might not be very sympathetic in the eyes of the news media, but I’ve got no reason to believe any of them are killers. So if you have to go around here asking questions, I just ask you don’t cause too much of a stir.”
“I get it,” and he did. The Tatum twins used to hang out here, and now ol’ Bubba didn’t want the national news branding his joint a cauldron of violent racism. Fine by Bobby—he felt convinced the twins had killed Bordelon; he just needed hard evidence. No reason to agitate matters by poking around this dive. Reaching for his wallet, he asked, “What do I owe you?”
“Tell you what, deputy. It’s on the house.”
•
Bobby parked along the fence row where the single-lane black top met the obscure farm-to-market road that led to town. Amid the smells of pine and sweet gum, the springtime Saturday morning air buzzing with insect life, he lay in wait, peering down the little unmarked blacktop that dead ended at the Tatum plot. Sooner or later, the red pickup would emerge. And he would find something wrong with it—an expired inspection sticker, a bent license plate. He would kick out a tail light if he had to.
He didn’t have to. The truck barreled up the road and turned toward town, and Bobby could see inside—long haired Duane at the wheel, Wayne in the passenger seat, neither seeming to notice the Sheriff’s Department cruiser.
Coming up behind them, the deputy turned on lights and siren. The truck stopped without hesitation. Unholstering his side arm, Bobby approached the truck’s open driver’s side window.
“Y’all keep your hands where I can see them—both of you.”
The twins looked straight ahead, Wayne looking nervous with hands on dash, Duane bemused with hands on steering wheel. Duane said, “What’s up, deputy?”
“Y’all understand it’s a misdemeanor in Texas to be in a moving vehicle without a seat belt?”
“Aw, Barbie,” Duane said. “Are you concerned about our safety?”
“I don’t give a flip if y’all get smashed up so bad they have to put you both in one coffin and let the devil sort out the pieces. But the law’s the law. Now,” Bobby stepped back and leveled his weapon into the truck. “I need y’all to step out of the vehicle, leaving your hands in view. Step around to the front and place your palms on the hood.”
“Dang it, dude,” Wayne said. “Can’t you just write us a ticket?” He sounded close to tears.
Duane said, “Shut up.”
The twins did as he ordered. “Duane and Wayne Tatum, you’re under arrest for not wearing a seat belt—”
“Aw man, that’s bullshit!”
“Shut up, Duane.”
“—and I’ll be impounding your vehicle incident to that arrest.” As Bobby read them their rights, he approached them from behind, removing his handcuffs from his belt. Wayne sobbed, so he went first to Duane, who seemed agitated, jumpy. Pressing the muzzle of his weapon against the small of the man’s back, he grabbed his wrists and cuffed him. But as he clicked the restraints in place, Wayne let out a wail:
“I cain’t go back to that prison!”
The short-haired brother lunged and Bobby saw a flash of metal. He did not feel the cutting but saw the blade come away bloody from his rent uniform shirt—the khaki going maroon along his arm. He swung his pistol around and made contact with Wayne’s temple. Hearing a sick crack, he saw the man’s eyes roll back into his head before he slumped to the ground, crumpling on the asphalt. He turned in time to see Duane—hands cuffed behind him—rush forward as if to head-butt him. He dodged the long-haired twin, who flew past him and fell to the ground face first. Duane rolled over on the blacktop and glared up at him, his face streaked with blood and grit.
Bobby glanced at Wayne—knocked out on the road—and kept his pistol trained on Duane. The long-haired twin said, “Whatcha gonna do, Barbie? Shoot us?”
And it would be so easy. It had been two-on-one. They had
“I get it,” and he did. The Tatum twins used to hang out here, and now ol’ Bubba didn’t want the national news branding his joint a cauldron of violent racism. Fine by Bobby—he felt convinced the twins had killed Bordelon; he just needed hard evidence. No reason to agitate matters by poking around this dive. Reaching for his wallet, he asked, “What do I owe you?”
“Tell you what, deputy. It’s on the house.”
•
Bobby parked along the fence row where the single-lane black top met the obscure farm-to-market road that led to town. Amid the smells of pine and sweet gum, the springtime Saturday morning air buzzing with insect life, he lay in wait, peering down the little unmarked blacktop that dead ended at the Tatum plot. Sooner or later, the red pickup would emerge. And he would find something wrong with it—an expired inspection sticker, a bent license plate. He would kick out a tail light if he had to.
He didn’t have to. The truck barreled up the road and turned toward town, and Bobby could see inside—long haired Duane at the wheel, Wayne in the passenger seat, neither seeming to notice the Sheriff’s Department cruiser.
Coming up behind them, the deputy turned on lights and siren. The truck stopped without hesitation. Unholstering his side arm, Bobby approached the truck’s open driver’s side window.
“Y’all keep your hands where I can see them—both of you.”
The twins looked straight ahead, Wayne looking nervous with hands on dash, Duane bemused with hands on steering wheel. Duane said, “What’s up, deputy?”
“Y’all understand it’s a misdemeanor in Texas to be in a moving vehicle without a seat belt?”
“Aw, Barbie,” Duane said. “Are you concerned about our safety?”
“I don’t give a flip if y’all get smashed up so bad they have to put you both in one coffin and let the devil sort out the pieces. But the law’s the law. Now,” Bobby stepped back and leveled his weapon into the truck. “I need y’all to step out of the vehicle, leaving your hands in view. Step around to the front and place your palms on the hood.”
“Dang it, dude,” Wayne said. “Can’t you just write us a ticket?” He sounded close to tears.
Duane said, “Shut up.”
The twins did as he ordered. “Duane and Wayne Tatum, you’re under arrest for not wearing a seat belt—”
“Aw man, that’s bullshit!”
“Shut up, Duane.”
“—and I’ll be impounding your vehicle incident to that arrest.” As Bobby read them their rights, he approached them from behind, removing his handcuffs from his belt. Wayne sobbed, so he went first to Duane, who seemed agitated, jumpy. Pressing the muzzle of his weapon against the small of the man’s back, he grabbed his wrists and cuffed him. But as he clicked the restraints in place, Wayne let out a wail:
“I cain’t go back to that prison!”
The short-haired brother lunged and Bobby saw a flash of metal. He did not feel the cutting but saw the blade come away bloody from his rent uniform shirt—the khaki going maroon along his arm. He swung his pistol around and made contact with Wayne’s temple. Hearing a sick crack, he saw the man’s eyes roll back into his head before he slumped to the ground, crumpling on the asphalt. He turned in time to see Duane—hands cuffed behind him—rush forward as if to head-butt him. He dodged the long-haired twin, who flew past him and fell to the ground face first. Duane rolled over on the blacktop and glared up at him, his face streaked with blood and grit.
Bobby glanced at Wayne—knocked out on the road—and kept his pistol trained on Duane. The long-haired twin said, “Whatcha gonna do, Barbie? Shoot us?”
And it would be so easy. It had been two-on-one. They had
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