Part 32 (1/2)

'You've been busy, waving that letter all over town, getting shot at. You folks okay?'

'Just a warning shot.'

'Figure you got a murder case?'

'I do.'

'Figure the killer shot your window out?'

'I do.'

'What're you gonna do about it?'

'Send the killer a message.'

Sam removed his cap and scratched his head, a sure sign he was thinking.

'Well, next edition doesn't come out till next week. You want to send a message today, best to use the radio.'

The Marfa Public Radio station operates out of a small studio in a small storefront befitting the smallest public radio station in America. Its audience totals less than fifteen thousand in the spa.r.s.ely populated Trans-Pecos. The station's 100,000-watt signal spans an area of 20,000 square miles extending north of the Davis Mountains and south to the Rio Grande, west to the Blue Origin s.p.a.ceport and east to Marathon. Hence the station's tagline: 'Radio for a Wide Range.' Nadine Honeywell sanitized the armrests of a chair with wipes then sat in the small reception area and listened to the professor on the radio.

'A reminder, folks,' the host said. 'It's April, and we don't want a repeat of last April's wildfires, so don't toss those cigarettes out the window. And the burn ban remains in effect. The land is dry, and the wind is up. If you see smoke, there's fire, so call it in. Okay, our Talk at Ten interview today was scheduled to be Werner von Stueber discussing existentialism and crushed cars in our continuing series on the works of John Chamberlain, but we're rescheduling Werner for tomorrow morning to make room for a surprise guest, the renowned const.i.tutional law professor from the University of Texas at Austin, John Bookman. We've all seen Professor Bookman on national TV discussing the const.i.tutionality of abortion or Obamacare, but he isn't here to talk about those subjects. He's here to talk about murder. A murder in Marfa. Professor Book-man, welcome to Marfa.'

'Thanks for having me on your show on such short notice.'

'We all know about the terrible death of a local lawyer, Nathan Jones, last week. We thought he died in a tragic automobile accident. But you think otherwise.'

'He was murdered.'

'Why do you believe that?'

'Nathan wrote me a letter and mailed it on April fifth. He died the same day.'

'Coincidence?'

'I don't believe in coincidences.'

'And what did he say in that letter, Professor?'

'Nathan said that his client was committing environmental crimes. That his client was contaminating the groundwater out here with his fracking operations.'

'That's a pretty serious charge.'

'It is.'

'And who is his client?'

'Billy Bob Barnett.'

Across Highland Avenue, Sam Walker howled in his office.

'Hot-d.a.m.n! That'll sell some papers next week!'

'So, Professor, you received this letter in Austin before you knew Nathan Jones had died. Why'd you come to Marfa?'

'Nathan was a former student and my intern four years ago. He asked for my help.'

'But upon your arrival in Marfa, you learned of his death?'

'Yes.'

'Professor, how do you help a dead person?'

'You find his truth. You give him justice.'

'And how do you do that?'

'You learn about his life, who he was. So I spoke with his wife-'

Brenda Jones sat in her house listening to the professor on the radio. She placed her hands on her belly that held Nathan's child. She cried.

'-and his best friend-'

Jimmy John Dale blew blood from his nose onto the handkerchief. He sat among empty beer cans, empty pizza boxes, and loaded guns. Bushmaster AR-15 a.s.sault rifle with a thirty-round clip ... Winchester twelve-gauge pump shotgun ... Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum handgun with a heavy load-you couldn't own too many weapons in his neighborhood on the Mexican side of town just south of the railroad tracks. He adjusted his position in his ratty recliner in the living room of his mobile home. He was saving for the down payment on a small adobe house on the same side of the railroad tracks; no way could he ever afford a home north of the tracks. The voices of the kids playing outside and chattering in Spanish-he often felt as if he were living in the state of Chihuahua instead of the state of Texas-came through the thin exterior wall as clearly as if they were standing next to him and made the hammer in his head pound even harder. They always left their toys and bikes and skateboards scattered about the open s.p.a.ce between their trailers. He finished off the Lone Star beer and tossed the can at the trash basket in the adjoining kitchen but missed and thought, Their mama ought to teach those kids how to pick up after themselves.

Never figured he'd live with the Mexicans, but it was all he could afford; and besides, the Mexicans couldn't even afford to live on the Mexican side of town now, so they were selling out to Anglos who couldn't afford to live on the Anglo side of town, which was now just a suburb of New York City. G.o.dd.a.m.n queer artists. But h.e.l.l, unless he wanted to live the rest of his life alone, he'd probably have to marry a Mexican girl. All the white girls, they get the h.e.l.l out of town after high school, most for college, the others for a job in the city or a man with a job in the city. They don't come back. That'd be a h.e.l.l of a thing, having a Mexican mother-in-law.

The mother next door started yelling at the kids in Spanish, so Jimmy John turned up the radio and searched for his Advil.

'-and learned that she had been followed around town-'

'By whom?'

'She didn't know. So I talked to the sheriff-'

Presidio County Sheriff Brady Munn sat in his office with his cowboy boots kicked up on his desk and Deputy s.h.i.+rley practicing her fast draw against an imaginary gunslinger. He sighed and shook his head. A niece pretending to be a deputy and a professor pretending to be a detective.

'Should've been a cattle rancher,' he said to himself.

'-and went out to the accident scene. I visited Nathan's senior partner in Midland. And I met Billy Bob Barnett.'

'You showed them Nathan's letter?'

'Yes. They all denied any knowledge of Nathan's allegations. I had concluded that his death was just a tragic accident, as you said, until last night.'