by Jean Rabe
Oren hadn’t thought Piper had the chutzpah to fire someone, let alone a handicapped and congenial soul like Drew. But she was right. The dispatcher’s wagging tongue was a liability and violated codes. He’d heard her warn Drew twice before. The third time that tongue wagged was the charm. He would have fired Drew, too.
“So, what? I’m just supposed to leave?” The young man’s normally pleasant tone was acid.
“After you gather your things from the desk and your locker.”
Drew snorted. “So, what? You’re gonna take my shift?”
“We’ll manage. I can give you the option of resigning. Maybe that way you can collect unemployment. I wish you well, Drew, truly, and—”
“You’re a bitch,” Drew spat. That wasn’t in Drew’s character, Oren knew. Caught off guard by the firing, the man was verbally lashing out and would no doubt be sorry for his words later. “A stinking bitch.”
Oren stood, thinking he’d intercede if this started to go bad, but Piper stopped him in mid-step with a narrowed glance.
“I understand that you’re upset,” Piper continued.
“Upset? No. Relieved. I’m relieved, actually. Your dad was a great sheriff. You’re a joke. You’ve got no business being sheriff, and you know it. I’m relieved I don’t have to work for a joke.” Drew pushed out of the chair and grabbed the cardboard box, whacking it against the side of her desk. He stomped out of her office and headed up front. Piper followed.
“I’ll be back,” she told Oren. “We need to talk.”
Oren heard a drawer open in the reception area, the clatter of a few things being dropped into the cardboard box. The drawer slammed shut.
“I can get a better job, working for someone I respect, someone’s who’s not such a bitch,” Oren heard Drew say. “And I’m not resigning. I won’t fucking give you that satisfaction. Too bad your dad got cancer. Too bad it wasn’t you instead.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid move, Oren thought. Always resign if you’ve the chance. Maybe he’d call Drew after lunch, give him some space to cool off, and suggest the man reconsider. Maybe get Drew to apologize to Piper for the knee-jerk, profanity-filled outburst. Resign and have a clear path to unemployment.
Then Drew, box in front of him, tromped past Piper’s office and down into the room with the lockers. Piper walked a few steps behind. Oren moved into the doorway and watched down the hall, pried the lid off his coffee, taking a deep swallow. Across the hall was another doorway, to the all-purpose room. An errant helium balloon clung to the ceiling of it, the curl of green ribbon hanging down, a remnant of a happy birthday lunch for Drew.
He heard a locker door bang open, more things dropped into the box, mumbled words about how great Paul Blackwell was and that Oren should have won the election, a locker door slam.
“I need your key,” Piper said.
A moment later Oren heard the back door swing open, then slam shut. He took another long pull on the delicious coffee and returned to the chair. He knew there’d be some shuffling, letting one of the veterans move up to the first shift. The department had four full-time and two part-time dispatchers that covered the phones 24/7. He wanted to be that proverbial fly on the wall when Piper told her dad over dinner that she’d fired one of his favorite hires—a man with a prosthetic leg and a blind, three-legged rescue dog. But Drew would probably call Paul and break the news himself, inadvertently sparing Piper the task.
Piper, cheeks red, came in, sat behind her desk, and let out a sigh.
“I want to talk about the skeleton and the detective opening,” she said.
Oren had figured she’d want to talk about what just happened with Drew. He knew she’d had him witness the firing to protect both parties. He held the coffee in his hands. The warmth had faded a little, but it still felt good against his palms.
“I had breakfast with Dr. Abernathy this morning,” she continued.
“Pompous ass,” Oren said. “But a smart man. My granddaughter took some classes from him, calls him Doc Natty.”
Piper gestured to the basket of goodies on her desk.
“No thanks. But the coffee in there looks gourmet.”
“I thought I’d make some in a little while.”
“I’d try some of that,” Oren said.
A silence settled and Piper picked up the basket and sat it on the floor behind her desk.
“Doc Natty is indeed a pompous ass, but I’m glad the coroner called him. I asked him about how we’d go about doing a facial approximation on the boy. I thought if we had a picture to post and show around it might help stir some old memories, especially with the genealogy club.”
Oren waited and drank some more of his coffee.
“Doc Natty says approximation, reconstruction—whatever you call it—is a last resort, and maybe in this situation not a good one. I guess I watched too much CSI when I was a kid. He said it would be especially tough because there is no bottom jaw. He talked about stuff like graphic design software, tissue depth, clay sculpts—all of it time consuming and quite expensive. Said he recommends against it in our case, told me stick to missing person records.”
“So we dig. This is why I knew Chief Hugh wouldn’t argue for this, would let us have it. Cold cases are rough.”
“We don’t have any hits yet from in or out of state. You’re thinking we might not solve it.”
Oren shook his head. “Not saying that. Damn well not saying that. It’s solvable. Just won’t be easy. Time consuming as all hell, something like this. Not that I’ve ever worked one, not a cold case murder. But I read the state newsletters, watch Cold Case Files on television now and again. It’s one of those long hauls unless we get lucky.”
“Lucky.”
“And luck’s not likely.” Oren finished the coffee and thought about those fancy Italian coffee packages in Piper’s basket. “Like I said, this could take a while.”
Piper let out another sigh, the hair hanging down in her eyes fluttering. “I need a haircut,” she said idly. “I know. I know, no wonder we don’t have a hit yet. It’s only been, what?” She glanced at the vintage clock on the wall. “Not even thirty-six hours since I tripped on the boy.”
What was left of the boy. Oren wondered where they’d bury the bones when this was through.
“Not two whole days yet,” she went on. “Not a single lead. I didn’t expect to solve it this fast, two days. But I thought we’d at least have a lead. I thought we’d get, I dunno, something. Just something. A hint.”
“Young people are always in a hurry.” He wished he could have taken that back. But it was true. Cell phones with Google to get them an answer to anything immediately. Can’t take the time for old-fashioned, thorough research. Gotta have it now, and gotta have it displayed on a teeny screen in your hand, the print so small you needed a magnifying glass to read it. Or twenty-three-year-old eyes.
“Sometimes,” Piper admitted. “Sometimes I’m in a rush. It will be weeks before we get some of those test results back that Doc Natty and the coroner ordered. Zeropatience. That was the password I put into my first laptop. I picked that login because my dad said I had zero patience.”
“Patience,” Oren said softly, “is a virtue.”
She reached down to her side and retrieved a package of Eight O’clock Dark Italian Coffee. “I have four interviews this afternoon for the open deputy position. I’m looking at Sampson’s nephew and Ayer’s son-in-law.”
“Important to mollify the local politicians. Especially if you want to ask for an increase in the budget.” Oren had received a few calls from Ayer, touting the virtues of his deputy-candidate—an out-of-work son-in-law. “Who knows? Maybe one of them might actually be good.”
“Deck is stacked against them.” Oren was taken aback by Piper’s frankness. Maybe the two of them were finally falling into a better working relationship. He shuddered at that. He didn’t want to like Piper. “I need to play politics, I know. Sampson’s nephew. Ayer’s son-in-law. But I’d like another wom
an in the department, what with JJ leaving. My other two interviews are both women. Got a couple more women applicants in the stack, but none with the right qualifications. So I’m hoping one of these two women this afternoon will look good. I’d pick one of them over Ayer’s son-in-law or Sampson’s nephew. Deck stacked.”
“Do you have backups? Going to advertise again?”
“I should have had you look through the applicants. I’ll have you do that for the detective inquiries.” She shook her head. “I do have four more candidates picked out, my second choices, all men though. I’d like to fill it soon. As soon as possible ‘cause we’ll be down a detective after the high school graduates. JJ and her husband are moving to those greener pastures. And I have a feeling we’ll have one more deputy opening in the next few weeks.”
“Because Vanderburgh posted.”
“Yeah, Evansville is attractive. I know three of our guys applied for the open deputy spot there. A little more money. More opportunities to move up. A lot bigger county. Even if they don’t get it, that means we have three ‘looking’ for a bigger venue.”
Because maybe they don’t like working for a twenty-three-year old with only a high school diploma, Oren thought. Maybe the venue has nothing to do with it.
“The detective slot…” Piper had told him she wanted to talk about that.
“I just posted the ad online yesterday morning, you know. It hasn’t been in the local weekly yet, and already there’s two dozen resumes sitting in the queue. Maybe more. I haven’t looked since last night. Two of them are from in-house. Jake and Diego.” Piper shifted the coffee package from one hand to the other. “I expect we’ll get four or five more from in-house. They’re probably polishing their resumes. More money. Better hours.” She frowned. “But I don’t want to promote from within this time.”
Oren was surprised she admitted that. If he was hiring a detective, he’d look outside, too. He thought her moving JJ up so fast had been a mistake, should have taken a more open approach. It had left some rough feelings, other deputies thinking they’d been overlooked because they didn’t wear a bra.
“I want someone with drug experience.”
“Because of the county’s meth problem.” Oren was well aware that drug producers were difficult to catch and operated in Spencer County because it was so rural. Manufacture it here, drive it over to Owensboro and Evansville and other points south where the markets were bigger.
“Can you take a look at the detective applications? See if there are any standouts in this first batch? Anyone worth bringing in? I should have had you do that with these deputy resumes. We’ll talk about your picks—if you find any you like—decide who to interview, videoconference if they’re more than a state away because of our budget. Wait a few days and look at more applications coming in. Can’t spring for a plane ticket unless it’s someone stellar, someone we got to have and want to meet face-to-face. I want you in on the interviews.”
Someone stellar? Oren swallowed his chuckle. Spencer County wouldn’t be luring anyone wanting to make a real mark in law enforcement. If you weren’t a lifelong southern Indiana resident, this was only a stepping stone to somewhere else—like to Vanderburgh or up Indianapolis way, though Oren had never wanted to step elsewhere because he liked it here. And now he was too old to do any stepping. Maybe someone with experience and a handful of years away from retiring, looking for a more leisurely workload. Spencer County, population twenty-one thousand, could offer a slower pace.
“I’d be happy to take a pass through them. Women? Minorities? Are you looking to—”
“Just someone with drug experience. Get some references for anybody who pops out as your favorites. I’d like some diversity, but our county isn’t really built that way. We’re pretty damn white. Experience matters. Not skin color or whether they buy boxers or lingerie. But if I find that one of these two women this afternoon would be good for our regular deputy opening—”
Oren stood and rolled his shoulders. “JJ leaving. Be nice to have another woman. Different perspective and all. JJ’s going to be missed.”
And maybe there’d be a few women in the detective application queue deserving of a look. Oren had never considered himself sexist. Ageist? He could well be that. Oren was staring at a sheriff who was only twenty-three, and he couldn’t get that to sit right with him.
“Good. I’ll make us some coffee.”
At least she hadn’t asked him to do that. Oren’s stomach growled. The yogurt hadn’t been enough. He focused on the notion of a double-cheeseburger at Bee Bop’s tonight, maybe with some fries, and hoped that thought would hold him over.
14
Fourteen
Stefan Sampson, the county commissioner’s nephew, was actually a reasonable candidate. Piper had received twenty-eight applications for the open deputy position. Oren had told her that was a record, that usually eight to ten came in, with a handful not meeting the minimum requirements. Piper had easily pruned half of the stack before she picked the candidates for interviews, rejecting people who’d had DUIs in the past several years, those lacking a high school diploma or GED, and a few had so many typos in their resumes she cringed. If a person could not spell correctly on a resume, what would their filed arrest reports look like?
Stefan was thirty years old, worked security for the power plant, and hadn’t been able to get off the night shift despite three years trying. As a deputy he’d have nights, but the shifts occasionally rotated, and he said he looked forward to “getting up sometimes when roosters are still crowing.” He lived in a trailer on a farm his father owned, but anticipated moving into an apartment in Rockport if Piper hired him.
She was startled that she liked him, had originally discounted him because his uncle had been pestering her. But while Commissioner Sampson had been the most annoying, he certainly hadn’t been the only local politician or businessman pushing for consideration of a relative. Oren had explained that the pressure wasn’t unique to Spencer County. Deputy postings had reasonable salaries, benefits, and were therefore desirable. He told her to expect prodding on the detective position once the locals noticed the vacancy. Politicians would always “throw their weight around” as the saying went, if given the chance. Piper could easily see Stefan as a deputy, but she had three more interviews to go before the afternoon ended.
Ayer’s son-in-law had looked fine on paper, had landed very near the top of her stack. A four-year degree in computer science, President’s List, impressive credentials. But where Piper had spent nearly an hour talking to Stefan Sampson—and had budgeted an hour for each interview—she had Jeffrey Coombs out the door in less than fifteen minutes. He’d arrived in blue jeans, a faded Hillary Clinton for President t-shirt, and a leather vest with a Harley Davidson stick pin on it. There was a reason he was out of work, she decided, and after a few questions he admitted he’d applied just to get his father-in-law off his back. “I think I would rather go back to school and pick up a master’s in something,” he said.
That gave Piper forty-five minutes before the next interview. She retrieved a box and started going through the old files. The box indicated cases from 1955-1958, but there was a folder from 1985 that had been misfiled. She pulled it out and tossed it on her desk, intending to file it correctly later. She rifled through the rest of the contents, looking for unsolved cases and missing persons.
“That was great coffee,” Oren said as he stood in the doorway. He knocked on the frame and entered, placed several printed sheets on her desk and tapped on them. “These guys. I’d bring in these three. Required to have at least three interviews. And the one on the bottom, I’d bring him in first. You mentioned finding someone stellar.” He tapped the sheets again. “The bottom guy—the best for last. He could be stellar. Might not have to bother with any of the others after that interview. Might be able to pull down your advertisement now, in fact. Of course, once you get him down for an interview and he takes a look at the county, he could tuck his tail and go back to
the big city.”
He made a move to leave.
“Hold up.” Piper turned away from the file box and gestured for Oren to sit. She picked up the sheets and looked at him. “Kevan Melkan, fifty-two, retired after twenty years with the Indiana State Police in West Lafayette. Lots of solid experience. Probably bored with retirement.”
“No doubt,” Oren said.
“Sheriff Jefferson Polanger, forty-eight, twenty years with the Keweenaw County Sheriff’s Department, two stints as sheriff. Where’s Keweenaw?”
“I Googled it,” Oren replied. “Northernmost county in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Least populated county in the state. Real tiny. Twenty-one hundred folks in the entire county. They deal with drunk snowmobilers and handle crazy people hunting moose. I pulled his application because a small-town guy like him would fit here.” He laughed. “Hell, this would be big from his point of view. I suspect he’s looking for a change—and a warmer climate.”
“Kevan we can bring in for an interview. Earliest convenience, but the sooner the better. By Monday I hope. Sheriff Polanger, we can video conference him, see if he’s worth a closer look.”
“That’d count for two interviews.” Oren gestured at the final application he’d pulled. “I went through all thirty-two nibbles that have come in so far.” He brushed at a spot on his shirt. “That ‘fill as soon as possible’ tag you put on it got a quick response.” It looked to Piper like he’d spilled a big drop of that “great coffee.” Then Oren smoothed a wrinkle out of his sleeve and adjusted his belt. She knew he always had to have the uniform as perfect as possible. “Always expect a lot of applications for a detective job, more than for a standard deputy. More money, friendly hours. The jobs don’t come open as often, so they’re like that flashing blue light at Kmart. Attractive. I figure if you don’t pull the ad down you might get upwards of sixty or seventy queries.” He paused. “Even with it being Spencer County.”
