But that’s not how it turned out. We voted to divert Blue River at exactly the point where it entered Quinn’s property; of course, that didn’t leave him without a river—he just wouldn’t have the hog’s share he’d always had before.
The decision would have been unanimous if Tom Henry hadn’t gone against us. You’re right, Jake. Tom Henry is a nut. So the vote stood eight to one. And it proved such a popular decision, a verdict that really harmed no one and benefited many, there wasn’t much Quinn’s political cronies could do about it, not if they wanted to stay in office.
A few days after the vote I ran into Bob Quinn at the post office. He made a tremendous point of tipping his hat, smiling, asking after my welfare. Not that I expected him to spit on me; still, I’d never met with so much courtesy from him before. One would never have supposed he was resentful. Resentful? Insane!
TC: What does he look like—Mr. Quinn?
JAKE: Don’t tell him!
ADDIE: Why not?
JAKE: Just because.
(Standing, he walked over to the fireplace and offered what remained of his cigar to the flames. He stood with his back to the fire, legs slightly apart, arms folded: I’d never thought of Jake as vain, but clearly he was posing a bit—trying, successfully, to look attractive. I laughed.)
Eh?
TC: Now it’s a Jane Austen novel. In her novels, sexy gentlemen are always warming their fannies at fireplaces.
ADDIE (laughing): Oh, Jake, it’s true! It’s true!
JAKE: I never read female literature. Never have. Never will.
ADDIE: Just for that, I’m going to open another bottle of wine, and drink it all myself.
(Jake returned to the table and sat down next to Addie; he took one of her hands in one of his and entwined their fingers. The effect upon her was embarrassingly visible—her face flushed, splashes of red blotched her neck. As for him, he seemed unaware of her, unaware of what he was doing. Rather, he was looking at me; it was as if we were alone together.)
JAKE: Yes, I know. Having heard what you have, you’re thinking: Well, now the case is solved. Mr. Quinn did it.
That’s what I thought. Last year, after Addie told me what she told you. I lit out of here like a bear with a bumblebee up his ass. I drove straight to the city. Thanksgiving or no Thanksgiving, that very night we had a meeting of the whole Bureau. I laid it on the line: this is the motive, this is the guy. Nobody said boo!—except the chief, and he said: “Slow down, Pepper. The man you’re accusing is no flyweight. And where’s your case? This is all speculation. Guesswork.” Everybody agreed with him. Said: “Where’s the evidence?”
I was so mad I was shouting; I said: “What the hell do you think I’m here for? We’ve all got to pull together and build the evidence. I know Quinn did it.” The chief said: “Well, I’d be careful who you said that to. Christ, you could get us all fired.”
ADDIE: That next day, when he came back here, I wish I’d taken Jake’s picture. In the line of duty I’ve had to paddle many boys, but none of them ever looked as sad as you, Jake.
JAKE: I wasn’t too happy. That’s the fact of that.
The Bureau backed me; we began checking out the life of Robert Hawley Quinn from the year one. But we had to move on tiptoe—the chief was jittery as a killer on Death Row. I wanted a warrant to search the B.Q. Ranch, the houses, the whole property. Denied. He wouldn’t even let me question the man—
TC: Did Quinn know you suspected him?
JAKE (snorting): Right off the bat. Someone in the governor’s office tipped him off. Probably the governor himself. And guys in our own Bureau—they probably told him, too. I don’t trust nobody. Nobody connected with this case.
ADDIE: The whole town knew before you could say Rumpelstiltskin.
JAKE: Thanks to Oliver Jaeger. And Tom Henry. That’s my fault. Since they had both been on the River Committee, I felt I had to take them into my confidence, discuss Quinn, warn them about the coffins. They both promised me they would keep it confidential. Well, telling them, I might as well have had a town meeting and made a speech.
ADDIE: At school, one of my little boys raised his hand and said: “My daddy told my mama somebody sent you a coffin, like for the graveyard. Said Mr. Quinn done it.” And I said: “Oh, Bobby, your daddy was just teasing your mama, telling her fairy tales.”
JAKE: One of Oliver Jaeger’s fairy tales! That bastard called everybody in Christendom. And you say he isn’t crazy?
ADDIE: You think he’s crazy because he thinks you’re crazy. He sincerely believes that you’re mistaken. That you’re persecuting an innocent man. (Still looking at Jake, but addressing me) Oliver would never win any contest, neither for charm nor brains. But he’s a rational man—a gossip, but good-hearted. He’s related to the Quinn family; Bob Quinn is his second cousin. That may be relevant to the violence of his opinions. It’s Oliver’s contention, and one that is shared by most people, that even if some connection exists between the decision of the Blue River Committee and the deaths that have occurred here, why point the finger at Bob Quinn? He’s not the only Blue River rancher that might bear a grievance. What about Walter Forbes? Jim Johanssen? The Throby family. The Millers. The Rileys. Why pick on Bob Quinn? What are the special circumstances that single him out?
JAKE: He did it.
ADDIE: Yes, he did. We know that. But you can’t even prove he bought the rattlesnakes. And even if you could—
JAKE: I’d like a whiskey.
ADDIE: You shall have it, sir. Anybody else?
JAKE (after Addie left on her errand): She’s right. We can’t prove he bought the snakes, even though we know he did. See, I always figured those snakes came from a professional source; breeders who breed for the venom—they sell it to medical laboratories. The major suppliers are Florida and Texas, but there are snake farms all across the country. Over the last few years we sent inquiries to most of them—and never received a single reply.
But in my heart I knew those rattlers came from the Lone Star State. It was only logical—why would a man go all the way to Florida when he could find what he wanted more or less next door? Well, as soon as Quinn entered the picture, I decided to zero in on the snake angle—an angle we’d never concentrated on to the degree we should have, mainly because it required personal investigation and traveling expenses. When it comes to getting the chief to spend money—hell, it’s easier to crack walnuts with store-bought teeth. But I know this fellow, an old-time investigator with the Texas Bureau; he owed me a favor. So I sent him some material: pictures of Quinn I’d managed to collect, and photographs of the rattlers themselves—nine of them hanging on a washline after we’d killed them.
TC: How did you kill them?
JAKE: Shotguns. Blasted their heads off.
TC: I killed a rattler once. With a garden hoe.
JAKE: I don’t think you could’ve killed these bastards with any hoe. Even put a dent in them. The smallest one was seven feet long.
TC: There were nine snakes. And nine members of the Blue River Committee. Nice quaint coincidence.
JAKE: Bill, my Texas friend, he’s a determined guy; he covered Texas from border to border, spent most of his vacation visiting snake farms, talking to the breeders. Now, about a month ago, he called and said he thought he had located my party: a Mrs. Garcia, a Tex-Mex lady who owned a snake farm near Nogales. That’s about a ten-hour drive from here. If you’re driving a State car and doing ninety miles an hour. Bill promised to meet me there.
Addie went with me. We drove overnight, and had breakfast with Bill at a Holiday Inn. Then we visited Mrs. Garcia. Some of these snake farms are tourist attractions; but her place was nothing like that—it was way off the highway, and quite a small operation. But she sure had some impressive specimens. All the time we were there she kept hauling out these huge rattlers, wrapping them around her neck, her arms: laughing; she had almost solid gold teeth. At first I thought she was a man; she was built like Pancho Villa, and she was wearing cowboy britches with a zipper fly.
She had a cataract in one eye; and the other didn’t look too sharp. But she wasn’t hesitant about identifying Quinn’s picture. She said he had visited her place in either June or July 1970 (the Robertses died 5 September 1970), and that he had been accompanied by a young Mexican; they arrived in a small truck with a Mexican license plate. She said she never spoke to Quinn; according to her, he never said a word—simply listened while she dealt with the Mexican. She said it was not her policy to question a customer as to his reasons for purchasing her merchandise; but, she told us, the Mexican volunteered the information—he wanted a dozen adult rattlers to use in a religious ceremony. That didn’t surprise her;
