The Big Run-Off (Holden Burke #1)

Twelve

It was late afternoon, turning dusk, by the time I was back outside. I got in my car and drove back to town, hoping that the town didn't close up at about this time. I took my chances and cruised down the main drag for the sheriff's station. I found it next to the chapel and parked outside.

There was a deputy still there at the front desk, behind glass. He was not as spry as the office woman had been; he didn't even look up as he heard the chime of the front door ring as I came into the waiting room. He was focused intently on a stack of files rising at his desk as he pecked slowly at a keyboard that was a decade too out of fashion. He was glancing slowly between his papers and the screen. I felt for him—it was an intimidating stack—but I stole his attention anyway.

'Is this the sheriff's office?'

'S'what the sign is.' His hicked outback accent was broad and guttural. He went back to his typing.

'Yes,' I said, 'it is. I was wondering if I could get some help.'

'Don't get snippy with me. You from the city?'

'I'm from a city.'

'What you got, a crime to report? Someone better be dead.'

'Someone is dead. It happened about forty years ago. I was hoping to take a look at your files to get a read on it.'

The deputy stopped tying and slowly rose from his chair, an ugly and incredulous look growing across his face. 'And who'd'you think you are, pal?'

'I'm an investigator.' I fished my license from my wallet, but he did nothing but scoff at it.

'You're outta your jurisdiction. File a report with the state police and maybe we'll get back to you in a couple weeks.'

'Well, I was hoping to get some help today. I sure did drive a long way for it.'

'I told you not to get snippy.'

Our impromptu staring contest ended suddenly in a tie when someone stopped in the doorway; heavy, grizzled, and in a bulging tan country sheriff's uniform.

'Moss, the bloody hell are you doin'?'

The deputy turned and tried to scamper an excuse: 'This guy here was coming in here and asking for to look at our files—'

The sheriff ignored him and instead came straight to me. He stopped at my feet, unblinking. 'Holden Burke?—Are you Holden Burke, from the damn AFL?'

I told him I was. He broke into a childlike guffaw and slapped my arm. 'Well, son of a bitch. I sure am a big fan of yours, son!' He turned again to the deputy: 'Moss, this fella played in the 2009 Grand Final, remember?'

The deputy flushed in embarrassment. The sheriff shook him off and gave me a hard handshake. 'Name's Parnell; sheriff round here, a'course. What business has someone like you got all the way out in the shit-end of nowhere?'

'Well, I was hoping to get a look at your files. I'm a private investigator now, and there's a death from about forty years ago that would help to get an official look at.'

'A private investigator? Well, shit—come on, I'll show you the records room. Come on, now.'

Sheriff Parnell lead me through the tight hallways and down a tighter staircase into the basement. All the while he was gushing about my form on the field and how he and the entire local pub would watch my matches. I let him talk; I was enjoying my new investigative technique of having spent half my life running balls around.

The records were set in a series of cardboard boxes along a length of musty basement shelves. Parnell switched on a hanging bulb light. 'What date you say this was?'