said.
“Who?”
“Milton Munday. He’s the talk show guy on KCLR.”
“I don’t listen to that station. They never play any music. Nobody else does, either, these days, just stuff they call music. Country music’s not country, mostly, and rap’s not music at all. I don’t like to listen to somebody like Munday run his mouth. What makes him think he knows so much, anyway?”
Rhodes couldn’t answer that one.
“He’s a smart aleck, if you ask me,” Fowler said. “So since I don’t like any of the music, and since I don’t like Munday, I don’t listen to anything.”
Rhodes thought that was a sensible attitude, but he wanted to turn the conversation back to the hog hunters.
“You all stayed together last night after you left me?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Fowler said. “We were all chasing the dogs.”
“When did you come back for the hog you killed?”
“It wasn’t long after we left it. We hauled it off, and Garver took it to Starkey’s today to get it dressed out.”
Starkey was a retired butcher who dressed hogs and deer and didn’t charge too much.
“We’d have done it ourselves,” Fowler said, “but we have jobs.”
Rhodes wouldn’t have done it himself even if he’d killed the hog. That kind of work was entirely too messy. Which reminded Rhodes of the Chandlers’ pet hog, Baby. He mentioned the incident to Fowler.
“I heard about it when it happened,” Fowler said. “I don’t know who’d do a thing like that, except maybe Starkey, and he wouldn’t have any reason to.”
“The Chandlers think maybe hog hunters had something to do with it.”
“Not anybody I know,” Fowler said. “Not my bunch, for sure, and that’s the truth.”
“The thing of it is,” Rhodes said, “we’ve had two murders out in those woods on the nights when you and your friends have been hunting there. When I went to see the Eccles cousins about it, they ran off so they wouldn’t have to talk to me, and you and the others say that nothing unusual happened. That’s a little hard to believe.”
“I can see that it might be,” Fowler said, not meeting Rhodes’s eyes, “but that’s the way it is.”
Rhodes didn’t let it drop. “Besides the murders, there was a lot of shooting out there the night before last, and it didn’t have anything to do with hogs except that it stampeded them. It just doesn’t seem likely that with all that going on, you didn’t notice a thing.”
Fowler looked at the panel and then at the brand-new breaker he held in one hand.
“Likely or not, that’s the way it is. I’d like to help you out if I could, Sheriff, but I got a job to do here, and I’m getting paid by the hour. The Fremonts wouldn’t like it if I spent all my time talking, even if it’s to the Law.”
Rhodes thanked him and left, more suspicious than ever. He still wanted the autopsy report, and after he got that, he’d go by and see if the Eccles boys had come back home. This time, he wouldn’t take Seepy Benton along. He didn’t know if he could survive without Benton’s detecting skills, but he was willing to give it a try.
* * *
The autopsy report didn’t tell Rhodes much that he didn’t know other than giving descriptions of tattoos from various parts of Rapinski’s anatomy.
“Los Muertos,” Rhodes said.
“The dead men,” Clyde Ballinger said, looking at Rhodes over the top of the book he was reading. The Corpse Wore Pasties . “I don’t know much Spanish, but I know enough to translate that.”
“It’s also the name of a motorcycle gang,” Rhodes said, “or it used to be. The gang broke up four or five years ago, and only a few of the members are left.”
Ballinger put down the book. “I didn’t know you were an expert on motorcycle gangs.”
“I’m an expert on that one,” Rhodes said. “I thought Rapinski looked familiar.”
“You knew him?”
“Somebody who looks like him,” Rhodes said.
Ballinger picked up his book, said,
“Who?”
“Milton Munday. He’s the talk show guy on KCLR.”
“I don’t listen to that station. They never play any music. Nobody else does, either, these days, just stuff they call music. Country music’s not country, mostly, and rap’s not music at all. I don’t like to listen to somebody like Munday run his mouth. What makes him think he knows so much, anyway?”
Rhodes couldn’t answer that one.
“He’s a smart aleck, if you ask me,” Fowler said. “So since I don’t like any of the music, and since I don’t like Munday, I don’t listen to anything.”
Rhodes thought that was a sensible attitude, but he wanted to turn the conversation back to the hog hunters.
“You all stayed together last night after you left me?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Fowler said. “We were all chasing the dogs.”
“When did you come back for the hog you killed?”
“It wasn’t long after we left it. We hauled it off, and Garver took it to Starkey’s today to get it dressed out.”
Starkey was a retired butcher who dressed hogs and deer and didn’t charge too much.
“We’d have done it ourselves,” Fowler said, “but we have jobs.”
Rhodes wouldn’t have done it himself even if he’d killed the hog. That kind of work was entirely too messy. Which reminded Rhodes of the Chandlers’ pet hog, Baby. He mentioned the incident to Fowler.
“I heard about it when it happened,” Fowler said. “I don’t know who’d do a thing like that, except maybe Starkey, and he wouldn’t have any reason to.”
“The Chandlers think maybe hog hunters had something to do with it.”
“Not anybody I know,” Fowler said. “Not my bunch, for sure, and that’s the truth.”
“The thing of it is,” Rhodes said, “we’ve had two murders out in those woods on the nights when you and your friends have been hunting there. When I went to see the Eccles cousins about it, they ran off so they wouldn’t have to talk to me, and you and the others say that nothing unusual happened. That’s a little hard to believe.”
“I can see that it might be,” Fowler said, not meeting Rhodes’s eyes, “but that’s the way it is.”
Rhodes didn’t let it drop. “Besides the murders, there was a lot of shooting out there the night before last, and it didn’t have anything to do with hogs except that it stampeded them. It just doesn’t seem likely that with all that going on, you didn’t notice a thing.”
Fowler looked at the panel and then at the brand-new breaker he held in one hand.
“Likely or not, that’s the way it is. I’d like to help you out if I could, Sheriff, but I got a job to do here, and I’m getting paid by the hour. The Fremonts wouldn’t like it if I spent all my time talking, even if it’s to the Law.”
Rhodes thanked him and left, more suspicious than ever. He still wanted the autopsy report, and after he got that, he’d go by and see if the Eccles boys had come back home. This time, he wouldn’t take Seepy Benton along. He didn’t know if he could survive without Benton’s detecting skills, but he was willing to give it a try.
* * *
The autopsy report didn’t tell Rhodes much that he didn’t know other than giving descriptions of tattoos from various parts of Rapinski’s anatomy.
“Los Muertos,” Rhodes said.
“The dead men,” Clyde Ballinger said, looking at Rhodes over the top of the book he was reading. The Corpse Wore Pasties . “I don’t know much Spanish, but I know enough to translate that.”
“It’s also the name of a motorcycle gang,” Rhodes said, “or it used to be. The gang broke up four or five years ago, and only a few of the members are left.”
Ballinger put down the book. “I didn’t know you were an expert on motorcycle gangs.”
“I’m an expert on that one,” Rhodes said. “I thought Rapinski looked familiar.”
“You knew him?”
“Somebody who looks like him,” Rhodes said.
Ballinger picked up his book, said,
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