The Lesson of Her Death

would’ve thrown the case all catercorner.”
    “If I’d found anything I would’ve phoned in for a warrant then just baby-sat until Lance or T.T. showed up with it. All I was worried about was evidence disappearing.”
    “Which is just what happened anyway.”
    “Yes, it did.”
    Ribbon’s eyes swung like slow pendulums from Town Hall to a Chevy pickup and back. “I don’t think this’s a problem. Not yet. Hammerback’s got more important things to worry about and the dean didn’t know diddly about warrants or anything. She just had her tit in a wringer ’cause she doesn’t like the way we’re going after the school and not letting her know what we’re about. But for Pete’s sake, Bill, there’s stuff about this case that could bite us in the ass we aren’t careful.”
    Corde held Ribbon’s eye. “I didn’t burn those letters, Steve.”
    “Absolutely. I know you didn’t. The thought nevercrossed my mind. I’m just telling you what some people who don’t know you as good as me might think. Just, sort of, be on your guard, you know what I’m saying? Good. Now how ’bout we get back to the salt mines?”
    The front door of the Sheriff’s Department office swung open and into the office strode Wynton Kresge. Corde had a permanent image of Kresge, walking into a room just this way, swaggering and carrying a manila folder. It was becoming a cliché. Kresge, dropping the envelope on a desk and standing like a proud retriever that’d set a shot quail one inch from a hunter’s boot.
    “Thankya, Wynton.” Corde sat in a chair at an unoccupied desk, opening the envelope. Still stewing about what Ribbon had told him, he added dismissingly, “That’s all.”
    Kresge went from hangtail to a pit bull in less than a second. Ebbans saw it coming and winced. Corde was caught completely off guard.
    “I’m just curious ’bout something, Detective,” Kresge said loudly in a James Earl Jones baritone.
    Corde looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
    “What would you like me to call myself?”
    “How’s that?”
    “I was just hoping you could provide some
en-
lightenment. Should I call myself Messenger?”
    “Oh, boy,” Ebbans muttered.
    Kresge said, “Maybe Step-’n’-fetch-it?”
    Ebbans said again, “Oh, boy.”
    Corde blinked. “What’re you talking about?”
    “I’m talking about I don’t work for you. I don’t get a damn penny of town money, so everything I do for you’s gravy and you treat me like I’m delivering pizza.”
    Corde looked at Ebbans for help but the county deputy’s face was a mask. Corde asked Kresge, “What are—
    “This girl gets herself killed and I say, ‘Let me helpyou interview people.’ I say, ‘Let me help you look for clues.’ I say, ‘Let me help you put up fliers.’ And you treat me like a busboy. You say—”
    “I didn’t—”
    Kresge shouted, “You say, ‘No, Wynton, no thanks, you’re a
black
man! I don’t need your help.’”
    “Oh, boy,” Ebbans said.
    “You’re crazy!” Corde yelled.
    “I don’t see so many deputies working for you. I don’t see so goddamn many suspects lined up you can cart ’em off in a bus. I offer you some help and what do you say? You say, ‘That’s all. Run ’long now. I’ll call you when I need some im-poh-tant pay-pahs.’” Menace was deep on his brow.
    Work throughout the department had stopped. Even the 911 dispatcher had walked into the doorway of her office, leaning sideways, her head held captive by the plugged-in headset.
    Corde stood up, red-faced. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
    “I’m just curious what you’ve got against me?”
    “I don’t have anything against you.”
    “You don’t want my help ’cause I’m black.”
    Corde waved his arm angrily. “I don’t want your help ’cause you don’t know what you’re doing.”
    “How would you know? You never tried me out.”
    “You never asked me if you could help.”
    “Hell I didn’t!” Kresge looked at Ebbans. “Did I ask to help? Did I volunteer?”
    Ebbans said to Corde, “He did ask, Bill.”
    Corde glared.
    Kresge said, “I wish you lots of luck, detective. You need any more help from the university Security Department, you talk to one of the guards. They wear uniforms. They make seven twenty-five an hour. They’ll be happy to pick up things for you. You can even tip, you want.”
    Ebbans and Corde both squinted, waiting for the rippled glass window in the door to explode inwardfrom the concussion of