The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.

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       CHAPTER 13

      Harry shoved aside a file of forms on his desktop, set a new stack in its place. He paused and stared at me.

      “You all right, Cars?”

      “Sure, Harry. Why?”

      “You’ve said maybe three words since you got in this morning. How was the big kick-up for Channel 14? Dancing and prancing with the swells? That was this weekend, right?”

      “It was fine.”

      I realized if I didn’t go into detail, Harry’s antennae would register my distress. I gave a brief synopsis of the evening: impaired music, great eats, first-class beverages, lots of chatter in biz-speak.

      “Plus I even got a look at upper-crust Mobile: a family called the Kincannons. They were so –”

      Harry broke into my recitation. “You meet Buck?”

      I stared at my partner like a plumed hat had appeared on his head.

      “What?”

      “Buck Kincannon. You get a chance to say hi?”

      “How the hell do you know Buck Kincannon?”

      “Back four or five years ago I was working with a civic group in north Mobile, by Pritchard. Maybe you remember?”

      “I recall a couple months when all your nights seemed locked up. Weekends, too. Something about a ball league?”

      He nodded. “The group’s big push was getting inner-city kids into sports, baseball. Kids from ten to fourteen years old. Keep ’em on a ball field, not the streets. We were beating our heads against the wall, scratching up third-hand equipment. We’d been trying to get the city to let us use an abandoned lot as a practice field, but they kept whining about liability. Mardy Baker, the director of a social services organization, sent letters to all the big civic and charitable organizations, trying to scratch up money. No go.”

      “Where’d Kincannon fit in?”

      “One of the letters had gone to the Kincannons’ family foundation. A philanthropic deal. Kincannon himself showed up at our next meeting, checkbook in hand.”

      “Keep going.”

      “Suddenly our ragtag kids got Louisville Slugger bats, Rawlings gloves, uniforms. It wasn’t just money, it was influence. Like he walked into City Hall with a shopping list and said, ‘Here’s what I want.’ Two days later all permits are in order, insurance isn’t a problem, nothing’s a problem. The old field got re-sodded, sand and dirt trucked in to fill the baselines, build a pitcher’s mound. Stands went up so parents could sit and cheer for the kids.”

      “So you sat around while Kincannon waved a magic wand?”

      “The group was moms mainly, plus a couple of community-activist types. They made me designated hitter for dealing with Buck, me being a big, important cop and all. We went to lunch, him laying out plans, me nodding and going, ‘Sure, Buck, sounds good.’”

      “What’d you think of him – Kincannon?” I sounded casual.

      Harry flipped a thumbs-up. “From setting the city straight to setting the timetable, he took over. You don’t think of people with that kind of power and influence getting down in the gritty, and he’s cool in my book.”

      I stopped listening, put my head on nod-and-grunt function as Harry continued enumerating the angelic feats of the Holy Buckster.

      “ …opened that field and you should have seen the kids’ eyes. Buck later said it was one of the highlights of his …”

      Nod. Grunt. Nod. Grunt.

      “ …all the local politicos showed up like it was their idea, standing next to Buck and getting their pictures taken …”

      Nod. Grunt.

      “ …guess you can do anything, you got the money to do it.”

      I was between grunt and nod when I remembered I wanted to call Warden Malone up at Holman and get a status report on Leland Harwood. I headed toward the small conference room to get some quiet, but Harry followed, still singing the glories of Buck Kincannon.

      “Good-looking fella, too. Probably has to shovel the ladies out the door in the a.m …”

      We went to the small conference room. I dialed the prison, ran the call through the teleconference device, a black plastic starfish in the center of the round table. Malone was on a minute later.

      “Leland Harwood died two hours after he was stricken in the visitors’ room. Never regained consciousness.”

      “Poison?” I said.

      “A witch’s brew of toxins. Organophosphates, the report says. I’d never heard the term. Pesticide, herbicide, some industrial chemicals.” I heard paper rattling in Warden Malone’s hand as he read from the page.

      “Where did all that stuff come from?” Harry asked.

      “All available inside, Detective,” Malone said. “Cleaning supplies, rat poison, roach paste, paint thinner. They’re kept tucked away, but …”

      “So someone squirted a bunch of stuff on Harwood’s scrambled eggs and he drops dead later?”

      “The docs say it took some mixing of compounds to get the right effect, the maximum bang for the buck, to be crass.”

      “Harwood got banged hard,” I noted. “He have any enemies?”

      “I’ve checked around and the answer is, not really. He was a smart-ass, but managed to stay out of major confrontations. Wanting to appear angelic for the parole board will do that.”

      “Got any poisoners up there?” Harry asked.

      “Several. But we keep them real far СКАЧАТЬ