Where Southern Cross the Dog by Allen Whitley Read Free Book Online

“All right,” he said, “we’ll look into it, but I’m not guaranteeing we’ll find anything.”
    Tackett sensed the dissatisfaction beneath the sheriff’s
acquiescence.
    â€œI’m only putting one man on the job,” Collins said. “Don’t figure on the whole office working these cases.”
    â€œBut he’s got to get out and talk to folks,” Montgomery said. “He can’t just sit and review the files for eight hours a day.”
    Collins grabbed his hat and stood up to go. “I don’t like this, boys. They just black, that’s all.”
    â€œMaybe we’ll get some leads, and we can wrap this thing up quickly,” Tackett said. “Oh, by the way, did either of you two speak to anyone down at the paper? Did you see the short article on the murder?”
    â€œI saw the article, but I didn’t talk to anybody,” Montgomery said.
    â€œYou don’t need to ask me, do you?” said Collins.
    â€œSomeone down at the paper is getting information that only a few people know,” Tackett said. “I didn’t think much about the first couple of articles on the other murders, but if we’re going to start pursuing this, we can’t have the details of our investigation published in the paper every day. I’ll go down and have a talk with. Wilson this week to see if he’ll stop printing stories about the homicides.”
    â€œThat’s a good idea,” Montgomery said. “We don’t want anything getting out too early. We need to kill the source—so to speak.”
    â€œI’ll make sure to keep it quiet on our end,” Collins said. He opened the door and left.
    Tackett saw Montgomery to the door. “He always comes around.”
    â€œYeah,” Montgomery said, “but he makes it so hard.”
    That night, after the offices were closed and everyone had gone home, Moses Hooperman stood at the side door of the courthouse, tossing his keys around in his hand looking for the one that unlocked it. The door led to a small room that held his cleaning supplies. Finding the key, he opened the door, went inside, and then locked the door behind him.
    He changed into his work clothes: his stained shirt bore a few small holes, the result of ashes dropping off his cigarettes; the knees of his pants were torn beyond mending.
    Moses had been the night custodian of the courthouse for a dozen years. Usually, he came in at eleven at night and worked until about five the next morning, when county workers began to arrive. He always liked to be out of the building before the first one got there.
    Starting on the top floor and working his way down, Moses diligently emptied trash cans, mopped the floor, cleaned the restrooms, and swept the seemingly endless hallways.
    A little after midnight, he entered Bill Montgomery’s office and started to dust. He passed his dust rag over the desk and noticed a report dated the previous day. He finished dusting and started to mop the floor, beginning in the far corner. Halfway done, he set the mop aside and returned to the desk. Making careful note of where the report was and how it was situated on the desk, Moses picked it up, read the cover, and leafed through the pages, reading a few thoroughly and scanning the rest. He laid the report down, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.
    After two rings he heard, “Hello.”
    â€œMr. Murphree,” Moses said, “I’m down at the courthouse. You might want to come down and have a look at something.”
    â€œI’ll be down in a minute,” was Murphree’s immediate reply.
    Murphree hung up and staggered to his feet, still half asleep. He squinted at the clock. Two-twenty. He dressed quickly, grabbed his briefcase, and headed for the stairs.
    â€œLewis? Be back soon?” his wife murmured, barely stirring in the bed.
    â€œSoon,” he said. After ten years of marriage to the