Catch As Cat Can

27

Rick Shaw stopped off at Pantops Shopping Center to grab a snack. He'd slipped back into the car with the sandwiches as Cynthia Cooper returned with drinks and two cartons of cigarettes since the price was so good.

He turned on the engine. Just as he did he heard the dispatcher's voice. “Sheriff, Sheriff Zakarios of Culpeper needs to talk to you. I've been trying to get you.”

“Say what he want, Sheila?”

“No. But he said it's important.”

“See if you can get him for me. I'll be in the car.”

“Righto.”

“Wonder what Zak wants.” Coop bit into a ham-and-cheese sandwich. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until she took her first bite.

“Rick,” Zakarios's voice boomed over citizen's band radio.

“Yes, Zak. What's cooking in Culpeper?”

“Albemarle resident found on White Shop Road just about a half hour ago. Shot through the temple, slumped over the steering wheel. Don Clatterbuck.”

“I'll be right there, Zak.”

“We sealed off the site. You know this guy?”

“Yes.”

“Damnedest thing, he has a stuffed pileated woodpecker on the seat next to him. Thing's almost two feet tall.”

“He's a taxidermist on the side. Sirens on, maybe I can get to you in a half hour. I don't know, rain's looking evil.”

“How far down are you on White Shop Road? This is Deputy Cynthia Cooper.”

“Hi, Coop. Not two miles. We're a little off the road to the right. You'll see the yellow tape and the squad cars. Ambulance will be here, too. Thought you'd want to see him before—” He was interrupted, then returned. “John says he thinks he's been dead less than an hour.”

“Be there as fast as I can. Over and out.”

A gushing rivulet of rainwater poured down in front of Rick Shaw's eyes each time he bent his head. The sheriff's hat, a modified cowboy hat that he and other officers wore, shunted water fore and aft, but the rains were so heavy the hat was soaked through in fifteen minutes.

Sheriff Zakarios mourned the loss of clean vehicle tracks next to the truck. Tracks could still be seen but the rain wiped out a tread imprint. “We've gone over his truck thoroughly.” He wiped his cheeks, wet; his hands were wet, too. “Not a feather off this woodpecker.”

Coop leaned against the 1987 GMC truck, now wearing real license plates, her back to it. “The woodpecker belongs to Mary Minor Haristeen. He must have just finished it.”

“She into drugs or anything?” Chris Zakarios asked.

“No,” Coop replied. “Straight as an arrow. Why, were you going to tear apart the woodpecker?”

“Not right off the bat but I'll impound it for a while.”

“Neat. Small caliber.” Rick opened the door a crack again, inspecting the wound. “Twenty-two, I'd reckon.”

“Whoever it was walked right up to him,” Chris theorized. “The driver's window wasn't down. The door was closed. So the door had to be opened, perhaps by Clatterbuck himself, bam, then the killer closes the door and drives off. Swift. No sign of struggle.”

“Well, Don wasn't looking for it.” Rick sighed. “Your people might as well take the body away. I appreciate you calling me. You'll keep the Cowboys windbreaker for evidence, too? You see, we've been looking for this particular truck and windbreaker.”

“I don't suppose there was anything in the pockets that—” Coop hoped against hope.

“A matchbook. We dusted it. Here.” He handed it to Coop, who bent over to shelter it from the downpour.

Beautifully colored with turquoise, airbrushed orange, and yellow with squibbles of purple, the matchbook was expensive to produce. Three inches by two inches, shiny coated paper, the proprietor intended to make an upscale statement. “Roy and Nadine's,” with the Y of Roy as a martini glass, announced the restaurant in Lexington, Kentucky. The address, Palomar Center, Harrodsburg Pike and Man-O-War Drive, was printed on the back. The phone number was printed under the address.

Rick huddled next to Coop. “Don't jump to conclusions.”

“I'm not but if this matchbook belongs to Partlow maybe he's from Kentucky.”

“We sent the fingerprints out nationally,” Rick replied.

“Doesn't mean he's got a record.” She noted that at the bottom of the matchbook, the black lip had printed in white ink, “Contemporary American Cuisine.” The R in the restaurant's name was printed in yellow, the A in deep orange, and the N was hot pink. “Great design. I'll call the restaurant.” She walked back to the squad car, scribbled down the information, then emerged into the deluge, handing the matchbook back to Sheriff Zakarios.

“Know much about the victim?” the Culpeper sheriff asked.

“Friendly. No record. A relaxed kind of guy.”

Coop answered the good-looking, trim Culpeper sheriff. “It's hard to imagine anyone wanting to kill him.”

“Half of what we do comes back to drugs.” The sheriff squinted as the rain blew sideways. “Maybe he had a secret life.”

“It's a damn national epidemic.” Rick stepped away from the GMC as the ambulance crew pulled out the body. “Coop, get the license plate number.”

“Yeah.” She had written down the letters and numbers the minute she got out of the squad car. The license plate, white with blue raised numbers, appeared much older than the truck itself but it had the correct registration stickers on the upper left-hand and upper right-hand corners. She slipped inside the squad car, ran the information, and within minutes was back out. “Nothing. This license plate is from before computer records. Carol Grossman will check back in the files. But the stickers are certainly current. And there's no way you can peel them off another vehicle's plate without tearing the stickers.”

“We've got a homicide. The victim was reported driving this truck.”

“Kid hanging from a tree.” Sheriff Zakarios stroked his long, square chin. “That's a hell of a note. So is this.”

“Thanks for the call.” Rick Shaw clapped Zak's back.

“I'll help in any way I can.”

One of Zak's deputies called to him while wrapping the pileated woodpecker in plastic. “Good work.”

“He did very good work.” Cooper sighed. Don was a likeable man, clearly a man who had either been in the wrong place at the wrong time or had been involved in something she couldn't fathom right then. But she and Rick would figure it out. They usually did, and she always came to the same conclusion: it's easier to keep your nose to the grindstone and be honest. But she couldn't imagine what Don could have done that was dishonest. As far as she knew, criminals had no need of taxidermy skills.

As they climbed back into the squad car, Rick tossed his hat in the back, droplets flinging outward. Coop threw hers back there, too.

“I'll have to get my hat blocked. I forgot my plastic hat cover.”

“Those things look awful.” She shivered in her seat.

“Chill?”

“Yeah. Soaked to the bone.”

“Me, too, but I've more protection.” He pinched his spare tire, which was decreasing slowly. Rick struggled with dieting. The temptation was to roll into a fast-food joint.

“When we get back I'd better tell Harry her woodpecker has been impounded.”

“This woodpecker is news to me. She shooting woodpeckers out there? Isn't that against the law?” He winked.

“Found it dead by the back porch. Actually, the cats found it.”

“Those cats of hers.” Rick laughed. “She'd better enlist them for Social Security numbers given all the work they do.” He turned left down Route 29. After about five minutes he asked, “Any ideas?”

“The truck ties them together. Weird.” She lapsed into silence and then spoke again. “I'll track down Lottie Pearson, too.”

“Why?”

“She dragged Don to Mim's charity dance.”

“And wasn't it Lottie who brought O'Bannon the coffee? It was. Glad you were there. Lottie Pearson.” He whistled low. “Want me to turn up the heat?”

“No. We'll suffocate. I've got a change of clothes in my locker. I'll talk to Lottie after calling Roy and Nadine's. She'll be a real treat.” Coop folded her arms across her chest.