarded man, who was still watching me with a happy grin. This was probably the most exciting day of his life.
    “There was fresh blood on the floor of the antique shop,” I said low enough so Nelson couldn’t hear me from across the room.
    “Not the victim’s,” said Doc. “Probably not the killer’s either. I’d imagine whoever did it was long gone and far away before dawn.”
    I pointed to the window. Doc looked where I was pointing and saw the handprint.
    We moved past Nelson’s desk. The sheriff gave us a shrug, turned his back to us and continued whispering into the phone.
    “Martin Sawyer,” I said, looking at the retarded man.
    Doc looked up as we reached the door.
    “Like many of the inhabitants of Mirador, I delivered him.”
    “Harmless?”
    “Harmless,” said Doc, stepping out onto the sidewalk and holding the door open for me.
    Nelson, still on the phone, waved us ahead.
    We were standing in front of Martin Sawyer now, and Sawyer turned from the sheriff’s office window and smiled gently at us as Doc sighed.
    “Let me look at your hand, Martin.”
    Martin took his right hand out of his pocket and held it out. It was pink with flecks of fast-drying blood.
    “Peters,” said Doc, looking at the hand. “Martin Sawyer is incapable of committing violence.”
    “But not of witnessing it.”
    Through the window we could see Sheriff Nelson hang up the phone.
    “I’d prefer that Martin not go through the pain of arrest and questioning,” said Doc, guiding Martin’s hand back to the overall pocket.
    “I know who killed him,” said Martin Sawyer happily. His voice was soft and high.
    Nelson was moving toward the door through which Doc and I had just come.
    “Who” asked Doc.
    “Last night, Mr. Claude told me a name. Then I came back before and Mr. Claude was, was, was …”
    “Dead,” I said.
    Martin Sawyer looked frightened.