Joe Bain Read online

  Bus Hacker came to the stand and was sworn. He stated his name: Clarence J. Hacker; his residence: a house at the corner of Destin Lane and Mitre Canyon Road, leased from Philip Destin; his occupation: retired.

  District Attorney (puzzled):

  Isn’t it true that you own a bus, that you are employed by the San Rodrigo High School District to transport students between Marblestone and San Rodrigo?

  Hacker (truculently):

  Half-true. It’s just a side-line with me, not an employment.

  District Attorney:

  How do you mean ‘half-true’?

  Hacker:

  There’s two buses for Marblestone. Bill Giacometti drives the No. 1 route, by Magnus Way. I drive the No. 2 route, down Mitre Canyon Road and into San Rodrigo by Bosco Road.

  District Attorney:

  I see. Do you recall the afternoon of May 22nd?

  Hacker:

  Very well indeed.

  District Attorney:

  You drove your route as usual?

  Hacker:

  I did.

  District Attorney:

  Where is the end of your route?

  Hacker:

  The corner of Mitre Canyon Road and Destin Lane. That’s as far as I’m paid to drive, and that’s how far I drive.

  District Attorney:

  There are students who live farther up Mitre Canyon Road?

  Hacker:

  Three. Two Bazely kids and Henrietta Micklebarth. If there was five, the county would have to furnish transportation.

  District Attorney:

  What happened on the afternoon of May 22nd?

  Hacker:

  Well, I drove the route as usual, let off the kids, and backed the bus into my driveway. I was having trouble with the engine — sticky valves; in fact I am getting an overhaul right now. I lifted the hood to check the distributor points, standing where I could look out on the road —

  District Attorney:

  Excuse me, Mr. Hacker, to make matters clear, could you see the Wyett house?

  Hacker:

  No. The poplar trees at the corner cut off my view. But I could see the crossroads. Tissie McAllister definitely did not walk past.

  District Attorney:

  Did you see anyone at all?

  Hacker:

  Cole Destin drove past in his car.

  District Attorney:

  Did he continue south along Destin Lane to his home?

  Hacker:

  No. He turned up Mitre Canyon Road, to the west.

  District Attorney:

  He was alone?

  Hacker:

  So far as I could see.

  District Attorney:

  I see. Did anyone else pass?

  Hacker (hesitating):

  Not while I was standing there.

  District Attorney:

  Specifically, did Teresa McAllister pass across your line of vision?

  Here Bus Hacker turned a malevolent glance toward the somber Ausley Wyett, who leaned forward and back, cracking his knuckles. “She did not walk past. If Charley saw her and —”

  The defense attorney sprang to his feet, but the judge’s gavel forestalled him. “We don’t want any speculations, Mr. Hacker.”

  Later, in his closing statement, the District Attorney emphasized that

  A. Cole Destin had seen Tissie walking toward the barn in the company of Ausley Wyett.

  B. Charles Blankenship had seen Tissie walk past and sometime later Cole Destin drive by in his car, and no one else.

  C. Clarence Hacker had seen Cole Destin pass, but no one else.

  Hence, declared the District Attorney, no person other than the defendant had had opportunity to commit the crime.

  After an ineffectual cross-examination of Bus Hacker, the next witness for the prosecution was called: Oliver Viera, a stocky pugnacious young man of twenty, with a swarthy skin and a vigorous growth of sleek oiled hair. He sat stiffly on the witness stand, and answered questions with an air of reluctance.

  District Attorney:

  You are — I should say, were — a schoolmate of the defendant?

  Viera:

  Yes sir. We were in the same class.

  District Attorney:

  So then you know the defendant well?

  Viera:

  All my life.

  District Attorney:

  He would be likely to consider you an intimate friend?

  Defense Attorney:

  Objection!

  District Attorney:

  Let me put it this way … Well, on the morning of May 22nd, did you see Ausley Wyett?

  Viera:

  Yes.

  District Attorney:

  What did he tell you?

  Viera (in embarrassment, not looking toward Ausley Wyett):

  He told me that it was his birthday, that he was twenty-one years old. I said congratulations. He said he’d decided he’d been missing out on a lot of fun: girls, cars, parties, and he was going to turn over a new leaf, starting today. In fact since his father was away, he was going to give himself a birthday present.

  District Attorney:

  Did he say what?

  Viera:

  No.

  District Attorney:

  Now then, Mr. Viera, did you see the defendant later the same day?

  Viera:

  Yes, I did.

  District Attorney:

  Please describe what you saw.

  Viera:

  Well, I came down Mitre Canyon Road, heading east. It was about sundown, maybe a little after. A car passed me going lickety-split, back toward Castle Mountain. I recognized Ausley’s Chevy pickup, and it looked like Ausley driving. I continued the way I was going. At the corner of Destin Lane I saw Mr. McAllister standing in the road beside his car looking up and down. I stopped, and Mr. McAllister asked me if I’d seen Tissie. I said no. He told me that she hadn’t come home and the family was getting worried. He told me that she’d been seen talking to Ausley Wyett.

  Defense Attorney:

  I’m finally forced to object, Your Honor, this conversation is all —

  Judge:

  Sustained. Mr. McAllister can testify to his own conversation, Mr. Viera. You just report what you told him.

  Viera:

  Can’t I testify to what I heard? I heard Mr. McAllister —

  District Attorney:

  Just what you yourself said and did. You see, there might have been a misunderstanding. Mr. McAllister can supply his own testimony.

  Viera (laughs):

  I told Mr. McAllister that I had seen Ausley Wyett driving up Mitre Canyon Road, and Mr. McAllister took off up Mitre Canyon Road himself. I was late for night school so I went home …

  The fifth witness was Willis Neff, a hard-faced man of thirty, stocky, with long arms and burly shoulders which stretched the seams of his blue suit. His hair was thick and yellow, his eyes china-blue. During the whole of his testimony he stared at Ausley Wyett, who grimaced uneasily, shuffled his feet, and, finally, hunching his shoulders, sat looking down at his hands.

  Neff testified to the effect that at approximately seven o’clock on the evening of May 22 he had noticed a gray Chevrolet pickup proceeding west up Mitre Canyon Road. Shortly afterwards, a car driven by Paul McAllister had pulled up. In response to McAllister’s question, he stated that he had noticed a gray Chevrolet pickup proceeding west. McAllister explained his interest in the pickup, and Neff, whose oldest daughter Gertrude was a classmate of Tissie’s, immediately jumped into the car with McAllister and they continued westward, up into the twilight, the ridges now dark against the sky. Two or three miles farther along they noticed a car approaching, which they stopped. The driver of this car had passed no such gray Chevrolet pickup; McAllister and Neff went back the way they had come. At the bridge across Candelara Creek, a dirt road, hardly more than a set of tracks, led up into the primitive area; examining the road with a flashlight they saw fresh tracks, and parking the car proceeded on foot, McAllister now frantic with worry.

  The creek wandered into a little meadow overgrown with cat-tails; here the pickup was parked. They stopped to listen and heard noises through the gloom: “puffin’ and gruntin’,” so Neff described them. Advancing, they came upon Ausley Wyett digging a hole, with close at hand the body of Tissie McAllister.

  McAllister, screaming in agony, ran forward, Ausley Wyett looked up with a sick grin. He backed around the grave and McAllister in his frenzy fell headlong into the hole. “Just a minute, fellas,” said Ausley. “Just a minute. Be reasonable, give me a minute to —”

  But Neff was on him. Ausley stumbled and fell and Neff, to use his own words, “kicked hell out of him”.

  They tied the unconscious Ausley hand and foot, tossed him into the back of his pickup. McAllister carried the body of his daughter back to his car. They drove to Marblestone, where they telephoned Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello.

  Sheriff Cucchinello was called to the witness stand. He testified that he had searched the Wyett barn and there had found torn underpants (subsequently identified as those worn by Tissie), as well as a number of rags soaked with blood.

  The prosecution rested and the defense attorney, rather despondently, so it seemed, presented the case of Ausley Wyett, which consisted almost entirely of Ausley Wyett’s protestations of innocence.

  “What did you mean when you told Oliver Viera that you were going to give yourself a birthday present?”

  “I just went into Fritz’s and got me a big steak and a box of candy, then I went into the Town Club and bought a pint of whiskey. That’s all I meant.”

  Fritz Hunsacker, proprietor of the Marblestone General Store, and Shorty Olson, bartender at the Town Club, verified the purchases.

  Ausley fervently denied lascivious intent when he took Tissie McAllister to the barn. “All I wanted was to show her these kittens; otherwise they was about to be drowned.”

  “And what happened after Tissie looked at the kittens?”

  “I told her I had some candy in the house, would she like some? She said no and went out, and I went off up the hill for the cows. That’s the last I saw of her until I went back into the barn to bring milk to the mama cat and found her lying there.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Just before sundown.”

  “About two hours after you had last seen her?”

  “Close to that.”

  “Now, another question. Did you see anyone as you departed the barn?”

  “I didn’t look real close. But I kinda noticed somebody walking, coming down from Hacker’s corner toward town. Beyond this I can’t say. I’ve tried to figure out who it was, but it was just a glimpse. Somebody. I can’t be sure.”

  “Did you see a car along the road?”

  “Not after Cole Destin went by. But I couldn’t see much of the road. The house and tank-house cut off the view.”

  “Whereupon you became frightened and panicky?”

  “I sure did; I lost my head and did the foolishest thing I could have done.”

  During cross-examination the District Attorney said, “You’ve heard the testimony of the witnesses for the prosecution. If you are as innocent as you claim, who ravished and murdered Teresa McAllister?”

  “I can’t figure it,” said Ausley, frowning and shaking his head. “Unless someone was on the road. One thing for sure, somebody isn’t letting on all they know. When I get out of this mess, I’m gonna find out a few things.”

  The jury, ten men and two women, was out three hours, the only point at issue being the state of Ausley’s sanity. One of the women said, “It’s well known that Ausley Wyett is crazy and has always been crazy. My nephew knows a boy who went to school with him, and the things he’s heard about Ausley Wyett!”

  One of the men grunted. “Crazy. Maybe so. But a mad dog is crazy and you shoot a mad dog. A man like that isn’t any more use than a mad dog.”

  The other woman said, “I certainly believe society must protect itself, but insanity is a sickness, and you don’t kill people just because they’re sick. We’re not barbarians yet.”

  The verdict was “Guilty”, with the foreman of the jury reading a statement. “We feel that there is an element of doubt as to the sanity of Ausley Wyett, and therefore recommend that he should not be sentenced to death.”

  The judge took cognizance of the recommendation and sentenced Ausley Wyett to life imprisonment. Ausley grimaced sadly and was conducted away to jail.

  Joe Bain, with troubles of his own, had been only remotely aware of the circumstances of the trial. Immediately upon graduation from high school he had married Lucy Martinez, the daughter of a packing-shed worker, already several months pregnant. Lucy, who was vivacious and nervously active but far from tractable, refused to live at the remote Bain ranch. Joe moved to Verdalia, and for two years worked in lettuce fields and packing sheds. One evening he took Lucy to a dance at the IOOF Hall in Verdalia, with music by Lefty Harkins and his Oklahoma Ranch Boys. Lucy was entranced by the glamour of the evening, to such an extent that two days later she eloped with Gil Sears, the long-legged guitarist of the band. Joe came home from work to find his nineteen-month-old daughter Miranda standing in the play-pen, diapers dripping, milk-bottle empty, quietly philosophic about the whole sad situation.

  Joe took Miranda to his mother and joined the army. He saw action in Korea, transferred to the Military Police and wound up as sergeant.

  After his discharge he used his GI benefits to attend the Chapman Institute of Criminology in North Hollywood. Then, visiting his mother and Miranda in Pleasant Grove, where they had moved upon the death of Joe’s father, he spoke with Sheriff Cucchinello and accepted a job as deputy-sheriff, which job he had held until Sheriff Cucchinello’s death.

  About a week before Sheriff Cucchinello fell into the swimming pool, Joe came into his office to protest regarding Mrs. Rostvolt, the matron and office manager. In Joe’s opinion Mrs. Rostvolt’s tendency to throw her weight around had passed the tolerance level and he wanted a line laid down. Sheriff Cucchinello made soothing noises, puffed out his cheeks, became interested in the morning mail. Joe turned to leave. If by some chance he and Mrs. Rostvolt got into a big dust-up, old Cooch could never say he hadn’t been warned … Sheriff Cucchinello looked up from an official form letter. “You’re a Marblestone man, Joe. Remember Ausley Wyett?”

  Joe nodded. “Ausley’s a hard man to forget.”

  Sheriff Cucchinello frowned at the letter. “Sixteen years he’s been in. Damn lucky he didn’t get the chair. The jury thought he was crazy.”

  “He never did have good sense. I wouldn’t say he was crazy. I never thought he was vicious either.”

  Sheriff Cucchinello leaned back in his big black leather chair. “He’s going back to Marblestone to live. To me that sounds like lunacy.”

  “One thing for sure,” said Joe, “they won’t meet him with any brass bands.”

  A week later Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello attended a Saturday night smoker and through circumstances never quite clarified fell into a swimming pool. After being hauled out he drank whiskey to ward off the chill, but the ministrations were futile. Sheriff Cucchinello contracted pneumonia and four days later was dead.

  The County Board of Supervisors met at Pleasant Grove, and without any particular ceremony appointed Sergeant Joe Bain Acting-Sheriff for the duration of Ernest Cucchinello’s term — something under three months.

  Joe at this time was thirty-six years old, just under six feet tall, lean, leathery, durable. His hair was straight, thick and black; he had narrow eyes and a broken nose which gave him an expression of saturnine craft. He assured the supervisors that the department would function with undiminished efficiency, returned to headquarters, changed from his uniform into street clothes, moved into the office where for twenty years Ernest Cucchinello had lounged, napped, smoked cigars, drunk whiskey, watched ball games on TV, entertained his cronies and occasionally signed his name to the documents placed before him by Mrs. Rostvolt, clerk, matron, office manager and power behind the throne.

  As Joe started to clean out Ernest Cucchinello’s desk, Mrs. Rostvolt appeared in the doorway. She was a blank-faced woman of forty, plump and well-corseted, with a careful coiffure of tight auburn curls, a mouth like a cocktail cherry. Here it came, thought Joe — the first test of mettle. Mrs. Rostvolt said brightly, “I suppose you still want to take your regular patrol?”

  “Heavens no,” said Joe. “You know better than that, Mrs. Rostvolt.”

  Mrs. Rostvolt pursed her lips. “We’re going to be awfully tight. I’ve got the schedule all worked out, and I can easily look after the office. I don’t imagine the board wants to hire another man just for two or three months.” Mrs. Rostvolt here referred to the coming election, and to the general conviction that Lee Gervase, a vigorous and progressive young lawyer, formerly of San Francisco, would sweep unopposed into office.

  “There’s nothing sacred about the schedule,” said Joe. “Bring it in here and I’ll change it around.”

  “It just makes work and confusion,” declared Mrs. Rostvolt. “It seems to me that just for the two months —”

  “We’ll do it my way,” said Joe. It was important to take a firm line with Mrs. Rostvolt, who had had matters pretty much her own way during Ernest Cucchinello’s regime.

  Mrs. Rostvolt sniffed. “I’ll have to rearrange everything. I suppose I can take Bill Phipps off mornings, but on Tuesday mornings there won’t be anyone in at all, because Wardell is off and the relief man is off too.”

  “I’ll fix up a new schedule,” said Joe. “For now, just let the old one ride. I want to get this office cleaned out first thing, so I can have a place to sit down.”

  Mrs. Rostvolt’s mouth took on a sour droop. “After the election it’ll have to be done all over again anyway. Seems like you’d just want to let things be.” She marched back across the hall into the front office. Mrs. Rostvolt was really put out, thought Joe. Well, she’d have to get used to change, because if Lee Gervase were elected, and there was nothing in his way, changes would come in all directions. Lee Gervase, an ambitious man, would wield a new broom. It was not at all certain that Joe’s own job was safe. He leaned back in Cucchinello’s leather chair. Sheriff’s salary was twelve thousand a year, which he’d be drawing from now till election. What he could do with twelve thousand a year steady! … A startling new idea entered Joe’s mind. He reflected for ten minutes, alternately excited and dubious. Finally he jumped to his feet, left the office, walked around to the county clerk’s office on the mezzanine of the courthouse.