Title: Presumption of Guilt - Chapter 4 Author: hisgoodgirl Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss. I got nada but my imagination. Characters: Crew, omc, ofc. Warning: PG for graphic violence, profanity and other grownup things. Setting: In the town of Silverton, on Santo, immediately prior to “The Train Job”. Words: 2,685

A/N: As a kid, my two favorite TV genres were westerns and detective shows. I finally decided to tackle both in a mix I’ve thought of as “Firefly CSI”. I'd love to hear what you think. It’s all helpful, dear readers.

X - posted from my LiveJournal.

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Presumption of Guilt Chapter Four

In the candle-lit bedchamber of wealthy rancher Morton Chandler, Inara Serra reclined gracefully upon a high, ornate bed of dark wood, her curves elegantly draped by fine silken sheets. She smiled warmly at the sweaty, naked older man who lay panting beside her in the aftermath of congress. Companions were trained to flatter their clients, but in such a way as to be believable. “I must say,” she sighed, gently running her perfectly manicured fingers through the man’s sparse hair, "my expectations were certainly fulfilled, Mr. Chandler. I hope that you can say the same.” At least he finished quickly, and didn’t request anything out of the ordinary…

Chandler looked as if he was teetering on the edge of a coronary. “You were magnificent, Miss Inara,” he panted. “Everything I’d ever dreamed of and more. Your splendid reputation is well earned." He fanned his florid face and laughed giddily. “Oh my, I find myself rather out of breath.”

Inara rose gracefully from the bed, slipping into an exquisitely embroidered ruby silk dressing gown. “Perhaps another glass of that most excellent wine would refresh us.” She deftly poured more of the rich burgundy liquid into fine cut crystal goblets and returned to the bed. She proffered one glass to her client and seated herself fluidly near him, positioned in such a way as to invite a sense of trust and intimacy.

“Why, thank you, my dear,” Chandler wheezed. He patted her hand. “How fortunate that Santo should happen to be part of your itinerary and how lucky for me.” He eyed her covetously, patting her knee, which rested intimately against the outside of his thigh.

Favoring him with a luminous smile, Inara elaborated, “One of the benefits of my work is that it affords me the opportunity to meet a variety of people and to see a diverse range of places… many of which I would have preferred to avoid altogether… Part of the fun is learning about the real nature of a community.” She leaned close, flashing her cleavage at him and conveying a sense of partnership. “Such a place as Silverton must have all sorts of interesting people and fascinating stories. I would so love to hear more about your little township, Mr. Chandler.”

Ogling the sweet curves of her full breasts, he took the bait. “Please call me ‘Morty’, my dear. My closest friends all do, and I would be most delighted to consider you such.”

Inara reached out to gracefully trace the full curve of the rancher’s jaw. “Then I shall feel privileged to do so…Morty.” Renci de Fouzu! The things I endure…Oh Mal, you really owe me.

Secure in a sense that this elegant and worldly woman was sincerely interested in him and his community, and reveling in an inflated sense of his own privilege, Morton Chandler launched into a long narrative filled with surprisingly candid observations about the wealthy and powerful members of the community. It was clear the man delighted in gossip and the opportunity to share it. Years of training made it possible for Inara to commit the significant details to memory and Chandler’s unknowing revelations quickly convinced her that Jayne Cobb was an unwitting pawn in a convoluted game of death, money and power.

* * *

When Mal opened the door to Silverton’s sheriff’s office, he was met by one of the deputies. “I’m lookin’ for Garvey,” he declared. “He around?”

With a snort of derision, the man answered, “You’re like to find him in his ‘other’ office, Sullivan’s Bar, a couple blocks down.”

Mal turned to go.

The deputy spoke up. “You might wanna know, Mr. Murchison is pushing to move up the arraignment for your man. He’s sent a flyer to get Judge Budd up here from Franklin a bit faster.”

Mal’s jaw twitched and his hands tightened into fists. “Don’t waste no time on justice around here, do you folks?” Then he turned and briskly struck out to find Max Garvey.

In the late afternoon sun, the dusty street gleamed gold, tawny light reflecting on the row of drygoods stores, tradesman’s shops and rooming houses. Toward the end of the street, Sullivan’s stood like a run-down whore, paint curling and its elaborate gingerbread trim clearly the worse for wear. To Mal it looked like a hundred other border world bars, all bright lights and loud music and cheap, watered-down booze.

He found Garvey at the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a partially emptied bottle nearby.

“Well, hello, Captain. Didn’t figure on seeing you again so soon.”

“Your deputy said I could find you here.”

“Yep, I spent so many hours here I might as well give it as my permanent address. By the way, I made sure your man got what he needed to clean himself up.”

“I appreciate that, Sheriff an’ I imagine Jayne does, too.” “Join me for a drink?”

“Why not?”

Garvey signaled the barkeep for a second glass. “Let’s go somewhere’s we can talk a bit more privately. I’m assuming you tracked me down for reasons other that my charming personality.” The sheriff picked up the whiskey and his glass and headed for a small table in a quiet corner of the bar with Mal close behind him. Both men instinctively sat with their backs to the walls and a clear view of the steady parade of men coming and going through the bar’s double doors. Garvey poured the pungent, amber liquid into Mal’s glass and topped off his own. “Here’s to Justice,” he toasted.

Mal’s eyebrow rose. The toast was one familiar to him from his days in the war. “To Justice,” he responded. After a sip, he ventured, “You were a Browncoat?”

Garvey nodded, then glanced at Mal’s coat, smiling ruefully. “Was. Am. Came back to Santo figurin’ I’d be far enough from the Core I wouldn’t be dealin’ with The Alliance and their ever-pressing need to control people. I guess now I’m just a drunk pretending to keep the peace in a township that’s owned by a handful of powerful men. Don’t much change, ya know?” He looked wearily at his glass. “Was a time I took pride in my work, Captain. Now?” He just shook his head.

He continued, “Murchison’s fixin’ to railroad your man’s trial through quick as spit. He means to make sure you don’t have time to mount a defense.” The sheriff took a long, thirsty sip from his glass. “I don’t think your man killed Nellie Murchison, Captain Reynolds. I just don’t know who did.”

Mal considered what Garvey had just said, then reached into his coat and drew out the square of bloodied wallpaper he’d peeled from the wall up in the Golden Palace hotel. “I think you might find this right interestin’.” He spread the paper on the table before them, pinning the corners with an ashtray, the whisky bottle and a pair of salt and pepper shakers. “When my people and I examined the room that Jayne and Mrs. Murchison shared, we found two items of interest.”

He proceeded to explain about the intact bedclothes. “Shepherd Book, who is acting as Jayne’s legal council, remarked that whoever stabbed the woman turned back the covers and stabbed her very deliberately."

Garvey’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’ll admit I missed that one, Captain. You say your preacher is gonna serve as Cobb’s attorney? I never heard tell of such.”

Mal chuckled dryly. “Truth to tell, Shepherd Book continues to surprise me. Man seems to know about a lot about things it don’t seem a preacher would know. Leastwise, he ain't in Murchison’s pocket and he seems to have a real sound grasp of the law.” Mal pointed to the piece of wallpaper. “Found this at chest height, right beside the left side of the door. Killer left us a clear handprint in the woman’s blood.”

Garvey studied the print silently for several minutes before glancing up at Mal. “Your man’s hands are a helluva lot bigger than this.”

“Yeah, they are.” Mal pointed to the scar. “What about this? Can’t be many fellas wanderin’ around with a scar like that on their left hands.”

Garvey looked up, recognition dawning. “I can certainly think of one – Ambrose Murchison!” He put his glass down and sat up straighter. “Got time for a tale, Captain?”

“That I do,” Mal replied, settling more comfortably into his chair.

Garvey took a pipe out of his coat pocket, filled and tamped it, then lit it. The aromatic smoke rose like soft fog, the smell familiar to Mal from early childhood. Maybe one of his ma’s ranch hands had smoked a pipe, or perhaps the father he couldn’t remember. He waited as the Sheriff gathered his thoughts.

Garvey took a sip from the glass in his right hand, his left cradling the old bent briar pipe, its bowl polished smooth from years of handling, then he began.

“About forty years ago, ranching and mining began to bring more settlers and businessmen into Silverton, and the community had need of a bank. Ambrose Murchison and Thomas Powers founded the Silverton Bank and Land Trust, and quickly became the most powerful men in the area. Bein’ the only bank, they handled all the mortgages, all the farm and mining loans, and they bought up property right and left until between ‘em, they owned much of Silverton Township.

“Murchison’s first wife died in a fall, early on. Kinda questionable, way I hear, but it happened before my time. Powers and his wife had a son, and then, much later in life, a little girl: Nellie. Leta Powers died in a cholera epidemic when Nellie was six and Powers wanted to make sure that someone would be there to care for Nellie, so he and Murchison established a large trust fund for her, to be administered by Murchison. Powers made her Murchison’s ward, too, in the event that he died, which he did a few years later.”

Garvey’s narrative was interrupted by loud laughter from a group of customers and bar girls across the room. He studied the gathering for signs of trouble, then relaxed as it became evident there was no conflict. He took another sip from his glass and Mal did the same.

“Now, where was I? Oh yeah…As soon as Nellie turned eighteen, Murchison up and married her. Folks said it just seemed like the natural thing to do at the time. Wasn’t too awful long after that that I was hired as sheriff. I’d just come back from the war and was lookin’ for a place to settle. Didn’t realize I was sellin’ my soul to the devil…”

Garvey’s face twisted with disgust as he looked Mal in the eye. “This star I’m wearin’ might as well be paper mache for all the authority I wield. Murchison’s Law’s all we got. Pretty soon I seen how he preyed on folk, took advantage of ‘em in hard times. He was free with lendin’ out money for new farms and prospectin’, but quick to call in folk’s mortgages and loans once they faltered any.” The sheriff sighed and took drag on his pipe. “You with me so far?”

Mal leaned back into his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and nodded.

“The other piece of this mess is Nellie’s brother, Dwight. I guess old Mister Powers figured his son should be able to fend for himself, because he left him a bunch of land deeds but not much in the way of cashy money. After the elder Powers died, Murchison took Dwight on as a nominal partner in the bank.” Garvey pointed the stem of his pipe at Mal and looked him sharply in the eye. “Dwight likes to play it like he’s well off, but the truth be known, he’s what we call ‘land poor’. Owns plenty of property but short on liquid wealth. This has put him pretty much in Murchison’s pocket, along with a lot of other local folks.

“Then there was how Murchison began treatin’ Nellie. You’d think an older man with a beautiful young wife would treat her like a princess, but not him. Within a few months of their wedding, he was slappin’ her around and beatin’ her. Everybody knowed about it, but it was as if he was above the law. Hell, I even tried to talk with him about it once – sonuvabitch threatened to have his thugs castrate me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.” Anger darkened Garvey’s face and he gripped his glass so tightly that Mal wondered if it would shatter.

“Nellie Murchison began to occasionally have assignations with visitors. We all had our suspicions as to why. Not often, and like I told you, never with anyone local – her husband would have had the fella killed for sure. Three years ago, Nellie had a child, a daughter, and it seemed like the beatings eased off at first, but then they started back up with a vengeance. Truth to tell, I was scared he’d kill her,” Garvey stared into his glass, “and maybe he finally did.”

He looked up at Mal, his face reflecting his frustration and sadness. “She was a good, kind woman, Captain, everything her pang bo liou mahng of a husband wasn’t, and folks here loved her. It wasn’t so much that they approved of her dalliances as that they understood and had compassion for her.”

Garvey bent down and knocked the dottle out of his pipe against his boot heel, then emptied his glass, looking far more sober than an hour before. “The way it looks to me, your man was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Him bedding Nellie Murchison just gave her husband a convenient means to pin her murder on another man. The question is, how do we prove it?”

* * *

As soon as Mal returned to Serenity, he tracked down Shepherd Book and shared the gist of his conversation with Sheriff Garvey.

Book listened, stroking his chin thoughtfully, his left arm across his broad chest. “Seems like we’re still lacking the details of that trust. By Federation law, trusts are a matter of public record, Mal. I propose to pay a visit to the Register of Deeds. This would also give me an opportunity to find out a bit more about the status of Jayne’s arraignment, since you were told that Mr. Murchison is bucking to expedite the process.”

“You know, Preacher,” Mal noted, “when you ain't goin’ on about The Lord, you’re a damn handy man to have on the crew. Let me know what you find, mǎshàng, dong ma?”

* * *

Book headed briskly across town toward the Township Courthouse. As he’d anticipated, his status as a cleric seemed to facilitate his requests and in a matter of minutes, he was seated at a heavy oak table with a lamp brightly illuminating a stack of documents setting forth the specific terms of the Powers-Murchison Trust.

Quickly scanning the pages of formal and archaic legalese, he realized that, in general, Mal had the correct facts about the trust, with one notable exception.

“Well, well, well…Isn’t this interesting?” Book’s dark intelligent face lit up as his finger traced a particular line of text and he read softly aloud to himself. “In the event of Nellie Powers Murchison’s untimely death, all monies and properties of the Trust will be conveyed in equal part to Ambrose Elias Murchison, her Guardian and Husband, and to her Brother, Dwight Thomas Powers. In the event either of these parties survives the other, the entire holdings of the Trust will become the sole property of the survivor.”

Scanning further down the page, Book came to a listing of properties and mining claims initially listed in the name of Dwight Powers and more recently transferred to Ambrose Murchison. “I wonder what that’s all about?” he mused and quickly jotted down a series of notes to himself before asking the clerk for copies of the documents in question. He had more research to do and precious little time to accomplish it in.

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To be continued…