Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  When I got inside the courthouse, I seen Roy Kilgore sittin’ in the front pew, an’ I got a inspiration. Kilgore didn’t bother to contest his citation fer litterin’. Hell, he’d dumped all the trash from his car right in front of the court house to protest the last sentence the judge handed him fer litterin’—musta been thirty witnesses. The judge always made him do community service—highway litter pick up, an’ since he was in court fer somethin’ nearly every month, there wasn’t all that much litter left to collect. ’Specially with Miz Lincoln on the job. So mebbe he figgered on a light sentence this time, too.

  If so, he figgered wrong.

  ’Fore the judge could pronounce his usual sentence, I stood up an’ asked could I have a word.

  His honor musta been gettin’ tired of Kilgore, too, ’cause he said, “Sure, Homer. Shoot.”

  “We pretty much got a handle on the litter problem, your Honor. An’ Mr. Kilgore don’t seem to be gettin’ the point. Mebbe we oughta try givin’ him a couple days hard labor.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  As I told him, I could see his smile gettin’ brighter an’ brighter. An’ Kilgore looked glummer an’ glummer.

  Which is how—a hour later—I come to be supervisin’ while Kilgore dug in a line a bushes on the parkway in front of Mary Lincoln’s house.

  Just before I finished up at Mary Lincoln’s, I got a call on my cell from my sister Penny.

  “Homer, I can’t watch Skip for you tonight. Junior’s in a play at school and I don’t have a ticket for Skip. The school is not going to let him in without one.”

  “Well, thanks anyway, Penny.”

  “You’re not leaving him home alone.”

  Since Penny’s in charge of the county’s child welfare services, I said, “’Course not,” even though Skip is thirteen, an’ that’s old enough to babysit younger kids. Anyway, he wouldn’t be home alone—there was the jackass.

  • • •

  When Rye come in off his shift, I was unwindin’ in my office with two fingers of West Wheelin’ White Lightnin’. I figured it was close enough to quittin’ time to ask him to join me. He poured hisself a stiff one an’ set down an’ put his feet up on my desk.

  After a spell, I said, “Rye, what’s your opinion of Cheap-Ass Likkers’s business model?”

  “Classic, Homer. Jus’ like them big box stores. They come in an’ undercut the locals, put ’em out of business. Then they can charge what they like.”

  “’Cept, could be, Cheap-Ass don’t have to pay fer their inventory.”

  “No shit! No wonder I can’t compete.”

  further investigatin’

  After Rye took off, it come to me that my BBQed trucker, Sam Loomis, had stole back his own truck ’cause he musta knowed sooner or later we’d be onto his fake IDs and the fact that his truck was stolen property. I wondered how he thought he could get away with it—a semi’s pretty hard to hide. But then again, he had got away with it. The whole two years he’d been drivin’ it. An’ someone—or a ring of someones—had been makin’ big rigs disappear pretty regular. All of which made me wonder if Loomis’d had anything to do with that.

  I still hadn’t located any of the money he musta made by drivin’ twice as many hours as the law allowed an’ sellin’ stolen horses to the pet food fact’ry. Unless he was gamblin’ it all away, he musta stashed it somewhere. His safety deposit key—which’d been settin’ in my office safe fer two weeks—was a big clue, though followin’ it was gonna be a tad difficult. It didn’t have no bank name on it, an’ my investigation hadn’t turned up a check book or debit card or mention of any bank.

  I pulled out all the papers I had, an’ went over ’em again. A monthly receipt from a Leonard’s Garage gimme pause. It had a phone number on it, so I called an’ asked fer Leonard.

  “You got him.”

  “You happen to know a Sam Loomis?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Sheriff Deters, Boone County.”

  “Why’re you asking fer this Loomis?”

  “Police business. You know ’im?”

  “No.”

  “How ’bout a Henry Ames?”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Got hisself killed.”

  “Aw, shit!”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Naw. He owes me—owed me—two months’ rent.”

  “Fer what?”

  “Parkin’ his pickup truck in my garage.”

  “You still got it?”

  “Till he settles up.”

  “Well that truck may contain evidence of who killed him. Be obliged if you’d just keep it safe ’til I have a chance to go over it.”

  “An’ confiscate it?”

  “Only if it can prove who killed him. An’ even then, only ’til after the trial.”

  “What about the contents?”

  “You got a mechanic’s lien on anything that ain’t evidence.”

  “When you comin’ to look?”

  I checked my watch—’bout time to fetch Skip from school. An’ I didn’t want to keep him up half the night with police business. So I said, “First thing tomorrow.”

  “That a promise?”

  “Yessir. An’ I hope when I get there, I don’t find your fingerprints inside the truck. Or signs you been into it lately.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’d make you a accessory after the fact.”

  “Well I didn’t kill him—I can’t collect rent from a dead guy.”

  “Yeah. Well, he was mixed up in some bad shit. Which is why he was killed.”

  • • •

  Skip wasn’t anywhere in sight when I got to the junior high. I called his cell an’ his home room teacher answered.

  “Skip’s got detention, Sheriff.”

  I couldn’t keep my disappointment outta my voice. “What’d he do?”

  “He locked a classmate in a locker.”

  “The kid okay?”

  “He is, but Skip needs to understand that’s not an acceptable way to settle a dispute.”

  I sighed. Real loud. So she could hear I wasn’t questionin’ what she said. “I hear you. What time’s he detained ’til?”

  “Five-thirty. And please be punctual. My husband’s coming for me at five-forty-five.”

  “Ten-four.”

  It occurred to me I hadn’t clapped eyes on the county’s new horses since Mars Boone hauled ’em off. Since I had two hours to kill, I decided I oughta swing by an’ have a look. Time I pulled outta the junior high drive, I had another thought an’ I detoured past the high school.

  • • •

  I had to use my phone to locate Bello Willis; he agreed to meet me in twenty minutes ’round behind the school. Guess he wasn’t keen on explainin’ to his buddies why he was talkin’ to the Law.

  I pulled off on the back service drive an’ cut the engine—made like I was workin’ radar. After a bit, Bello opened the front passenger door, slid into the seat, an’ scrunched down so only the top of his head was showin’.

  “What’d you need, Sheriff?”

  Since we was already on a first-name basis, I figured “Sheriff” was his way of lettin’ me know he didn’t appreciate bein’ contacted at school. An’ I guessed I’d have to arrange bus service fer Skip when he moved up to ninth grade.

  “Just wonderin’ if you was makin’ progress with Cheryl.”

  “Why you takin’ such a interest in my personal life all of a sudden?”

  I just shrugged an’ waited.

  “I got as far as askin’ her if she likes horses.”

  “And?”

  “I’m stuck again. She does, but I don’t happen to have a horse just now.”

  I said. “How’d you like me to give you a horse?”

  “Why’d you wanna do that?” Obviously, the kid wasn’t born yesterday.

  “Well, happens I got a few more horses than I know what to do with.”

  “An’ you’re just gonna gimme
one?”

  “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of you could have one if you do me a favor.”

  “I knew it. Rye said you’re the sharpest horse trader in the state. I didn’t know he was talkin’ real horses, though. What kinda favor?”

  “You heard about them mustangs the county got saddled with?”

  “Ye-ah.”

  “You been out to see ’em yet?”

  “Nah. My truck’s broke. Boone’s is too far to walk fer horses so poor nobody’ll even claim ’em.”

  “I gotta go out an’ check on ’em. How ’bout you come along an’ gimme a expert opinion on whether we oughta sell ’em fer dog food.”

  That got ’im. “You can’t do that! Not horses!”

  I shook my head. “May not have a choice. They’re mustangs—wild animals. Can’t sell ’em fer ridin’ horses. An’ there ain’t enough yuppies ’round here to sucker into buyin’ ’em fer pets. Hell, they ain’t even broke to lead.”

  “Let’s go see ’em. I’ll bet you fifty bucks I can have the lot of ’em—how many is there?”

  “Two dozen.”

  “I can have ’em all followin’ like carnival-ride ponies in a week.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Damn straight!” He gimme a closer look an’ got a God a damn-you-! expression on his face. “You been plannin’ on that, ain’t you? You knew if I thought you was gonna…”

  “You’re the horse whisperer. If you can’t make somethin’ of ’em, they’re just dog meat.”

  He shook his head.

  “Look, Bello. You need a horse or two. I need them nags gentled enough to auction off by Oktoberfest. If you can do that, you can have your pick of the bunch—any two you like.”

  He got a stubborn look on his face but finally said, “I better look at ’em ’fore I make any promises.”

  “Just you, Ace.”

  I dropped Bello off at the high school an’ swung by the junior high to pick up Skip, who was waitin’ on the school’s front steps. He dragged hisself over to the cruiser an’ got in an’ put on his seat belt without lookin’ at me.

  I didn’t say nothin’. I also didn’t start the engine.

  After a long silence, Skip said, “What?”

  “You plannin’ to explain?”

  “I done my time. I don’t hafta talk about it.”

  I didn’t see any point in arguin’, so I started the car an’ headed toward the highway.

  “Where we goin’?” Skip demanded.

  “To work.”

  He looked like he wanted to ask about it, but just shook his head an’ slumped down in his seat.

  • • •

  It was gettin’ on dark when I spotted a semi pulled off on a side road not far from the Interstate exit. Wouldn’t a crossed my notice if we hadn’t had so many hijackin’s of late.

  I pulled up behind it, put on my pull-over lights an’ got outta the car.

  “Stay put,” I told Skip. “An’ call fer back-up.”

  “Who’s on tonight?”

  “I am. So call the state cops.”

  “Ten-four.”

  I put my hand on my gun butt an’ walked around the curb-side of the truck, got as far forward as the fifth wheel an’ stopped dead. I started to pull my gun, but I was distracted by what I was seein’—the trailer’s landin’ gear was deployed an’ the tractor’s brake lines disconnected. Seemed like I’d caught someone in the middle of detachin’ the payload.

  ’Fore I got my weapon clear of my holster, I was further distracted by the sound of a pistol bein’ cocked. An’ a round bein’ chambered in a semi-automatic. An’ a gravelly voice demandin’ that I—

  “Freeze!”

  I froze.

  “Put your hands up an’ turn around. Slow!”

  I done what the voice said an’ found myself starin’ down the barrel of a 9 mm semi-auto. An’ outta the corner of my eye, I seen two other pistols pointed my way—a old fashioned Colt .45 an’ a .25 caliber Saturday night special.

  “Looks like your luck just ran out, Marshal,” the gravel-voiced bad guy told me. White guy, five-eight or so, with brown eyes an’ yellow hair. If he hadn’t had a beak like a eagle, I’d a took him fer one of the Jackson clan. He was wearin’ coveralls—like a mechanic at some fancy car dealership. They all was.

  I said, “Sheriff.”

  “Huh?”

  “I ain’t a marshal. I’m the sheriff. An’ you-all got some explainin’ to do.”

  He stepped around to my right side an’ poked me in the ribs with his gun. “I don’t have time for comedy.” He took my sidearm an’ stepped way back, shovin’ my gun in his belt. Then he pointed at the ditch between the truck an’ the field next to the road. “Get over there.”

  The other two turkeys put their guns in their waist-bands an’ watched the show. I took my time, hopin’ Skip’d got through to the state boys, an’ that he had the sense to stay outta sight.

  Unfortunately, the truck was only three good steps from the ditch. Took just a second ’fore I come up against it an’ turned to face the firing squad.

  Leader pointed his pistol at me one-handed, arm’s length an’ sideways—like some TV gangster. I had to fight myself not to laugh.

  His finger tightened on the trigger. “Your luck just ran out, Sheriff.”

  The unmistakable sound of someone pumpin’ a shotgun made his jaw drop. Everybody turned toward the sound. An’ froze.

  “Drop your weapons!” Backed up by the shotgun—my shotgun—Skip shoulda been terrifyin’. He had the gun to his shoulder an’ his finger on the trigger. His feet was nearly shoulder width apart, left one slightly fo’ward. He stared at the leader with both eyes wide an’ hard.

  But Skip’s only thirteen. All three bad guys laughed.

  “You got to be kiddin’, boy,” the leader said.

  Skip kept the gun on him.

  “Not boy, asshole! Skip Jackson.”

  It was the first time in six months I’d heard him admit to bein’ related to the badass Jacksons. He was signed up at school as Skip Deters.

  Leader hesitated just a second ’fore he said, “You gonna shoot all of us?”

  The other two took the hint an’ started movin’ away from each other.

  Skip held the shotgun perfectly still, pointed straight at the leader’s chest. “Just you, Ace.”

  Skip looked meaner than a baby rattler, an’ all eyes was on him. None of ’em was really payin’ me no mind. Which give me the chance to step toward the nearest badass an’ drop him with a boot to the hamstring, just above his knee. His leg went out from under him; I caught his arm as he went down an’ relieved him of his .45. I pointed it at Leader.

  The sound of the hammer comin’ back as I cocked it caused him and his remainin’ buddy to spin around again. An’ freeze. Again.

  “You may have doubts about Skip, gentlemen, but you know I’m gonna shoot if you don’t drop your guns.”

  When they did, I had ’em all down on the ground an’ had Skip cover ’em while I retrieved my sidearm, put cuffs on the three of ’em, and searched for other weapons. Then we sat ’em in a row an’ he kept a eye on ’em while I looked in the truck. Found the driver tied up in the trailer like a spider’s dinner. He was pretty happy to be rescued.

  I sent him to sit in his cab so I could inventory the trailer. I’d just got up on the tailgate when Skip yelled, “Sheriff, cavalry’s arrived.”

  • • •

  The state boys took control of the hijackers, the scene, an’ the case, but Skip an’ me had to go in to make statements. When we was on the way, back in my cruiser, I asked Skip, “How’d you get the shotgun out without the key?”

  “Fer me to know an’ you to figure out.”

  I give him the look, and he said, “I seen where you keep the spare key in your office. Had it copied one day when you was out.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Three months.”

  I just nodded. I didn’t a
sk him for the key, just waited.

  Finally he said, “I locked that kid in the locker so he would know how it feels. Weren’t no big thing—principal’s got all the locker combinations.”

  “You got yourself detained just so some kid’d know how it feels to be stuck in a locker?”

  “No. No! How it feels to get jacked around by someone stronger’n him. I told him if I heard him pickin’ on another little kid, I’d lock him in standin’ on his head.”

  “Think that’ll work?”

  He shrugged.

  “I guess you can keep the shotgun key. Fer emergencies.”

  He nodded.

  “An’ gimme your word you won’t brag to your Aunt Penny or no one else ’bout what went down tonight.”

  “Pappy! I ain’t crazy!”

  • • •

  When we got to the State Police station, Sergeant Underhill listened to our stories an’ told me, “Nice work, Vergil.” Then he turned to Skip. “Son, it seems to me you watched Stand By Me a time or two too many.” Skip just grinned.

  Underhill set Skip up in his office so he could do his homework while I sat in on the interviews. Truck driver’s story sounded just like all the other truckers’ stories we’d heard since the beginning of the hijack epidemic. He’d got flagged down by what he thought was a lady with car trouble who turned out to be a guy in a woman’s coat an’ hat with a pistol. The car drove off an’ the guy an’ his accomplices tied the trucker up.

  The hijackers didn’t have no story at at all. Every one of ’em lawyered up soon as he was brung into the interview room.

  “Well,” Sergeant Underhill said, “we’ll just see if a night in a cell loosens up their jawbones. Meanwhile, we’ll look into what kind of records they all have.”

  While his men was doin’ that, Underhill an’ Skip an’ I adjourned to the diner ’cross the road from the station. The food was good an’ plentiful, an’ Skip was happy as a crow on a roadkill when we finished off with chocolate malted milk shakes. When he was done with his, he put his glass down an’ burped, then asked Dan, “Why’d you call Pappy Vergil?”