Head in a Haymow

by Chris Seaton

  Darlene saw the painful grief creep into her friend's demeanor and wisely changed the subject. “So how did you know it was only a head?” She asked.

  Marsha recovered from her melancholy. “Oh that,” she responded. “Well, Jarvis smelled something off and didn’t know what to make of it until he heard the flies.”

  Darlene cringed appropriately. “And that’s when he found it?”

  Marsha gaped at her in shock. “Oh no,” she corrected, “Jarvis wouldn’t go anywhere near it. He just knew from the smell and flies that something was bad was up there. He had Kevin call the Sheriff. Sheriff’s the one that told him it was just a head.”

  “Up where?”

  Marsha almost forgot Bernice was in the room. “What, Dear?” she asked.

  “You said Jarvis smelled something bad 'up there'. Where exactly was the head?”

  Marsha's gaze wandered past Bernice to the doorway that led into the basement. “They found it in the haymow.”

  Bernice looked at the doorway then too. “Think he’d mind some company?”

  Marsha scoffed and poured herself another cup of tea. “Not unless you’re drinkin'.”

  Bernice set down her untouched tea on the counter, remarking, “Not a problem.” She promptly descended the stairs.

  After decades of toiling in cow shit Jarvis had earned himself a cave worthy of the manliest man. He had a zone for everything. There was Packer Central decked out with forest green leather recliners, matching brass end tables, and a huge TV. Next to that was the Sportsman’s Corner. It held an ornately carved, leaded glass gun cabinet that was surrounded by trophies of deer antlers and walleye mounts.

  And then there was the Bar. Clad in custom ordered mahogany, the granite for the counter was especially chosen for the perfect shade of blue. It matched the blue in the tri-folded American flag displayed on the wall next to all of Jason’s pictures and military effects. Jason's shrine overshadowed the miniscule amount of mementos from an older war that was hung in an old shadow box off to the side.

  Nevertheless, that was what Old Jarvis was glaring at through bloodshot eyes as he forced down another sip of whiskey. Lost in his own thoughts, he almost scared himself off of his stool at the sound of Bernice’s voice. “This seat taken?”

  “As long as you’re not another fuckin’ cop,” he responded caustically.

  Bernice walked around behind the bar and bent over to inspect the squat beverage fridge. She stood back up with a long neck bottle in her hand and swiftly twisted it open as she made her way around to the empty bar stool.

  They both sat quietly for a while, just drinking.

  Finally, Bernice broke the silence by gesturing to the shadowbox with her bottle. “Remind me how you got that star again,” she casually requested.

  Jarvis examined the bottom of his high ball before answering. “Took out a sniper.”

  Bernice nodded and drank a few more swigs of beer, letting the subject marinate. Jarvis was not one to be rushed. “That was in '67, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm,” she mused, “sniper must have caused some damage.”

  Jarvis said nothing. He drained his highball instead.

  Bernice set down her bottle. “You know,” she observed, “I've heard that story a hundred times, always the same: The rain, the burnt-out helicopter, the young kid who was so scared shitless he barely aimed his rifle in time to save his own ass...” Jarvis' hand started to shake as he picked up the large square bottle. Bernice stopped him. “It's a great story,” she noted, “but you always choose to leave out what happened after you actually got into the village.”

  She took the bottle and poured two fingers worth of booze into the highball. Jarvis held the glass with both hands as he concentrated on the blue granite counter top.

  Bernice stood up and walked around to the server side of the bar. After setting her half full bottle in the sink, she pulled out a shot glass and poured a whiskey for herself. Beer just wasn't cutting it anymore. “You don't have to give me the details, Jarvis. It may have been forty-some years ago, but I can see the nineteen-year-old sitting in front of me right now. He's the one who figured out what was in the haymow this morning.”

  Jarvis granted her his full attention then. What he saw in her eyes gave him pause.

  Bernice wasn't looking at Jarvis anymore. She was watching the liquid move around in her shot glass. “Seeing death like that, it changes a person. You realize that nature has no respect for the soul in that body... It just keeps on rollin'.”

  She recovered herself as she looked at Jarvis and immediately changed her tone to one of hopefulness. “We're still alive, Jarvis,” she reminded him. “All we can do is make the best of that and try to move on.” Bernice hovered her shot glass near Jarvis' highball. “To life,” she toasted.

  Jarvis lifted his glass to hers. They toasted in silence. Jarvis spoke first. “All this shit is gonna really fuck up my hayin' schedule.”

  Bernice nodded with a smirk as she silently heralded the return of the Old Jarvis.

  Then they heard a deep judgmental voice. “A little early for cocktails, isn't it, Mr. Lutz?”

  Jarvis observed the regulation blue suit and flashing badge with undisguised distaste. “Ah, hell. Not another one.”

  “I'm Special Agent in Charge from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation.” His demeanor was as crisp as his suit.

  Jarvis did not get up from his chair. “Yah?” he drawled.

  The man remained standing in the doorway. When it became obvious that his explanation of title caused no further action, he continued, “I understand that you discovered the victim on your property.”

  Jarvis looked at him and breathed deeply, attempting to inhale more patience out of thin air. “I already told the Sheriff, Deputy Sheriff, and State Trooper all I know, which ain't a whole hell of a lot. I watched every one of them write down what I said...”

  In an effort to prove his point, he held up the whiskey bottle, continuing, “...and that was a good half bottle of Jack ago. So, Sir, you'd be better off tracking one of those sons-o-bitches down and leave a poor man in peace.”

  Jarvis was going to pour himself another drink, but Bernice put her hand on the bottle. They exchanged a look that was not lost on the agent.

  “That may have been the case, Mr. Lutz, but I have my own questions.” He gestured toward to open basement door as he continued. “I would appreciate it if you would accompany me up to the crime scene.”

  Jarvis gaped at the agent. “No fucking way!” he ground out with conviction.

  The agent flinched slightly at the offense but held his ground, stating, “As you are the only witness, Mr. Lutz, I'm afraid I must insist.” Then he addressed Bernice in a polite but completely impersonal manner. “If you will excuse us, Ma'am.”

  Jarvis grabbed on to Bernice's arm like a drowning man to a buoy. “If I go, she goes.”

  Bernice stared at Jarvis on the verge of protesting. His look of sheer desperation stopped her. She pushed an exasperated sigh through her nostrils and nodded slightly.

  “This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Lutz. I don't even know who this woman is-”

  “Bernice Hordstrom is my neighbor and my friend,” Jarvis announced. “I trust her a hell of a lot more than you overpaid flatfoots so let's get this shit done with.”

  Jarvis heaved himself off his bar stool, tested his balance and continued when he found it to his satisfaction. He walked past the agent with barely a glance and made his way up the stairs.

  Bernice and the agent remained awkwardly alone in the basement. The agent finally gestured to the open doorway. His sarcasm was barely hidden in his polite address. “Ladies first.”

  Bernice ignored the obvious slight and went on ahead of him.

  Darlene and Marsha stared with obvious curiosity as the couple emerged into the kitchen. Jarvis was by the door waiting for them.

  Bernice's voice conveyed more courage than she felt. “Darlene, I'm go
ing out to the barn with Jarvis and this police officer-”

  “Special Agent in Charge,” was the abrupt correction.

  Bernice regarded him over her shoulder with irritation. “Yah, so I'll be right back then.”

  Jarvis was out the door first with the agent and Bernice in tow.

  Darlene and Marsha returned to their polite ladies tea and conversation.

  “Wonder why she's going out with them?” started Marsha.

  “Maybe that agent guy thinks she can help.”

  “Did you see how handsome he is?”

  “I sense some chemistry with him and Bernice, don't you?”

  “I just wish she'd take a little more care of her appearance.”

  “You're preachin' to the choir.”

  Jarvis stomped with obvious irritation past all the law enforcement occupying his yard. He was several paces ahead of Bernice and the agent.

  “You know,” she commented, “It's kind of embarrassing that the media beat you here.” Bernice took her impending dread out on the closest target.

  “I came up from Madison,” the agent responded simply.

  The local cops parted as he approached and gawked at him in his wake. Bernice observed the phenomena with curiosity. She assessed the back of his carefully groomed head as they neared the barn and the unhappy Jarvis leaning in the doorway.

  “You got a title that's a tad bit shorter than Special Agent in Charge from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal-?”

  “Wyatt,” was his pert response. The agent gave her one sidelong glance before walking in. “Agent Wyatt will do fine.”

  Bernice made a face at his backside. She turned to Jarvis, who wore a look somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

  “Now's not the time for flirting, Bernice,” he commented dryly and went into the barn.

  Bernice shook her head and grumbled to herself, “If you think that's flirting, Old Man, you've been married too damn long.”

  A person would have thought she was at a family picnic. With her county-issued wind breaker spread out on a square bale of hay, Dr. Melonie Hildigaard ME was casually lounging, sipping from her travel mug, and perusing the apps on her smart phone. She seemed completely oblivious to the horrid stench and annoying buzzing coming from a scant ten feet away.

  Agent Wyatt approached her with an outstretched hand and spoke with authority. “I'm SAC Wyatt from DCI. Can you tell me-?”

  “Hang on,” Melonie ordered as she delicately moved her index finger around the screen. After a few more actions she carefully set the phone away. She looked up at Agent Wyatt, commenting, “'Bout time you got here. State budget so tight you had to take the bus?”

  Agent Wyatt forced a tight smirk. “Sorry,” he apologized. “It's a long drive from Madison.”

  Melonie seemed to take on the persona of a jilted date as she rose from her seat. “You could have called,” she scolded him.

  Bernice watched with amusement as the two officials sized each other up.

  “My service went out in Menomonie,” he explained through his irritation.

  Melonie opened her trace bag and pulled out her digital camera. “Figures,” she grumbled. “Well, at least now I got company that isn't covered in flies.”

  Melonie glanced over at Bernice and Jarvis. They were still by the opening of the haymow, staying well away from the offending “victim”. She waved them in like grandma inviting visitors for dinner. “Come on over,” she beckoned. “He ain't gonna bite.” She stood up next to Agent Wyatt and leaned in, joking, “Couldn't if he wanted to. The jaw's ripped off.”

  Agent Wyatt moved away from Melonie, clearly ignoring her. He set his own coat on top of hers and rolled up his sleeves. He looked around him, questioning, “What's the temperature in here?”

  Jarvis stomped over to a far wall and eyeballed an ancient thermometer that was nailed permanently to a timber. “Looks to be about eighty-five,” he yelled back.

  Agent Wyatt gestured to Melonie for the camera. She handed it to him. “You figure Time of Death during your preliminary?” he asked.

  “Funny you should ask.” Melonie pulled out a clipboard from her bag and handed it over. She watched Agent Wyatt's face as he read it. His look of absurdity clearly made her day. “I know, right? This nasty noggin just got interesting.”

  Agent Wyatt refrained from comment. He handed the clipboard back and approached the head.

  Bernice had her nose stuffed inside the crew neck of her t-shirt. She glanced in the direction of the work. Aside from the swarm of insects all she could make out was a lump on the floor matted with straw.

  Agent Wyatt began to shoot pictures. He stopped and looked around him before demanding, “Mr. Lutz, would you come over here, please?”

  Bernice and Jarvis shot each other looks of alarm. Bernice shook her head harshly inside her shirt collar. Jarvis pleaded to her silently with his age-ravaged features.

  Agent Wyatt observed the two, clearly growing impatient. He called over to Bernice. “Ma'am, you are the one who chose to inject yourself into my investigation. Please cooperate.”

  Bernice glared at him, but slowly shuffled her way over to where he was standing. The heat and the constant buzzing were giving her the makings of a migraine. She shot another glare over at Jarvis.

  He scowled at her in return and began to stomp in their direction. “I'm comin',” he grumbled.

  Bernice turned to Melonie and enunciated through her shirt as best she could. “So you're certain the head was from a man?”

  Melonie looked up in surprise. “Ha? Oh yah, pretty sure,” she answered.

  Bernice reluctantly glanced down at the buzzing lump of straw. “How could you tell?”

  Melonie turned to Agent Wyatt, who was busy taking pictures. “May I have my camera back quick?” she requested.

  Conveying his irritation at the inconvenience, he handed back the camera. He then turned his attention to Jarvis, who was keeping very much to himself in the background. “Mr. Lutz, there seem to be some other items gathered over here.”

  Jarvis peered around the agent cautiously before stepping closer. Agent Wyatt pointed for him.

  In a haphazard pile partially obscured by flies Jarvis could make out a deer leg, a large twisted log, the remains of a painted turtle shell, and a picked-clean calf skull. His face registered a sad recognition. “Jesus, looks like it was Bear,” Jarvis said with a disheartened groan.

  Agent Wyatt straightened up smartly at the response. “Sir, are you saying a black bear was in your barn?”

  Jarvis chose not to comment and simply looked ornery.

  Bernice corrected for him. “Bear is the name of his dog. He's a Mastiff.”

  Agent Wyatt frowned at the pile with obvious irritation, announcing, “Mr. Lutz, I'm going to need to examine your dog.”

  Jarvis immediately came to the dog's defense. “But Bear wouldn't hurt a fly,” he whined. “He just likes to chew on things. He keeps his toys up here so the other dog don't get em'.”

  “Well, one of his toys turned out to be a human head, Mr. Lutz, and we need to examine your dog to figure out where he got it.”

  “There!” exclaimed Melonie, finally getting the camera to the shot she was looking for. She showed it to Bernice. Bernice quickly winced and brought her face a safe distance from the offending image. “The head was fairly clean during the preliminary,” she explained. “As you can see from the short hair and prominent bone structure, it's most likely a man.”

  Jarvis made the mistake of looking too curiously at the digital camera. Melonie immediately moved the image closer to him. “See?” she pointed out.

  Jarvis looked away angry at first but opened his closest eye to the camera. Then he looked closer as his fear gave way to something else.

  Bernice cocked her head at Jarvis with curiosity. “What?”

  Jarvis squinted at the small LCD screen while the squirrels in his brain ran faster and faster. They came to a screeching halt and Jarvis opened his mouth
and gasped. Then he promptly gagged on the stray fly that got sucked in.

  Agent Wyatt smacked him on the back. It was the first time the man showed any sense of humor during the entire ordeal. “You all right, Mr. Lutz?” he asked.

  Jarvis coughed, bent over and hanging on to Agent Wyatt's arm. He croaked out a rather harsh sound. “Herb!”

  They all looked at him with confusion. Bernice bent over and peered into his face. “What was that, Jarvis?”

  Jarvis breathed heavily for a moment. “I know who that is. That's Herb,” he croaked. He stood back up and addressed Agent Wyatt. “That's Herbert Abernathy,” he testified more clearly. “I'd know that son-of-a-bitch anywhere.”

  Chapter 3

  It may have never graced the cover of a design magazine, but the eat-in kitchen at Lollygagger's Acres was neither short on charm nor hospitality. Except for updated electric and newer appliances (at Bernice's insistence), the kitchen remained in almost museum-like condition since its construction in 1940.

  This included the enameled cookstove that imposed itself at the head of the room. At the moment it stood silent in the warm, spring evening. It was covered in trays of pint jars and freezer containers that were waiting for the June crop of strawberries.

  Bernice and Darlene were hulling those very strawberries as they shared their vintage, chrome table and chilled, homemade wine with Cameron. Despite the years worth of stories that needed to be caught up on, the main subject of conversation inevitably revolved around the bizarre events of the day.

  “So Jarvis knew the guy outright?” Cameron asked.

  “Oh yeah, and he was pissed about it too. Almost forgot his fear of seeing the severed head.” Bernice brandished the squat, paring knife and removed the fruit from its stem.

  “Can you blame him?” Darlene chimed in. “The bastard owed him 600 bucks.” She flicked the green crown off her own knife onto the open newspaper in the center of the table. “No way he's gettin' it back now.”