Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Of course they’re dead. I saw the burned carcasses.”

  “Where?”

  “In the ravine. At the crash site.”

  “Let’s go have a look.”

  • • •

  There was two burned carcasses in the ravine, all right. Cows. One of ’em had a bullet-hole between the eyes, the other looked like road kill. It appeared a local farmer was tryin’ to save a few bucks on the disposal fee, or mebbe work a scam on some fool claim-adjuster by settin’ it up to look like his stock was killed in the truck crash. Wouldn’t work on anybody local, but the fact that this guy was here was proof somebody’d fall fer it.

  When I pointed out the horns, the insurance man turned bright red. “If the horses weren’t in the truck, where are they?”

  “In protective custody, over at Mars Boone’s. ’Cept for the jackass. He’s at my place.” I gave him my address an’ told him he was free to take the jackass any time. “An’ you can get your horses soon’s you pay their board.”

  “That’s not my job,” he said. “I’ll amend my report. BLM can worry about the horses.”

  a truck stop an’ a prison

  From the truck stops Loomis had patronized an’ the dates he’d patronized ’em, it seemed like he spent a lotta time goin’ to Nashville an’ Grover. I figgered the state cops’d know those towns an’ the truck stops between ’em, so I called Trooper Yates an’ asked for some info.

  “Besides The Grand Ole Opry,” Yates told me, “Nashville’s got lots a health care companies, a Nissan plant, an’ some church headquarters—mainly Baptists an’ Methodists. Grover has a state prison an’ a distillery. This about your barbecued trucker?”

  “Yup.”

  Yates gimme a sketch of all the truck stops on Loomis’s credit card receipts. And, since Grover was a lot closer’n Nashville, I decided to start my canvass in that direction.

  I stopped at the Best Buy on my way to the Interstate an’ axed their techno-genius, Merlin Willis, to use his demo machines to turn Loomis/Ames’s DMV photo into a couple dozen “Do-you-know-this feller?” posters an’ some four-by-six snapshots. I figgered I’d get more calls if folks’ curiosity got stirred up, so Merlin added “Call Homer Deters” an’ my cell phone number, with no mention of the Sheriff’s office.

  “That desktop the town’s buyin’ you come in, Sheriff,” Merlin said when he was finished. “You want me to deliver it to your office?”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “An’ even more obliged if you set it up an’ show me how to use it.”

  He nodded. “I’ll install it this afternoon, an’ you can let me know when you got time fer a lesson.”

  • • •

  The rest of the day, I drove around an’ handed the posters to every local waitress, hooker, an’ fillin’ station attendant I thought Loomis might have run into.

  I hit pay dirt just outside Grover.

  The Trucker’s Inn ’N’ Out was one of them super-sized truck stops with room fer fifty semis to park an’ enough pumps to service half a Texas. It had a Down Home Cookin’ restaurant, a mini-mart, an’ the Taj Mahal of comfort stations, with plastic seat covers that changed when you waved your hand in front of a ’lectric sensor. After I’d checked the plumbing, I went into the restaurant to sample the cuisine.

  The waitress put a menu in front of me and said, “Coffee, hon?” Her name tag said Penny. She had a voice like Sharon Stone, but she was built like a brick shithouse. Made me think of phone sex.

  I said, “Much obliged.”

  She set a big coffee mug in front of me an’ filled it to the brim. Good coffee. The food was pretty good, too.

  When I was done, an’ Penny’d refilled my coffee mug, I showed her my improvised poster an’ asked had she ever seen this guy.

  “Bad tipper,” she said.

  “Anything else?”

  “You some kinda law?”

  “That be a problem for you?”

  She shook her head. “He comes in here once every two weeks or so. Treats waitresses like shit.” She pulled a wipe rag outta her pocket an’ started polishin’ the table top. “He do something bad?”

  “Got hisself killed.”

  She shook her head again. “He was a jerk, but I can’t see anybody killin’ him for that. Hell, half the truckers that come in here are jerks.”

  “He ever come in with anyone?”

  “Not that I saw. I heard him tell somebody to go to hell once, over his cell phone.”

  “Recently?”

  “Last time he was in. Can’t remember what day that was. Sorry.”

  I could find out the date from Loomis’s log an’ credit card records. I said, “You been a great help.”

  Which is why I left her a generous tip.

  • • •

  One of the places Sam Loomis delivered stuff to was a new minimum security state prison where they was s’posed to teach young felons to be farmers. The Hiram Walker Agricultural Arts Facility looked pretty much like any small farm ’cept for the 12-foot fence with razor wire toppin’ it, an’ the big ugly square lockup between the front gate an’ the farm buildings. I pulled up to the gate an’ showed my badge to the guard.

  “What can we do for you, Sheriff?”

  “Guess I need to talk to the warden. He in today?”

  “He’s in every day.”

  The guard opened the gate an’ said, “Drive up to the front entrance and park in a visitor’s space. I’ll let ’em know you’re coming. You’ll have to check your piece.”

  I did what he said.

  • • •

  The guy who let me in and locked up my sidearm looked more like a recruitin’ ad for the Be-All-You-Can-Be Army than a standard issue prison guard. An’ inside, the place looked like a new high school, with wide hallways and high ceilings. Everything was clean as a ad for Spic and Span.

  The warden’s office had a picture window out onto the prison yard, which looked like a garden project from one of them ladies’ magazines. The warden was a wonder, too—fit as a marathon runner. An’ he couldn’t of been more than twenty-five. He stood up behind his desk an’ offered me his hand, then a seat.

  I took both. “Nice place you got here, sir.” I handed him one of my “wanted” posters an’ asked had he seen the feller.

  He studied the picture, then shook his head. “Too old to be one of ours.”

  “Well, far’s I know, he wasn’t never in prison. But he was a truck driver. He may’a made deliveries here.”

  “I could let you talk to Mr. Ridley, our farm manager. He might remember him.”

  “I’d be obliged. Also, if you could tell me what he delivered.”

  “What company did he work for?”

  “He was a independent. Last time out, he was haulin’ for the Bureau of Land Management.”

  The warden looked surprised. “That’d be our horses.”

  “He was s’posed to bring ’em here?”

  “Supposed to?”

  “I got your horses.”

  “Not our horses. They were delivered this morning—three days late, but they’re here.”

  “Mebbe they’re not yours, but I got your shippin’ papers. An’ somebody’s horses. “What do you do with horses?”

  “Our inmates gentle them, get them used to being handled and ridden, then we auction them off to the public. It’s a great program. The inmates learn useful skills and get a certain emotional benefit from working with animals. BLM gets rid of surplus mustangs without inciting horse-lovers. And the horses usually end up with good homes.

  “We also have beef cattle, milk cows, sheep, chickens, and pigs. We teach farming techniques and equipment repair. Mr. Ridley will give you a tour if you like.”

  • • •

  I did like. Ridley turned out to be younger than the warden. And he made a point to say he was a graduate of the program. He’d done his time an’ learned a trade—gentlin’ human mustangs.

>   The place was run better’n any farm I’ve seen possibly exceptin’ Mars Boone’s. I asked Ridley could they take on a bunch more horses.

  “We just got a shipment. Maybe in a month or two.”

  By which time the county’d be in hock to Mars Boone for at least a couple grand.

  Ridley remembered Loomis—who’d delivered horses on two occasions—as a real jerk. “He didn’t give them enough food or water en route. And he refused to help us off-load them, then wanted us to clean out his truck.”

  “Did you?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Lower Fork Distillery

  Long as I was down that way, I decided to check out another of the concerns Ames/Loomis had delivered stuff to—Lower Fork Distillery. I done a tour of the Jim Beam Distillery, in Kentucky, when I was in the service. Big place. Big buildin’s. Steam comin’ out the stacks. Lots a truck traffic. Plenty of cars in the parkin’ lots. People comin’ an’ goin’ like ants at a picnic.

  From my side of the front gate—one of them motorized, slidin’ affairs—the Lower Fork Distillery looked just about deserted. The perimeter fence was taller an’ nastier than the one at the prison farm an’ decorated with large NO TRESPASSING signs set every hundred feet or so. There wasn’t any sign of life behind the fence, much less signs offerin’ tours. There was a couple large buildings that looked like down-at-the-heels warehouses an’ a smaller building—off to the side—that coulda been a office. Just one semi was parked out front. There wasn’t any way I could see to contact whoever was inside—no phone at the gate or sign with phone numbers.

  I got back in my squad an’ made a note to call the county records clerk, when I got back to the office, ’bout who the property belonged to.

  I pulled out Loomis’s phone record sheet an’ studied the numbers. There was one he’d called, an’ got calls from, that had the same area code as the prison. So just for the hell of it, I pulled out my cell phone an’ punched in the number.

  After four rings, a man’s voice said, “Yeah?”

  “This the Lower Fork Distillery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is Sheriff Homer Deters.”

  “Yeah?”

  I wasn’t sure was he questionin’ my identity or askin’ what I wanted so I said, “I’m callin’ about a Henry Ames.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know ’im?”

  “No.”

  Least the fella could say somethin’ besides ‘Yeah?’. I said, “Well, that’s strange ’cause I got your number from his phone record. An’ it shows he had a couple calls from you.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about that. And I don’t know you.”

  He disconnected, so I called him back.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Sheriff Deters. I didn’t get your name.”

  “Jones.”

  “Mr. Jones, I really need to know what Henry Ames’d be callin’ you about.”

  “Why’n’t ya ask him.”

  “I would if I could.”

  “How’d I know you’re a sheriff?”

  “If you come to the front gate, I’ll show you my badge.”

  He was quiet a while, then said, “What’d Ames do?”

  “Got hisself killed.”

  “How?”

  “Truck crash.”

  “When?”

  “How ’bout I ask the questions?”

  There was another long quiet spell during which I watched a man come out of the smaller building and get in the semi.

  Jones come out of his thinkin’ spell an’ said, “What’d you want to know?”

  “What’s your connection to Ames?”

  “He made deliveries and hauled stuff out of here.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “This is a distillery. What do you think?”

  “You know him well?”

  “Couldn’t pick him out of a line-up.”

  “You have any problems with him?”

  “If I did, I’d remember him.”

  “Is that a ‘no’?”

  “Yeah, that’s a no. Listen, I gotta go. I got work to do.” He disconnected again.

  I noticed the semi was fired up an’ headin’ for the gate. I thought about drivin’ in when the gate opened to let the truck out, but decided against it—I didn’t have a search warrant or any probable cause or exigent circumstances. An’ I wasn’t keen on gettin’ myself arrested for trespassin’.

  What I could do, an’ what I did do, was wait for the semi to pull out, then pull the driver over. I was out of my jurisdiction, but I was a peace officer investigatin’ a homicide. So I didn’t think usin’ my Mars lights to get the trucker’s attention would be a chargeable offense.

  When he realized I wasn’t after him, the driver was pretty cooperative. He’d never met Henry Ames or Sam Loomis, or anybody else except Wilcox who worked for the distillery. Wilcox was the office manager.

  “Was he talkin’ to someone on the phone just now? When you pulled out?”

  “Ah hunh.”

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Harry Wilcox is all I know him by.”

  “You see any other vehicles while you was in there?”

  “Just Harry’s truck.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Back behind the office where you can’t see it from the road.”

  “Make an’ model?”

  “Ford F-250.”

  “Color?”

  “Black.”

  “Didn’t happen to notice the license number?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  I thanked the man an’ let him get on his way. Then I went back to the distillery an’ took a few snapshots of it with my crime scene camera. I debated whether it’d be worth it to wait outside the gate until quittin’ time. Probably not, but I sure didn’t wanna come back.

  Harry “Jones” Wilcox saved me the trouble by keepin’ banker’s hours. A little after three, a black Ford F-250 pulled out from behind the little building an’ up to the gate. The driver, a white male, pulled through it an’ waited for the gate to close ’fore he drove off, givin’ me plenty of time to get his license plate number. An’ to call an’ ask Trooper Yates to run it for me.

  I gave Wilcox a half-mile lead an’ followed. I was kinda surprised when he pulled up to a Cheap-Ass Likkers store an’ went inside. While I was waitin’ for him to come out, Yates called me back.

  “That number’s registered to a black Ford F-250. Belongs to Harry R. Wilcox.” Yates give me Wilcox’s address an’ hung up.

  When Wilcox come out of the liquor store, he was carrying a paper sack—why they call it package goods, I guess. He got in his truck an’ drove to the address Yates just give me. The place was a two story brick colonial on at least a acre lot. There was a black Escalade an’ a Mercedes S 500 parked out front. All pretty pricey for a liquor company dispatcher.

  After Wilcox went inside, I parked in front an’ took down the plate numbers of the yuppie-mobiles. Then I dialed the number I’d got “Jones” at earlier, the one from Loomis’s phone record.

  Musta been a cell phone, ’cause Wilcox come on the line. “Yeah?”

  “It ain’t smart to lie to the police.”

  • • •

  I was just pullin’ into the parkin’ lot behind my office when Martha Rooney called.

  “Homer,” she said, “Mayor asked me to remind you to be on time for the town council meeting tonight. They’re having that zoning hearing on the Peterman property, for that project Silas Hanson’s so set against. Mayor thinks he might need some crowd control.”

  I said, “Ten-four,” like I was on top of everything, but truth is, I’d completely forgot.

  I had to interview Hanson anyway ’cause the dead Injun was found on his property. I figgered it was probably just his bad luck the remains ended up in his ditch. But it wouldn’t cost nothin’ to find out fer sure.

  town meetin’

  West Wheelin’ town council meetin’s is
held the first Wednesday of every month—that bein’ a night that don’t interfere with any bowlin’ leagues. Sheriff’s office is required to maintain order an’ provide crowd control as needed. Usually ain’t much needed unless there’s some pet project in the works or a zonin’ matter’s got the neighbors riled up.

  The council generally rubber-stamps Mayor’s resolutions an’ appropriations—drawed up by the mayor’s secretary, who really runs the town. Then they take up old business, then give members of the public a chance to air their grievances—called ‘Business from the Public.’ They save new business an’ stuff they’d as soon not have too many people know about fer the end, by which time most everybody’s got tired of all the hot air an’ went home.

  I was startin’ to nod off when Mayor finally said, “’Fore we get to the main event, we got any business from the public?”

  “We need a street light at Fool’s End,” Councilman Cramer said.

  Fool’s End is a T-intersection along a stretch of Car Wrecks. Fools who don’t stop fer the sign end up in the bottom of the ravine, an’ sometimes in the cemetery.

  “Sure your concern ain’t mainly ’cause you sell street lights?” Mayor asked.

  “We had another accident there just last week. Ask Homer.”

  Mayor said, “Well, Sheriff?”

  “That crash had more to do with Lenny bein’ under the influence than ’cause there ain’t no street light.”

  Councilman Andrews jumped up an’ said, “That’s a slanderous accusation, Sheriff! How dare you accuse my client of being drunk?”

  “Didn’t actually say he was drunk. I said he was under the influence—mainly ’cause he blew a 0.29 on the breathalyzer.”

  “Allegedly blew a 0.29.”

  “Ain’t no alleged about it, Mr. Andrews. I personally administered the test. I kin swear to it.”

  Andrews looked like he was fixin’ to bust, so I was glad when the mayor banged his gavel an’ said, “Lenny’s guilt or innocence is somethin’ to be determined by the courts. Meantime, this sounds like a matter for the Traffic Commission.”