Catch As Cat Can

23

St. Luke's Lutheran Church, pleasing eighteenth-century architecture with clean brick and white lintels, filled with those wishing to pay their last respects to Roger O'Bannon. The town residents crammed into the pews, the light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

All rose when Sean O'Bannon and his mother, Ida, entered by the door next to the lectern to take their seats in the front row. The once numerous O'Bannon clan had dwindled over the decades. As neither Roger nor Sean had ever married, the line might well end with Sean.

As the mother and son seated themselves, the congregation also sat down.

People were surprised at the change in Sean's appearance. He'd cut off his dork knob, gotten a good haircut, and was clean shaven. A well-cut dark gray suit gave him a substantial, solemn air. No one could remember Sean wearing a suit since high school; he'd always been low-key, counter-culture. The Reverend Jones solemnly came out of a door recessed behind the pulpit. He bowed his head before the altar, then turned to face the congregation. Herb, no stranger to funerals, tried to invest this last event with meaning. He avoided platitudes, the easy phrase.

Fair sat with Harry. Susan and Ned Tucker, Miranda and Tracy were on the other side of Harry. After the service they drove to the cemetery south of town, a pleasant site with a beautiful view of rolling pastures. When the casket was lowered into the grave, tears rolled down Sean's cheeks. He'd held up until then. His mother put her arm around his waist.

When Harry drove away with Fair, Susan, and Ned in Ned's car, Sean was still standing at the gravesite.

“Depressing,” Susan tersely said.

“Harry, do you want to go back to the post office or do you have time for lunch?” Ned turned left toward town.

“Work. Miranda's having lunch with Tracy.”

“Want me to bring you a sandwich?” Susan volunteered.

“Yeah. How about chicken, lettuce, tomato, and mayo on whole wheat.”

“Do you have cat and dog food at the P.O.?” Ned pulled up at the post office.

“Susan, you know I do. I'll go hungry before they do.” Harry smiled as she hopped out of the car.

“I've got a call at Quail Ridge Farm.” Fair rolled down the window. “Take you to the movies over the weekend?”

“Sure,” Harry replied.

The post office was only fifteen minutes from the cemetery by foot but she had liked being in the car with her old friends. As Harry walked in the back door she caught a glimpse of the two cats, paws fishing in the backs of the postboxes. They jumped down as she closed the back door and walked across to unlock the sliding door—like a small garage door—that separated the public section of the post office from the workers' section.

“What are you two doing?”

“Nothing,” both said unconvincingly.

She walked to the open backs of the postboxes, peering inside, shutting one eye for a better view. The torn ends of envelopes presented themselves. Irritated, Harry pulled them out. “Great, Big Mim and Fair. You would have to claw those two.”

“We were just playing,” Pewter replied. “No real harm done.”

“For now.” Tucker rolled over on her back.

“You're supposed to be on our side.” Mrs. Murphy pushed the mail cart into the recumbent dog.

Before a first-class fight could erupt, Cynthia Cooper opened the front door.

“Hey, I thought I'd see you at the funeral,” Harry said.

“I was picking up the coroner's report on Wesley Partlow.”

“And?”

“Murdered.”

Harry grimaced. “By hanging?”

“Ultimately. Apparently he was a hard bugger to kill. Given the rains and the condition of the body when we found him, we shipped him right off to the cooler. But on close examination, small hunks of hair were torn from his head, there were bruises on his torso. He put up a fight. He can't be exactly sure but Marshall Wells is ninety percent certain that Wesley wasn't dead when the rope was put around his neck. Unconscious, maybe, but not dead.”

“That's gruesome.”

“Yep. I was quite happy not to have to attend this coroner's exam.”

“I don't think I could get through one with a body in good condition.”

“You get used to it. Think of the body as a book. You open it up and read.” The tall blonde pointed toward the divider.

Harry nodded, so Cooper flipped it up and walked toward the back.

“Coffee, tea, Coke. Susan's bringing me a sandwich. You're welcome to half.”

“Actually, I just ate.” She sat down in the chair. “No sign of the GMC truck either. I don't know if he stole it and returned it before the owner knew it, stole it and the owner didn't report it, or the owner lent it to him. I keep thinking the truck will get me on the rails.

“The other thing that bothers me is I can't find a police record. We sent out his dental information. That's often the easiest way to get something, that and the name. But Wesley Partlow isn't his real name.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed as Cooper filled her in on the false photo on the driver's license.

“I'm going over the mountain to Waynesboro later today.”

Harry sat down opposite Cooper as Murphy jumped in her lap and Pewter nestled in Cooper's. “It's almost as if he were a ghost, isn't it? A nameless, unknown person who”—she paused—“left no trace.”

“Except for the Falcon hubcaps.” Cynthia Cooper sucked in air between her teeth. “A kid like that collects bad marks, a real bad report card. I'll find it in time.”

“Does that mean you have to keep the remains?”

“No. We've got photographs of the corpse. And we took mug shots and fingerprints when we booked him. There's not much point in keeping him in the cooler. A lot of times when a corpse is disfigured or decayed, people can't recognize it. Odd though, some corpses retain their features for a long time, the eyes can be gone, the lips, too, but they are still very identifiable.

“You know, I have this theory that fake boobs, plastic hips, the whole march of medicine will mean that corpses stay around longer. We don't just live longer, we die longer—sort of.”

“You're punchy,” Harry replied.

“A little.”

“How's Rick?” Harry stroked under Mrs. Murphy's chin.

“You know how he gets when he has an unsolved crime. He's pieced together all the area topo maps and pinned them on the wall. Then he uses colored pins for the day. Day one, all the known movements of the victim are in blue. Day two, green and so on. It's a good system because Rick thinks better if he can visualize.”

“He's a good sheriff.”

“Yes, not that the county knows or cares.” Coop sighed. “People take things for granted.”

“In every endeavor.” Harry started to reach across the table but it squeezed Murphy so she stopped. “The only reason to kill someone like Wesley is because he was caught red-handed stealing again or”—she stopped a second—“because he knew something.”

“Revenge.”

Harry thought a moment. “Maybe.”

“Suppose he insulted someone on a deep level? You know, tried to seduce a man's wife or, worse, an underage daughter. Something like that can set a normal person right off. Murder is normal. That's why we don't want to look at it. The media is fascinated with serial killers, a fairly rare aberration, but most murders are run-of-the-mill affairs committed by run-of-the-mill people.”

“That theory would place Wesley's killer in his own social class. Wouldn't it? People like Wesley don't have a lot of contact with people higher up on the scale.”

“My, what a pretty gray tummy and so much of it, too.” Cooper laughed as Pewter rolled over in her lap. “Uh— I don't know. What if he did odd jobs on a big farm, made a pass at the lady of the manor?” She shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

“He knew enough to sell hubcaps.”

“And to park cars.”

“My guess is he knew someone in Crozet. He wasn't just passing through. I mean, you don't just pass through Crozet. Charlottesville, yes, but not Crozet. We're a little off the beaten track.” Harry's features brightened. She liked figuring things out.

“Route 64's not that far away, nor is Route 250.”

“Yeah, but if you come to Crozet you usually have a purpose or a person in mind. We're a little bit nondescript, you know.”

Cooper thought silently for a time. “I think you're right. What next?” She ran her fingers through Pewter's fur.

“I don't know but I can help.”

“No,” Tucker said from under the table.

“Oh, Tucker, don't be a poopface. This will liven up the spring,” Mrs. Murphy chided her.

“You're the one who always counsels prudence,” the dog reminded her.

“Maybe I'm bored.” The tiger placed her paw on Harry's forearm. “I'm ready for a little action.”

“Be careful what you ask for.” Pewter turned her head so she could see Murphy from under the table.

“And what would you ask for?” the tiger replied.

“Steak tartare garnished with braised mouse tails.”