AHMM, October 2009 Read online

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  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: IN THE NEWS by Linda Landrigan

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Fiction: CONSTABLE SMITH AND THEBONE POINTER by Rex Burns

  Fiction: A GOOD CUPPA JOE by Joanne Dobson and Beverle Graves Myers

  Fiction: THE MOUND BUILDERS by Eve Fisher

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Fiction: A LIFE IN BOOKS by Janice Law

  Fiction: DEATH AT SYRACUSA by Marianne Wilski Strong

  Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Fiction: A CLOSER WALK WITH THEE by Tim Chapman

  Fiction: COLORBLIND by Mike Wiecek

  Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER

  Department: COMING IN NOVEMBER 2009

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: IN THE NEWS by Linda Landrigan

  The stories in AHMM are often bought months before they are published, and of course are written even earlier than that. When we bought Mike Wiecek's satiric “Colorblind” earlier this year, we enjoyed its social commentary, but as we prepared it for publication in this issue, we realized that it has become unexpectedly topical. Though the bug Mr. Wiecek created for his story is very different from the pandemic known colloquially as “Swine Flu,” his vision of the public, governmental, and media response to a new “illness” resonates with the recent reactions to the H1N1 virus.

  But unlike a certain televised crime drama, we are not “ripped from the headlines,” and we don't go out looking for topical stories. Rather, we look to bring you great crime fiction each month, with stories that allow us to see ourselves and our foibles through the criminally minded eye.

  Linda Landrigan, Editor

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  Visit us online at www.TheMysteryPlace.com

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Rex Burns won the 1976 Edgar Award for his debut novel, The Alvarez Journal, and has since published fifteen books.

  Tim Chapman is a former forensic scientist for the Chicago police department. He has completed a novel featuring Sean McKinney.

  Joanne Dobson is the author of the Professor Karen Pelletier series from Doubleday and Poisoned Pen Press.

  Eve Fisher's novel, The Best is Yet to Be, was published by Guideposts Books in March. She lives in South Dakota.

  Booked & Printed columnist Robert C. Hahn reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly and the New York Post.

  Beverle Graves Myers writes the Tito Amato mystery series, including Cruel Music (Poisoned Pen Press).

  Marianne Wilski Strong's last story for AHMM, “Evil By Design,” appeared in the May 2009 issue.

  Janice Law has taught university courses in Connecticut since 1972. She is the author of nine novels, including The Lost Diaries of Iris Weed (Forge).

  Mike Wiecek won a Shamus Award for his story “A Death in Ueno” (AHMM, March 2005). He is the author of the thriller Exit Strategy (Penguin).

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: CONSTABLE SMITH AND THEBONE POINTER by Rex Burns

  "So, why'd you light on this man you killed?” Leonard avoided saying Billy Withers's name. In Aboriginal law that could call to the victim's spirit. It was equally important not to say McGrath's name, since that would identify him to Withers's ghost.

  McGrath gazed through the room's window into the small compound of the Fitzroy Crossing police station. There wasn't much to see: the corner of a waist-high cyclone fence, the gray square wall of the neighboring prefab, behind that a spray of wattle trees against the clear sky. Finally he said, “We had some trouble."

  The murder took place near a camp used by Traditional People during the Dry Season. McGrath drove there from the cattle station where he worked and, according to the incident report, clubbed Withers in the back of the head and stabbed him in the chest. Instead of hiding or running, the killer went into the camp. Accompanied by a tribal elder, he then drove to Fitzroy Crossing to turn himself in.

  Unable to get anything from McGrath that made sense, Senior Sergeant Cappiello called for an Indigenous constable to interview the man before he was transferred to the Broome Regional Prison. “Bloody Superintendant's in a world of his own over in Broome. Never tells me a thing. I've got enough to handle with drunken miners and property theft! You find out everything McGrath knows. If this is going to stir up trouble among those people, I'd bloody well like to know before the Wet closes down the country."

  "What's he told you so far?"

  "Damned little. Says Billy Withers hired a bone pointer to cast a spell on him. Then he just sits there. You're an Indigenous Liaison Specialist, Smith. Liaise something out of the bugger."

  * * * *

  "Better tell me what kind of trouble."

  The man's eyes, bloodshot in the sweaty black of his face, moved from the window to some vision on the wall. He drew himself further into his mind.

  "What kind of trouble was it?"

  Silence.

  "Did you go to a spirit doctor to ask about the spell?"

  Silence.

  "Barney McGrath, tell me about this thing and maybe I can help. If not, you might stare at walls for the rest of your life. Do you hear me, Barney McGrath?"

  The sound of his name drew the man's wide eyes to Leonard. “Stop that! You, Constable Leonard Smith, you stop that, Constable Leonard Smith!"

  Leonard stifled a smile at McGrath's ploy: Withers's ghost, hearing two names, might not know which man to harm. “Then talk to me. Tell me about the dead man or I'll talk to his ghost. What kind of trouble did you have with him?"

  He took a deep breath as if slowly waking. “Money,” he said softly. “He owed me some money."

  "How much and why?"

  Smith had to repeat the question before McGrath replied. “For a job. He paid me half what he promised, but he wouldn't pay the rest."

  "What kind of job?"

  The man glanced at Leonard and then stared intently out the window. “Just a job. Helping him with some work."

  "So for that you killed him? Because he owed you money?"

  McGrath shrugged wearily. “No. For because he told me I better stop bothering him. Else he'd get a Law Man to bone me.” A “Law Man” practiced Aboriginal law, and the bone would be from a kangaroo or bush turkey and capable of great harm.

  "Is that what the dead man did?"

  Another shrug. “Bloke owed me. Fair dinkum. So I asked him again. That's when the tickle started. He got some bone doctor to point at me."

  Law Man, bone doctor, spirit doctor: the terms slid back and forth. Leonard was ignorant of the nuances of meaning between them, but they all made people afraid. “Do you know who the bone doctor was?"

  He muttered. “Lots of them around."

  That was true. Anyone who wanted to do spells could learn some rituals—or pretend to—and call himself a bone doctor; the people had heard enough stories, old and new, to make them believe in spells. Smith himself, despite his ignorance of his mother's lore, grew uneasy at stories of people sung to illness and finally death.

  "Anything else you want to tell me?
"

  "No."

  * * * *

  Senior Sergeant Cappiello looked up as Smith closed the door to the small interview room. “Well?"

  "Claims he dunned Withers for some money he was owed and Withers had a spell cast on him to make him stop."

  Cappiello's heavy sigh rustled the papers on the desk. “So he can claim temporary insanity or some such."

  Leonard nodded. “His lawyer will probably do that. Or self-defense."

  "Self-defense!"

  "Feared for his life. Had to save himself by killing the one who hired a bone doctor to cast the spell.” He added, “It's a recognized defense in Aboriginal law."

  "He's not being charged under Aboriginal law—he's under civilized law!"

  "Civilized” law had more odd corners than Aboriginal law, and “civilized” people were good at cutting them, but Smith tried not to let that thought show. Instead, he murmured, “I'd like to find out more about this business."

  "Why?"

  He started to tell Cappiello about a sense of something amiss ... of McGrath's mind, seemingly dull and removed, but working swiftly ... swiftly enough to fool a hovering ghost, swiftly enough to fool a copper.... But the sergeant preferred facts to feelings. Solid flesh could be hauled into court and thrown into prison. Spirit lore wasn't even listed under the seven hundred or so sections of the Criminal Code in the Western Australia Consolidated Acts. “Knowing more about the bone pointing might tell us if Withers's death will stir up revenge killings."

  The senior sergeant's “Christ!” was less curse than surrender. “All right. I'll budget for your petrol. But I want that information before the bloody Wet!"

  * * * *

  Billy Withers's camp was used from April to November. When the land flooded in the summer's Wet, the inhabitants moved into the more permanent communities of clan members. If the camp had a name, only those who lived there knew it; to Leonard, it was Bore No. 7, a well dug by white settlers during cattle-drive days. In a straight line on the map it wasn't too far from Fitzroy Crossing. But on the ground there was no straight line, so it was mid-afternoon before Smith eased his dusty ute past a hand painted “No Grog” sign to a weary, creaking halt.

  Old beer cans and broken bottles were scattered at the foot of the sign; humpies of limbs and grass served for sleeping, open fires for cooking. The thin shade of water-starved pindan trees formed the village commons.

  Three or four shirtless boys ran to peer through the ute's windows, then trotted behind Smith as he walked toward the pindans. Picking out the grizzled beards of three seated figures watching him, he guessed that was the men's area and the graybeards were elders. Showing no haste, he nodded “G'day,” shook hands, and traded names. Then he squatted beside them. After a polite silence, he said, “Need to ask about some bad business that happened lately: Barney McGrath and that bloke he killed."

  The men shifted slightly. If they had been birds, their feathers would have lifted in unease. “Why d'you need to know? McGrath did it, right?"

  The one who spoke, Jack, had an old scar that ran across his nose and one cheek and disappeared into the white of his beard. Under the thick ridge of his brow, his rheumy gaze avoided Leonard and the alien white law he represented—or perhaps the alien white blood evident in Smith's skin.

  "Need to know why McGrath did it. Need to know if there's going to be any getting even for what he did."

  A hot breeze rattled the leaves. Finally Jack answered less to Smith than to the horizon. “We don't know much about that killed one. We're Yulparija people."

  "But he lived here—wasn't he Yulparija?"

  One of the other men, Walter Carter, answered. “Jiwarli. Came here four, five winters ago.” Carter stared directly at Smith. Gray hair and beard framed a lean face, and his calm, dark eyes seemed to reach into Leonard's mind. “Married a Yulparija woman.” His self-assurance and the glistening pattern of tribal scars across the black skin beneath the open shirt told Smith he was facing a Law Man. The curly hair at the back of Leonard's skull lifted and he forced his eyes from Carter's to concentrate on a tree trunk and let the feeling pass. A line of ants ran busily from the red sand up the twisted wood somewhere into the leaves.

  Carter said, “Like us, the Jiwarli man called this land ‘father.’ But we know more about those ants than about him."

  The ant tree was behind Carter, and Smith wondered if the man had, indeed, reached into his mind. If so, the Law Man should also see his puzzlement. “Why do you think McGrath killed him?"

  This time Carter's eyes shifted away, and Smith felt his shoulders loosen with relief.

  Danny Wallaby, the skin of his face dusted gray with age, said harshly, “We don't know why."

  We, not I. Leonard wondered why these three were making a pocket in which everything known about Billy Withers could be hidden. “Is his wife here? It's best if she talks to me now so we don't have to go to the gaol and talk there."

  Carter finally said, “The women's area.” He turned to one of the boys hovering at a respectful distance and said something in Yulparija. The boy ran toward another patch of trees. A few minutes later he came back and murmured to Carter, who nodded and pointed toward an open-sided sun shelter of woven branches. “She meet you over there."

  Mrs. Withers, thin as a skeleton, walked slowly to the shelter. Leonard, awkward in his ignorance of the rituals and special languages to be used at a time of mourning, tried not to sound stiffly official: “G'day, Mrs. Withers. I'm Constable Smith and I need to ask a few questions.” He guessed he wasn't entirely successful: The woman drew her cotton dress tighter across bony shoulders and stared at the ground.

  Smith tried a gentler tone, “Thank you for sitting down with me. I'm sorry this thing happened to you. My name's Leonard. What's your name?"

  She drew a deep breath and said softly, “Jane."

  "Jane. How long were you married to your husband, Jane?"

  "How long?” She looked around. Across the sand, squatting shadows stared their way. “Five years, maybe."

  "I hope he left good memories.” She did not respond. The scar on her lip and a missing tooth or two could indicate why. “How did you meet him?"

  "Up in Hall's Creek.” Her voice grew even softer, “He told good stories."

  Smith nodded. “He was Jiwarli?"

  A nod.

  "Does his mob live around here?"

  Glancing toward the figures under the trees, she shrugged. “No. His people were chased off when he was little."

  "I thought this was Yulparija land—your land."

  "It is Yulparija land. But Jiwarli claim it too. Long time ago, used to be fights between us mob and them about it."

  "He had no people at all?"

  "His family died off a long time ago. A gadia said he was maybe the last Jiwarli."

  Gadia: white man. “When was this?"

  "March—maybe April. End of the Wet."

  "A gadia came out here to tell him that?"

  "No—Hall's Creek."

  "The gadia came to Hall's Creek to talk with your husband?"

  "Looked for him there, yes."

  Leonard considered that. “Was your husband upset that the Yulparija are on the land?"

  "Sometimes. Sometimes grog upset him. He'd get sad or angry. But this camp wasn't in his people's Dreaming. No water back then. Drovers dug the bore for cattle drives."

  "Where was the Jiwarli Dreaming?"

  Her slender fingers gestured toward the western horizon. “He said lots of places. Over that way."

  Leonard looked at the map in his mind. “Toward Red Bluff Homestead?"

  She nodded. “That station, yeah. But whites took the land. Chased people away."

  "Are Yulparija Dreaming places over there too?"

  Another nod.

  The history and the loss were familiar stories. “Did he owe McGrath money?"

  "Don't know—men's business."

  "Who might know?"

  She shrugged. “McGrat
h. Don't know why my husband would borrow money. We got plenty tucker here. Kangaroo, bush turkey, goanna, witchetty grubs, snakes—plenty. We don't need much money here!"

  "Your husband didn't borrow money. He was paying McGrath for a job."

  The dark eyes blinked but she said nothing.

  "Do you know what the job was?"

  "A job?"

  Smith waited.

  "Don't know what job.” Her puzzlement seemed genuine.

  "Did your husband get CDEP money?” Working on a Community Development Employment Project was a way for men to earn a little cash.

  "No. No projects here."

  "What about cash welfare?

  "No cash no more. Just these debt cards now."

  The debit cards were the government's latest attempt to ensure that welfare monies went to food and children's education instead of to grog. More women than men favored the idea. “After killing your husband, who did McGrath talk with?"

  Her voice became emphatic. “Don't know! That's men's business—you ask them!"

  In traditional communities, women, even children, could be beaten for knowing too much about men's business. Leonard nodded. “Is Mrs. McGrath a Yulparija?"

  "No. Yawuru."

  Another community member through marriage, and—depending upon her clan—possibly related to Leonard through his Yawuru mother. “Is she here?"

  "No. Lives at Red Bluff Homestead. Only comes here now and then."

  "Does her mob live in Rubibi?” He used the Aboriginal name for the town of Broome.

  "Maybe—that's Yawuru place. Maybe Derby.” Dismissal entered her voice. “She don't like the bush. Likes flash things. Television, toilets, that kind of thing. Wants to send her son to school. Learn him to be white fella."

  "This gadia who said your husband might be the last Jiwarli, do you know his name?"

  She thought. “No. Maybe some anthro-bloke. Maybe a journo."

  Anthropologist. Journalist. Both disliked for stealing Dreamtime stories and writing them down to sell for lots of money. “Did he ask for Jiwarli stories?"

  Another long pause. “Don't know ... They talked about old days. Maybe some Dreamtime stories. Don't know."