Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Aw, they’ll laugh me outta Boone County.”

  “Ask ’em to check ’em against Harlan’s fingerprint’s an’ run any that ain’t Harlan’s against their data bases.”

  “You think it was Harlan’s mail?”

  “I think it’s too much coincidence—all this stuff bein’ dumped in ditches. We catch who dumped the mail, mebbe we can shed some light on who dumped the bodies.”

  “What you gonna do while I’m doin’ the legwork?”

  Legwork. Rye was learnin’ the lingo. I was impressed. I said, “I’m gonna mosey over to the post office an’ see if I can’t get ’em to give me some elimination prints.”

  • • •

  “Ain’t there laws against self-incrimination?” Nina said, when I told her what I had in mind.

  “Ain’t self-incrimination if you ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

  “An’ what if I have?”

  “Have you?”

  “’Course not!”

  “Well, then…?”

  “How you gonna get Len an’ Ed to go along?”

  “Gonna appeal to their sense of civic duty.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  • • •

  Luck didn’t have much to do with it, as it turned out. Both West Wheelin’ postmen were happy to prove they weren’t involved in the misdirection of U.S. mail, ’specially when they come in from their routes an’ found me fingerprintin’ Nina. I run the print cards by the state police an’ got results ’fore I closed up fer the day. Len Hartman’s prints was all over the evidence. I called Nina an’ she confirmed Harlan’s place was on Len’s route.

  • • •

  I cornered Len next mornin’, just as he was climbin’ into his mail truck.

  “Got a couple questions for you, Len.”

  He put his hands up an’ waved ’em back an’ forth. “I don’t wanna to get involved, Sheriff.”

  “Seems like you’re the one seen Harlan last. You know what that means?”

  “You’re gonna make my life miserable ’cause you ain’t got no real suspects? What’s my motive?”

  “I ain’t accusin’ you, Len. But there’s a killer out there. Somebody strong an’ evil enough to kill Harlan. Could be someone lives on your route. What if he decides he don’t like the way you deliver mail? You want him on the loose?”

  As he thought about that, Len seemed to get more an’ more upset. “Hell, no!” he said, finally. “But what can I do?”

  “Think back. You remember anything outta the ordinary ’bout Harlan’s mail?”

  “Everything about Harlan’s mail was outta the ordinary.”

  “In what way?”

  “He was always gettin’ packages an’ special deliveries an’ stuff.”

  “Post office keep records of that?”

  “Certified, an’ registered, an’ tracking. You’d have to ask Miz Ross.”

  “I’ll do that. Much obliged.” I handed him my card. “You see or hear of anything suspicious, gimme a call.”

  He put the card in his pocket, but from the look on his face, I figured he’d have to be dodgin’ live rounds to even consider it.

  • • •

  “Why didn’t I think a that?” Nina said, when I asked about Harlan’s special deliveries. “’Course I got records. You think Harlan was dealin’ drugs or contraband, an’ someone killed him for it?” I give her a look, an’ she said, “’Course he wasn’t. I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear that.”

  “Think I could see the records?”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “How ’bout we do it the old-school way?”

  “Which is?”

  “You let me peek at the records an’ if it comes to anything, I’ll sweet-talk a judge into givin’ me a warrant.”

  She shook her head, but pulled out a old oversized ledger book.

  I said, “Thought the post office was computerized.”

  “S’what they tell me. But they won’t let me send Ed or Len fer classes. An’ that thing…” She pointed at the console that weighed mail an’ dished out postage labels. “Is broke down more often than a Amtrak train.” She patted the ledger. “So this is believe-it-or-not faster.” She run her finger down the columns an’ called out all the special deliveries Harlan’d had fer the year before he died—twenty of ’em—while I wrote down what they was an’ who they was from. After which—since there wasn’t another soul in the place—I give Nina a ’specially appreciative thank you.

  • • •

  Back in my office, I called everyone on Harlan’s mailin’ list to ask what they’d sent him an’ why. Some of the folks who answered wanted to know who was I? An’ what was I doin’ pokin’ into Harlan’s business? When I told ’em Harlan had been murdered, they was to a man—an’ one woman—happy to talk. Most of Harlan’s special deliveries was books, most of ’em on Injuns.

  The last feller I spoke to was the director of a small museum. I identified myself an’ told him I was investigatin’ a mail theft case involvin’ the certified package he’d sent Harlan that seemed to have disappeared. “What was in it, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  “An Indian artifact—a ceremonial necklace Harlan sent me for authentication.”

  “Was it?” I asked. “Authentic?”

  “Yes. Didn’t Harlan tell you?”

  “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Harlan’s been murdered.”

  “Why—”

  “What I’m tryna find out.”

  The guy on the other end of the line was speechless. Or at least, real quiet until I said, “What was the necklace worth?”

  “Probably nothing. It was a common item, very plain and unremarkable. It wasn’t what the ‘thieves of time’ would consider collectible. In fact, only an academic or a member of the tribe that produced it would recognize it as old or significant.”

  “Or Harlan.”

  “Or Harlan.” I waited to see if he’d volunteer anything more. He did. “I can send you a jay-peg of it if you’d like.”

  I liked. I gave him my email address, then asked, “Harlan ever mention who might know about this necklace?”

  “I believe he was quite reticent about sharing his finds with local people. He said his neighbors were unsympathetic toward Native Americans.”

  No kiddin’!

  “Well, you hear of anyone unsympathetic enough to do Harlan in, you’ll let me know?”

  “I certainly will.”

  I hung up an’ thought about the necklace until my computer dinged to tell me I had mail. The picture showed a string a little flat gray an’ brown an’ black beads—looked like slices of chicken bones colored with different shades of mud. They was strung together on a piece of ordinary cotton string. The message the picture was attached to said the beads had arrived unstrung, an’ a expert on the museum staff had strung them together so none of them would get lost in the mail. The order of colors was “an educated guess based on similar artifacts the museum has in its collection.”

  I filed the photo an’ turned off the computer ’fore I went to thank Nina again for her help.

  • • •

  She was closin’ up the post office fer the day when I come in, waitin’ on the fifteen folks who’d come in at five to five to get their mailin’ done. I locked the door an’ put the CLOSED sign up, then took my place at the end of the line—hadda get back outta line to let customers out when they was finished an’ keep more from sneakin’ in whenever the door opened.

  When there was finally no one left but Nina an’ me, I give her a proper kiss. Lasted a while.

  We finally come up fer air an’ Nina said, “Whew! You can close up fer me any time.”

  “Come to thank you fer your help.”

  “Somethin’ else I can help you with?”

  “Matter of fact…” I give her another kiss, then got serious. “I’d be obliged if tomorrow you let out I had a break in Harlan’s murder.”

  “Who done it?”
/>
  “I ain’t prepared to say yet. Just let it slip that I’ll be out at Silas Hanson’s place Saturday afternoon, wrappin’ up some details.” No one in Boone County is better at keepin’ secrets than Nina. But also ain’t a soul can get the word out faster.

  “You know who done it an’ you ain’t gonna tell me?”

  “All in good time.”

  “You don’t know yet, do you?”

  “You’re welcome to come by Hanson’s Saturday an’ see.”

  makin’ connections

  Just after quitin’ time, next afternoon, Rye an’ me was celebratin’ us solvin’ Rye’s first homicide case with a jug of West Wheelin’ White Lightnin’. We was settin’ up in my office with our feet on my desk when the mayor come in. Rye shoved a chair over towards His Honor an’ passed the jug.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” His Honor said. He took a pull an’ passed the jug to me. After a while, he said, “Looks like you got everything worked out ’cept who killed Harlan an’ where that skeleton come from that Festus found in the ditch.”

  “I’m workin’ on those,” I told him. “Did Roy Peterman have a EPA report done on that property ’fore he petitioned the county for a zonin’ change?”

  Mayor shot me a gimme-a-break look. “’Course he did.”

  “Well, if I can have a look at that report, an’ the engineerin’ study he was s’posed to have done, I may be able to solve the mystery of our ancient Injun.”

  “How’s that, Homer?” Rye asked ’fore the mayor could.

  “Rather not speculate ’fore I take a look at the EPA report.”

  Rye nodded. He’s known me long enough to figure I wasn’t eager to share my hunches with the mayor.

  “Do what you gotta do, Sheriff,” Mayor said. “An’ meantime, how ’bout you pass me the jug.”

  • • •

  First thing next mornin’, I moseyed over to the county records office an’ commandeered the file on Peterman’s zoning request. He’d had to prove to the EPA his plan wouldn’t exterminate any endangered critters or put nothin’ harmful in the air or water. The file contained a bunch a reports on soil conditions, drainage, an’ so forth. After lunch, I looked ’em over—couldn’t make a whole lot of sense of ’em, so I decided to get some technical assistance. I made photocopies of all the reports, includin’ the ones Doc Howard an’ his experts made on the skeleton, an’ I headed to the University.

  • • •

  Doc’s office hours is from one to three p.m. I timed my visit late enough that he’d be done dealin’ with the most pressin’ student emergencies, not so late I’d miss him if he left early. He was just fixin’ to leave.

  “Not another body, I hope, Sheriff.”

  “Same one.”

  “Which same one?”

  “The dead Injun.”

  “I assure you, there’s nothing more we can do with it.”

  I nodded. “I was hopin’ one of your geologists might could take a look at a couple reports. See if there’s any similarities.”

  “Let’s see them.”

  I handed over the photocopies, an’ Doc shuffled through ’em. After a bit he said, “Curious.” Then he stood up an’ gathered up the papers. “Come with me.”

  I followed him halfway across the campus to the Geology department, to the office of Professor Ostler. Doc tapped on the door, then barged in without waiting for a invite.

  Ostler was short an’ round as a corn-fed possum an’ just as cranky. “What?” he demanded.

  Doc didn’t pay no attention to his temper. “George, take a look at these and tell me if they mean what I think.”

  Ostler blinked like the same fat possum in headlights, then took the papers Doc was holdin’ out. He studied ’em a while, mutterin’ things like “interesting,” “very curious,” an’ “fascinating!”

  Finally, he handed Doc the papers back an’ said, “Ninety-three percent chance the samples are from the same source as the Native American remains. You’d have to do further tests to be more certain.” He glared at me, then Doc, then said, “Get the hell out of here. And next time make an appointment.”

  Doc didn’t seem to notice his bad mood. Out in the hall, he said, “Where is this property?”

  I told him an’ axed, “Why?”

  “Because the Anthropology department will want to know immediately.”

  “Hold on, Doc. It’s private property. You-all go chargin’ over there, you’re liable to get shot.”

  “You’re not suggesting I ignore what could be a significant historical find?”

  “No. I’m just suggestin’ you let me do my job.”

  “Which is, in this case?”

  “Well, disturbin’ a Native American burial site, failin’ to make a report to the state authorities, an’ illegal dumpin’ is all criminal acts….”

  I thought Doc was gonna bust. I put up my hands. “You kin help.”

  “How?”

  “Get Professor Ostler to put his opinion in writin’. Then I can get a search warrant for Peterman’s farm an’ deputize your bone-hunters to find where the Injun bones was buried.”

  Which is how we come to set up a egghead posse to go over Peterman’s farm the followin’ Saturday mornin’.

  field trip

  One of the reports sent back from the University with the Injun bones stated “The soil clinging in the crevasses of the bones was inconsistent with the sand/soil of the ditch where the remains were found.”

  I coulda told ’em that. Why dig up a body an’ drop it anywhere near where it was buried? Dumpin’ it in a ditch was a hell of a way to get rid of it unless you wanted it to be found. Why there? Harlan had signed for the beads the museum guy sent back, but they hadn’t turned up at his house or in the ditch where he was dumped. Where’d they go?

  After I got Professor Ostler’s report, I took all the paperwork from Peterman’s rezonin’ application and the University reports on the skeleton to the county agent to find out where in Boone County soil consistent with the trace on the skeleton might be found. Turned out, on the opposite side of Silas Hanson’s farm from the ditch. An’ a remote corner of Harlan’s, near Hanson’s, an’ at Peterman’s place.

  Back in my office, I fired up my computer. I had to call Merlin ’bout how to work the external drive he’d copied Harlan’s data onto, but eventually I managed to open Harlan’s files. Most of ’em was pretty dry—kinda like readin’ law or physics books—but some of it was maps. They wasn’t labeled any way particularly useful to law enforcement, but I got the gist. Harlan had guessed there was a Injun burial site—or sites—in Boone County, an’ had marked where he thought they might be found on his maps. He’d also marked where the beads come from that the museum guy sent pictures of. The most interestin’ file was a copy of Harlan’s will. He’d left his farm to his wife, but had wrote he hoped she’d leave it to his favorite tribe when she passed. I wondered had he ever showed it to her.

  So I asked Miz Harlan. He hadn’t, an’ their lawyer hadn’t got round to readin’ it fer the family yet. I didn’t tell her what it said—it wasn’t my place. An’ she’d learn soon enough. I axed her was there anything I could do fer her. She said just find Harlan’s killer. I told her I wouldn’t quit till I did.

  Next, I went to the County Attorney to axe about laws governing Injun burial sites.

  “It’s too bad Harlan passed,” George told me. “He was the expert.”

  “Well, we’ll have to make do with a anthropologist from the University. Meanwhile, are Harlan’s maps enough to get search warrants for where he thought might be Injun cemeteries?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “It looks like Harlan mighta been killed by someone didn’t want him tellin’ where one might be found.”

  “I should think so. How’re you going to execute them? I bet you wouldn’t recognize an Indian grave if you fell into it.”

  “You get me the warrants, I’ll figger out how to search.”

  “W
arrants?”

  “For Silas’s place, an’ Harlan’s an’ Roy Peterman’s.”

  • • •

  Saturday mornin’ I deputized three professors from the University, half a dozen graduate students, an’ Skip, an’ led them an’ Rye on a scavenger hunt for old bones. Only reason Nina didn’t come was she had to keep the post office open till noon.

  The egghead posse found two more beads at Peterman’s, signs of a “disinterment” at Hanson’s, an’ half a dozen undisturbed graves at Harlan’s—all right where Harlan’s maps predicted.

  I called George to break the news, axed him to get a court order to protect the sites till the state antiquities and the local tribe could get their two cents in on the situation.

  “I can’t do that, Homer,” George told me. “It’s a state and federal matter.”

  “Well, who could?”

  “I’ll call around an’ ask.”

  I suspected George was draggin’ his feet ’cause he didn’t want to get involved, so I got hold of Stanley Redwine an’ axed for the number of his sharkskin lawyer. When I told him about our finds, an’ the unofficial town meetin’ I was convenin’ shortly, he said he’d be along directly with the necessary papers.

  • • •

  We was done with the search by noon, an’ by half-past noon, half of West Wheelin’ had showed up in front of Silas Hanson’s. It was kinda déjà vu. Most of the gawkers who’d been there when John Doe turned up, along with Nina, Roy Peterman—who lived across the road from Silas—our local reporter, Abner Davies, an’ Stanley Redwine’s band an’ lawyer.

  Thank goodness it wasn’t a crime scene this time, ’cause everybody milled around, speculatin’ an stompin’ the parkway grass till I got out my bull-horn an’ called fer “Quiet!”

  “What’s going on, Sheriff?” Mayor demanded. “Rumor has it you’ve made a breakthrough on your case. Which case?”