“He’s not the guy that killed her.”
My curiosity outweighed the urge to gloat. “What makes you say that?”
“Dog tag’s a pretty good alibi, at least on the front end. He had to have sent it to her after he was in ’Nam, ’cause he didn’t make first lieutenant until he’d rescued that pilot. Besides, he doesn’t strike me as a killer. Call it cop’s instinct.”
I grinned, until I remembered the menacing look on O’Conner’s face. “But he knows who did it?”
“I think he thinks he knows.”
“The sheriff?”
Art chewed on that awhile, looking troubled. “Chronology’s a problem. How old’s Kitchings?”
“Forty, give or take a couple years.”
“But the evidence suggests she was killed thirty-two years ago. You think little eight-year-old Tommy Kitchings knocked up a strapping twenty-two-year-old, then throttled her when she started to show?”
Not likely, I conceded. “So why’d O’Conner point us at the sheriff?”
“Maybe he figures the sheriff knows. Maybe he figures the sheriff’s protecting somebody.”
That would explain Kitchings’s reluctance to speculate about the victim’s identity. But something about that scenario troubled me. It took me a moment to put my finger on what it was. “That doesn’t make sense, though. If the sheriff’s involved or covering up, why’d he drag me into this in the first place?”
“Good question. Maybe he’s not connected. Or maybe he is, but he didn’t realize it at first. Not till you started pulling on threads and his sleeve began to unravel.”
“Hmm. You still got time for an informal visit with one of your law enforcement brethren?”
I saw worry flicker in his face for the briefest of instants, then he flashed me a forced-looking grin. “Damn the tendrils. In for a penny, in for a pound.”
The sun was shining on the granite blocks of the courthouse when we parked, but as we walked toward it, a cloud moved in. The stone took on a dark and sinister hue. So did the SUVs and the black-and-gold helicopter parked behind the building. “Uh-oh,” I said. “Not a good omen.” We were almost to the front door when I caught Art’s arm. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” I turned back toward a sagging bench under a dying oak tree. The dilapidated bench was inhabited by two equally dilapidated old men, whittling on cedar sticks. Piles of fragrant shavings lay at their feet, covering their boots to the ankles. I nodded deferentially as I ambled toward them. “Howdy, fellas,” I said, raising my voice a few decibels.
“We’re just old. We ain’t deaf,” said one of them.
“What’s that?” wheezed the other through a sunken, toothless mouth. I turned my attention on the first one, who seemed like the better prospect. “You look like you probably know the ins and outs of Cooke County pretty well. Reckon you could help me remember a name from quite awhile back?”
“Well, I ain’t senile, either, but I cain’t make ye no guarantee.”
“Local girl—young woman, actually. Blonde, tall. Real tall. Lived around here in the nineteen-sixties, early seventies. Woulda been twenty or so by then.”
“Mister, I got no earthly idea.”
His companion wheezed to life. “Hell, course you ain’t. You ain’t been livin’
here but twenty year. You don’t know jack shit about Cooke County.” He worked his gums together thoughtfully. “Blonde-headed? About six foot?
Likely-lookin’ girl?” I nodded hopefully, though I couldn’t vouch for her prettiness based on the waxen death mask I had seen. His stubbled jaw slid from side to side. “Bonds.”
“Excuse me?”
“Bonds. That was that girl’s name. I disremember her first name. She was a looker, though, I ’member that real clear. Kindly high-spirited—sorta gal might need a little tamin’—but you could tell the ride would be worth gettin’ thowed off a time or two, if you know what I mean.”
“You remember what happened to her?”
“Just up and left. Run off, story I heard. Don’t know why. Wisht she hadn’t of—left a big hole in the scenery round here once she was gone.” The memory inspired more gum-grinding.
I thanked him and headed back toward Art, who was waiting on the steps. A wheezy voice called after me. “Sheriff might remember her given name. Ought to, leastwise. She was his kin.”
Tom Kitchings was cleaning a rifle when I flung open his door and stormed into his office. He looked up, startled at the intrusion, then startled at the expression on my face. “Easy there, Doc, you shouldn’t oughta startle a man holding a gun. What’s up? You come to bring me that skeleton?”
“No, I come— came—to see why you’re lying to me about this case.”
He laid the rifle down across the desk and looked up at me slowly. “Hold on a minute, Professor. Those are pretty strong words. You got something to back
’em up?” He looked over my shoulder at Art, who’d followed me into the office. “Who is this?”