by Somer Canon
I was entertaining the idea of going to the Sheetz for a breakfast sandwich when Terry’s F-150 pulled into the parking lot. He parked near me, got out, and sauntered over to me. I sat up and smiled at him, seeing that he was carrying two coffees in a carrier and a box of doughnuts. He was too good to be true. What with the tight T-shirt stretched across his broad chest and the well-fitted blue jeans, I was never going to be able to think straight with him around.
“I can’t start a day without something in my stomach,” he said, extending one of the coffees in my direction. I accepted it with what I hoped was a restrained smile.
“Well thank you,” I said, examining the doughnuts in the box. They were cake doughnuts in different fruity flavors with a shiny glaze making them glow in the morning sunlight. I grabbed one that I hoped was blueberry and took a bite and smiled at its sweetness. Terry was watching me, and he smiled before grabbing a strawberry doughnut and eating nearly half of it in one bite.
“I really appreciate you doing this,” I said to him. “I got a hold of the state police yesterday and I couldn’t get anybody to talk to me on the record or off.”
Since the local police was such a small force, there were no investigators and certainly not anybody trained to investigate a couple of particularly heinous murders. I had had to go through a stressed-sounding secretary to a very annoyed sounding detective to a severely hostile sergeant.
“Yikes,” Terry said, swallowing the last of his doughnut and looking at me over the lid of his coffee cup as he took a drink. “That’s too bad they have to be like that. You might make them famous.”
I snorted a laugh and picked another doughnut, my hand bumping into Terry’s as he grabbed for the same one. Terry smiled and gestured with his hand that I could have it and I accepted it with a nod.
“I doubt I could make them famous” I said. “It’s not a new thing for officials to be wary of speaking to me and since this is an ongoing investigation, I knew that my chances were a lot slimmer than usual. It’s a mild annoyance, that’s all. But I’m not making celebrities out of these people. It’s not all ambition and political agendas, you know.”
“So, you don’t get cops hamming up for television cameras and hoping to run for Congress or anything?” Terry asked. I looked over at him, trying to gauge what he was getting at, but he just seemed to like gabbing while he ate.
“Not really,” I answered. “They are usually tired of talking about it to be honest. A lot of them see those investigations as traumatic experiences to their departments and to their towns. They don’t see it as star-makers like television would have you think. Nobody wants to look at some of the things those men and women have to scrutinize.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Terry said. “But I can see that now. From what I’ve heard about the murders that have happened here, I can say with all seriousness that I’m glad that I just file things away and answer phones.”
We finished off the box of six doughnuts and got into Terry’s truck with our coffees. He put on the radio and played country music. I crinkled my nose and looked out of the window, making mental notes about where we were going in case I wanted to come back on my own without Terry clouding my ability to think like an intelligent being.
Damn dry patch, I thought to myself.
We drove on a small four-lane highway for about a half hour before turning off and driving down a two-lane road that seemed to be a tunnel through thick forestation. About three miles down that road, Terry slowed way down and started looking off to the right. I watched the right and Terry turned off on what looked like nothing more than a beaten path through the brush. He drove for a bit and we ended up in a clearing that ended with a beautiful, large pond.
“Wow, this is really gorgeous,” I said, pulling my DSLR camera out of my bag.
“Yeah. Nobody seemed to know that this place was here. By the time Mr. Hart’s truck was found, the skin was rotting and falling apart. It looked like some small scavengers had been at it too,” Terry said, getting out of the tall truck.
“Who found it?” I asked, walking around, looking for the best angle to show the serenity and beauty of the lake. Beautiful places were always a great thing to photograph because people could hardly believe that horrors had happened among such loveliness.
“We got an anonymous tip. A phone call,” Terry said.
I spun around and looked at him. I ran back to my bag in the truck and pulled out my voice recorder. The blouse that I was wearing had a breast pocket, so I turned on the recorder and stuffed it in the pocket so that I could record the conversation for note taking later.
“Okay, I’m talking to my anonymous source at the scene where Matthew Hart’s truck and remains were found. I’m told that the remains were not exactly fresh. They were chewed on by the local wildlife and had begun decomposing. The scene is off of a small, rural road that is nothing more than a path where the weeds are beaten down by the few car tires that have ventured out this way. At the end of the path is a small, but beautifully clean pond. I’m told that the remains were not discovered by a civilian, but that an anonymous phone call was placed to the police,” I said. “Was the call to the state police or to the local station?” I asked Terry.
“The local station,” he said. I was happy that he said it loud and clear so that the recorder would pick it up. I needed loud clear talking to hear over the rustling that would be recorded from the recorder being in my pocket.
“And can you tell me what you know about what was found here?” I asked, seeing the pond from that perfect angle and snapping a few pictures.
“Well, from what I understand, after the call was put in…” Terry began, but I had a thought and had to interrupt.
“Wait, wait. I’m sorry, but were you the one who answered the phone call?” I asked.
“I was not,” Terry answered.
“Do you happen to know the gender of the person who phoned in the tip?” I asked, walking around Terry’s big truck to get a picture of the path that led to this rural oasis.
“Yes. It was a woman who phoned in the tip.” Terry answered.
“That’s interesting,” I said. “Please continue with the description of how things were found. Sorry.”
“That’s alright. You think on your feet,” Terry said, winking at me. He had to stop it with the winking. It was too damned cute.
“Okay, after the call was received, a single officer in an official vehicle was sent to the scene. He apparently had a heck of a time finding the place because the description was so vague. See, we could see the path a little better today because of all the vehicles that’ve been in and out of here lately, but it was much harder to see for our man. When he finally did find it, at first he saw what he thought was just a really dirty Dodge pickup truck. When he got out of his cruiser, the smell tipped him off that there was a body nearby. It had been hot, and the smell was quite strong I’m told,” Terry said.
“The newspaper said that there was human skin stuck to the outside of the truck?” I said. I wanted to keep my thoughts straight so that when I was taking notes from the recorder later, I could keep everything linear.
“Yes,” Terry said.
“Where was the rest of him?” I asked.
“None of that was ever found,” Terry answered. “All we ever got of him was the skin.”
“And how were you able to get an identity on the victim?” I asked.
“Well, the truck belonged to the victim, and he had an identifying tattoo on his left arm. His face was also still intact and left on the inside of the truck. His bondsman was able to identify those parts,” Terry said.
“Can you tell me about the skin and the face, please?” I asked. I was still snapping pictures as he talked. I like to have a lot to choose from.
“Well, his entire body was skinned. Even his hands and feet. It was ripped into pieces and stuck all over the outside of the truck. His face was the only part that was left on the inside. Like I said before, it was
pretty gross by the time it was discovered.”
“Do they know how the skin was removed? Was there any evidence on the skin of stabbings or a gunshot wound?” I asked.
“No, nothing like that,” Terry answered. “The findings seemed to conclude that the skin was ripped from the body. There are no marks that would indicate that a cutting tool was used. The skin was ripped into the smaller pieces that were used to coat the truck. Someone very strong did this.”
“What are the theories on the cause of death?” I asked. I’d stopped taking pictures and was looking out at the serene brown water of the lake.
“He was alive when his skin was ripped off of his body. Mr. Hart’s cause of death is believed to be flaying,” Terry said. I smiled because Terry had done a very Scooby-Doo-esque gulp before saying “flaying.”
“That’s awful. I know that man was no saint, but that’s a horrible way to go. Was this the scene of the murder? Surely there was blood and bio matter everywhere,” I said.
“This was not the scene of the flaying, no. Everything was clean save for the truck,” Terry answered.
“That’s curious. That brings up a million questions about Mr. Hart’s truck. Was it left here and decorated later or is there perhaps more than one person involved in this?” I asked more to myself than Terry.
“I don’t know that one,” Terry said.
I was still looking out over the water, trying to think but I just couldn’t seem to concentrate. Something about the place made me peaceful and happy. I was almost relieved when Terry’s cell phone rang, and he excused himself to his truck to take the call. I grabbed my bag and plopped my butt down by the water. I pulled a pack of Stripey Cakes out and opened the cellophane. I sat eating the cake and looking out over the water. I was so happy that I couldn’t resist singing.
“A pack of love, a pack of happy, share a cake and make it snappy! Nummy Nellie is love for the belly!”
I realize now that perhaps I have a problem with Nummy Nellie in that I actually went to YouTube and looked up a Nummy Nellie jingle from the 90s. I sing it in private happy moments. The absurd happiness washing over me at that moment seemed to pull that tune out of me. I sang quietly, hoping Terry wouldn’t hear my ridiculousness. I reached down beside me to get the second cake from the package, but it was gone. The cellophane was still there, but the cake was gone. I wondered if perhaps, in my Nummy Nellie revelry, I had eaten the other one in a mindless stupor.
I got up and stood by the water’s edge, not wanting to look too approachable and casual for Terry. I was still in “professional” mode. When his phone call had ended, he rolled down his driver’s side window and stuck his head out.
“Is that all that you needed from this place?” he asked me. I nodded in the affirmative. “I’ll take you to the motel where the other body was found if you want.”
“I appreciate the offer, Terry, but really I don’t want to take up your whole weekend.” I said.
“Think nothing of it. I’d just be sitting on my rump watching baseball right now anyway. Come on,” he said.
I climbed up into his truck and placed my bag on my lap chastely and smiled at Terry.
“Okay then. Let’s go,” I said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Terry parked in front of the Green Hills Motel. As far as local motels go, this one was just plain horrible. It was a one-level place with only about twelve units, all of them shaded by the surrounding overgrown trees. It was built into and thrived on privacy. It was a place to bring drug-addled prostitutes and shame your grandparents. My skin itched just looking at it.
“Well this place is nasty,” I said to Terry. Terry laughed.
“It ain’t a local treasure or anything,” he said.
I climbed down from the truck and walked way out to get a wide shot of the whole structure and then got a shot of the rusted-out neon sign that probably flickered at night. Terry followed me as I walked to the main office. I took pictures of the entrance and then of a row of doors from a side angle. I walked into the office and flashed my brightest smile at the plump woman behind the desk who looked like she lived inside of a miasma of cigarette smoke. She was a Misty Rose kind of lady, just like my mom.
“Help you?” the old lady said in a scratchy voice without looking up from the paperback she was reading.
“Yes, ma’am, you can,” I said in my sweetest voice. That got her to look up at me. She noticed Terry standing beside me.
“Rate’s $65 an hour,” she said, looking back down at her book. Terry cleared his throat in discomfort.
“Oh, no ma’am, we’re not here for a room,” I began. The lady dog-eared her page, slowly closed her book, and lit up another of those skinny, pink cancer sticks.
“So yer one of them weirdos who’s lookin’ to see where they found that guy in room eight?” I could see how greasy her hair and face were now that she was looking directly at me. I was standing a few steps back from the front desk hoping to avoid the cigarette smoke, but I could smell her even from there.
“Not exactly, ma’am,” I said, trying to look completely unruffled. “My name is Christina Cunningham. I am a writer for the website Killer Chronicles and we have decided to cover the horrible things that have been going on down here.”
I pulled out a business card and handed it to her. She glanced at it and threw it on the desktop, taking a long hard drag off of her dainty smoke and exhaling out of the side of her mouth. Her fingernails were yellow, and I could see black gunk underneath. I started to get anxious at the thought of having this woman touch me.
“Sound like a weirdo to me,” the woman croaked.
I started to feel like my smile had been carved into my face. Sweat was beading on my forehead at the thought of the smell of this woman seeping into my clothes.
“I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me and possibly let me take a few photographs of the inside of the room where the remains were found?” I said, trying to control the conversation.
“I ain’t lettin’ you into a room just to take pictures of it,” the woman said, waving a hand at me dismissively.
“I could let you speak on the condition of anonymity,” I said. “You wouldn’t have to hurt your business. Or I could take your picture to put along with your interview if you’d like a bit more involvement. I really only have a few questions and just one quick picture of the inside of the room would really be enough.”
“Ain’t no point in speakin’ anonymous-like,” the woman said. “I own this place and I’s usually the one here at the desk. I got a friend who comes sometimes when I need a break, but I’s the one that’s here. My maid found what was in that room, came and got me, and when I saw that there was human bones there, I called the police. Ain’t much else to tell.”
“I really do appreciate you talking to me, ma’am,” I said. “Would it be alright if I recorded this so that I can keep everything straight?”
The woman waved a “don’t give a shit” hand at me. My eye caught on an old dirty bandage wrapped around the tip of one of her fingers. I pushed the button on the small voice recorder and held it out in front of me in a defensive gesture.
“Could you please tell me your name, ma’am?” I said.
“My name is Katherine Hardesty,” the woman croaked. She wiped a hand across her forehead and then wiped her hand down the front of her yellowed T-shirt.
“And the name of the maid who first found the remains?” I asked.
“I ain’t comfortable giving you names of people who might not want to be in your website,” Katherine said.
“Okay, I understand,” I said. I then recounted what Katherine had already told me into the voice recorder.
“Can you give me any details about what you found in the room, Ms. Hardesty?” I asked.
“At first it just looked like somebody left some trash behind. That happens sometimes. The bed was still made, and the bathroom was still clean. Nothin’ was mussed. There was just a pile of soap bars on the TV
stand and something on the bed that looked a bit off. I went and got a closer look and saw that they was bones all piled up nice and neat. It weren’t the first time somethin’ like that was left in one of the rooms. Had a dead baby left in the toilet once,” Katherine said.
I made a sour face.
“Did the room smell odd? Did you touch or smell the soap bars?” I asked.
“The room smelled like it always smells. There weren’t no dead guy smell or nothin’, I did pick up one of the bars of soap and give it a sniff. It looked and smelled like that homemade artisan shit you overpay for at craft fairs. I didn’t think nothin’ of it until we found the note,” Katherine said.
I perked up. There was no mention of a note in the article in the newspaper.
“Can you tell me about the note?” I asked calmly.
“Yeah. It was left by the phone. I found it when I went to call 911. It was written on some sort of leather or funny thick paper. The handwriting was really messy, like they was writing with the hand they don’t usually write with, you know? The note said something about the guy being a filthy creature and he was made into somethin’, so he wasn’t a waste on the universe no more. It was like a poem.”
“Did the police say anything to you about it? I’m assuming they interviewed you?” I asked.
“The boys that came down here weren’t too talkative. They wanted to know things like times and who checked into the room last. I wasn’t much help,” Katherine said.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“I ain’t runnin’ a boomin’ business here or nothin’, but I get enough people in here that I don’t remember faces. The logbook says that that Hamrick man checked in to room eight and paid for only one hour. I made a note that he had a guest, but for the life of me, I don’t remember seeing neither of them, even though I was the one that was here,” Katherine said.
