Dog on the Cross

by Aaron Gwyn

  “He doesn’t have any priors?” asked Martin.

  “Nothing,” Casteel told him. “If you can get him to talk about nailing that dog up, our chances get a lot better. Doesn’t matter how liberal a jury they come up with. We show a few pictures of the beagle, prove that Hollis did it, we might could get him a couple a years in the state farm.”

  The deputy said he was probably right.

  Upon his returning from Minneapolis, Martin had convinced the sheriff that his examination techniques were out of date. Having come of age in the fifties, Casteel continued to have a vision of rubber hoses and hot lights, officers standing over their suspects with rolled sleeves and cigarettes. All this meant was that what evidence Casteel was able to obtain was most always ruled inadmissible. Martin knew that in judicial procedure even the presence of handcuffs in the interrogation room could cause issues of coercion to arise.

  So, while not thrilled about the prospect of interviewing Hollis, Martin agreed with the sheriff that he was probably best suited for the job. It would take a certain amount of effort to mask his anger and disgust, but the deputy knew the better he played the part of advocate, the better the chances Hollis would open up. He poured a fresh cup of coffee and asked that the man be brought to the room for questioning.

  Daylight was just beginning to fail when Martin entered with his legal tablet and coffee. The blinds were open and he saw that a number of people were still going back and forth along the sidewalks of downtown, in and out of stores, across the north end of Linton Park. Hollis was sitting there turned toward the windows, his fingers twitching nervously. The lamps lent the walls a golden hue. Martin could hear cars passing on the street below them.

  The deputy walked to the chair opposite Hollis and seated himself. This was the first decent look he’d had at the prisoner, and though his irritation diminished it, there was something about Hollis that unsettled him. Martin considered this as he looked over the outline he’d prepared earlier that afternoon. Hollis’s face—bearded, framed with wire-rimmed glasses—seemed intelligent to the deputy, almost pleasant.

  Martin introduced himself, asked the prisoner if he was comfortable, if he’d like something to drink. Hollis indicated he was fine.

  “I want to tell you,” said Martin, “I’m no friend of those crazies out there at that church, so you can say whatever you want to me.”

  Hollis nodded.

  “Someone’s explained your rights?”

  He nodded again.

  “You don’t mind if I record our conversation?”

  “No.”

  Martin pulled a small recorder from his pocket, reached over, and placed it on the coffee table in front of them. Pressing the red button, he positioned the microphone toward Hollis.

  “Can you state your name again for me?”

  The man crossed his arms to his chest, brushed at his chin. “Jacob Andrew Hollis.”

  “What’s your address, Mr. Hollis?”

  “Route 4, Box 236-P.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-seven.”

  “And where were you born, sir?”

  “Baltimore.”

  Martin forced a smile. “Can you tell me about your education?”

  “I have a B.S. in chemistry from the University of Vermont. I have a master’s from Massachusetts.”

  “Chemistry?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your occupation?”

  “I’m retired.”

  Martin smiled. “Must be nice,” he said. “How you get the cash to retire in your forties, you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I inherited some money when my parents passed away,” Hollis told him. “I have a few patents as well.”

  “Chemical patents or—”

  “Yes.”

  “This is your first arrest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any trouble with the law before that?”

  “None,” said Hollis.

  “Any history of mental illness or depression?”

  “I’d prefer not to answer that.”

  Martin wrote for a few moments. He looked up.

  “They been treating you all right?”

  Hollis told them they had.

  “Why’d you move to Perser, Mr. Hollis?”

  It seemed as if the man hadn’t understood what had been asked him.

  “Mr. Hollis,” said Martin, “why did you decide to move here?”

  Hollis cleared his throat. He brushed his palms across his cheeks and leaned back in his chair. His hands jittered.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to answer,” said Martin.

  Hollis shook his head. “I’m just not sure you would understand.”

  “Try me.”

  The man exhaled a long, slow breath. “I moved out here to be alone,” he said. “I wanted to get away from the noise.”

  Martin sat his pen down for a moment.

  “Noise?”

  “Yes.”

  “You moved halfway across the country to get away from noise and ended up beside a Pentecostal church?”

  Hollis looked toward the window. “I had no idea what Pentecostal meant back then. My uncle owned land out here when I was a child. When the realtor told me about acreage next to a church, being harassed night and day was the furthest thing from my mind.”

  Martin nodded, took up his pen and scribbled something. “So, that’s what finally got to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that it makes sense,” said Martin.

  “Just that what makes sense?”

  “That you attacked those people, nailed up your dog. I’m sure it was hard for you. I’m sure you couldn’t take their racket anymore and had to show them—”

  “I didn’t do anything to my dog,” Hollis interrupted. “I’ve never harmed an animal in my life.”

  Martin gave the man a weak grin. “Everyone has a breaking point, don’t they, Jacob? You mind if I call you Jacob?”

  Hollis said that he didn’t.

  “I can’t tell you some of the things I’ve done because of—”

  “I didn’t hurt my dog.”

  The deputy looked at him. “Do you have any idea who might’ve?”

  “It was one of them.”

  “One of who?” Martin asked.

  “The church members,” said Hollis. “They came down and—” The man broke off and stared down at his feet. He ran a hand through his hair.

  Martin wrote for a while. He asked Hollis if he could prove any of this.

  Hollis continued staring at the floor.

  “You can’t prove it can you, Jacob?”

  “Of course I can’t.”

  “Then why would you expect me to believe it?”

  “I don’t.”

  Martin scribbled this onto the tablet.

  “But whether you believe it or not,” said Hollis, “those people despise me. They’re tired of my complaining.”

  “What’s there to complain about?”

  “Their music.”

  “How can you hear their music in an underground home with the windows and doors shut and the air conditioner on?”

  “I just can,” Hollis told him. “Noise like that gives me nausea. During service, the sound of their bass travels down through the hill. I can see it vibrating the water in my sink. That’s why I went up there the first time. I just went up to ask if they could be quieter.”

  Martin listened to this, wanting to feel that he were making progress, that the man was nearing a confession of his guilt. But the longer Hollis spoke, the more there grew a suspicion he was, at least partially, telling the truth. Martin tried to force it back, to remind himself of what the congregation had been through, of Deputy Lemming in the hospital bed, Mrs. Snodgrass’s crutches. He pictured her standing there in front of him and for a moment pushed his doubt away.

  “You know you sent an old woman to the hospital,” he said.

  “I realize that.”

&nb
sp; “A very sweet woman.”

  Hollis looked up at him. “I can’t say I’m entirely sorry.”

  Martin stared at him for a moment and then broke out laughing—partly because of the extremity of the man’s statement, partly because it reassured him of Hollis’s guilt. Recovering, he shook his head.

  “Aren’t you a sweetheart?” Martin said.

  “Have you spoken to her, Mr. Martin?”

  “I have,” said the deputy, putting down his tablet. “And I’ll tell you, all I could think was how horrible it was someone decided to knock her down a flight of steps. She’s almost seventy, Jacob. You’re lucky you’re not facing manslaughter.”

  Hollis looked off into space for a while. “She and her grandson came down to my house one day.”

  “She told me.”

  “They came down, knocked on my door, and for some reason I let them in.”

  The deputy sipped his coffee.

  “I tried to tell them I wasn’t interested in converting, but that woman kept on and on. She said I had no choice but to come to their service. She said that refusal to attend the words of the Lord’s anointed was a blasphemy punishable by hellfire. That’s what she called her grandson, Mr. Martin—‘the Lord’s anointed.’”

  The deputy wasn’t impressed with this.

  “I remember he noticed I had beagle puppies and asked if I would sell him one.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that boy,” warned Martin.

  “I never said there was,” Hollis told him. “He seemed like a sweet child. If I’m remembering it right, he never got to say a word the entire time he was in my house.”

  “He’s shy.”

  “It’s not the boy that worries me.”

  “Why even bring him up?”

  “Because his grandmother’s using him.”

  “Using him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Using him for what?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hollis. “Attention, fame—I couldn’t really say. But I do know if it were up to her that revival would go on for the rest of their lives.” He stopped for a moment and stared back out the window. “I believe that’s why she killed my dog.”

  Martin found he wanted to laugh at this as well. He opened his mouth to let out a snicker, but one never came.

  Later, this would remind him of the first time he was struck in a fight. He was barely ten years old at the time and a boy on the playground had hit him squarely in the center of his forehead. For a few seconds, Martin had stood there looking at his attacker in disbelief. He’d always imagined a punch would feel much differently, imagined it would immediately hurt. It was not until Martin was dragged into the principal’s office for shoving the boy down an embankment that he felt the onset of a headache that lasted for most of the week.

  Similarly, Hollis’s words had made no initial impression. They seemed the type of nonsense that the mentally disturbed will blather under duress. Then, slowly, the tenor of the words shifted. After a few moments had passed, Martin felt as if a lump were swelling on his forehead. He told Hollis he should watch his mouth.

  “Why do I need to—”

  “Because you’re crazy,” Martin said flatly. He knew he should go out into the hall and collect himself, but he did not budge.

  Hollis leaned forward and sat with his elbows on his knees. “No, Mr. Martin, I’m not. You know I’m not.”

  The deputy wanted to say something in reply, but he couldn’t think of what. His mind was going very fast.

  “I’ll go ahead and tell you what I believe happened,” said Hollis, “since you seem to be the only person around here who’s willing to listen.” The man looked to make sure the recorder was going. “I was in Tulsa all last week attending a conference at TU; you can confirm that if you want. When I got back into town Friday afternoon, I stopped for gas at the four-mile and there were two men behind the counter talking about a dog getting nailed to the cross out at the First Pentecostal. I had no idea it was even my dog they were talking about, but I remember thinking immediately that it was the old woman who did it.”

  Martin began shaking his head.

  “That’s why I went up there and lost it, deputy. I came home, saw my dog was missing, and knew what had happened. I couldn’t help myself. I knew she’d done it to make it look like they were under attack. I knew she’d done it to keep her revival going.”

  Martin scooted forward in his chair. “You’re telling me that a seventy-year-old woman—an elder in a Pentecostal church—stole your dog, carried it two hundred yards and hammered it to a cross with sixteen-penny nails?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Have you ever driven a sixteen-penny nail, Mr. Hollis?”

  “No, but I’ve shaken hands with that woman and felt her grip. Have you shaken her hand, deputy?”

  “You want to know what?” he asked the man. “You’re just about to piss me—”

  “Maybe she had an accomplice. I’m sure a revival gets fairly lucrative after a month’s worth of services. I’m sure there’s someone who stands to make—”

  The deputy found he couldn’t listen to any more of this. He yelled at the man to stop. “Just quit,” he told him. “You don’t have a scrap of evidence. You’re talking right out your ass.”

  “Deputy,” resumed Hollis in a calm voice, “it’s good you’re getting upset. But you need to ask yourself why you’re upset. I think it’s because you know I’m telling the truth. I think it’s because you don’t want—”

  Martin reached over and switched off the recorder. “If you don’t shut your goddamned mouth, I’m going to have the boys bring in one of those tasers you’re so fond of.” He glared at the man and, then standing, left the room, slamming the door so hard that the wall trembled. He looked down the hall and saw Deputy Jackson sitting there, a curious expression on his face.

  “You got what you need?” he asked.

  Martin nodded inadvertently, gestured toward the room. Jackson went inside, told Hollis to stand, placed handcuffs on him and walked him out. Martin watched the two descend the stairs and then went back and eased himself into the chair. He sat for a long time looking out the window, backing the recorder, and listening to sections of their conversation.

  When he went downstairs, Casteel was standing at the front desk talking with the dispatch. The sheriff held a large brown envelope, and seeing Martin, he began to motion him over.

  “Lab report just came in,” he said. “Those prints don’t belong to Hollis or anybody else they’ve arrested in Oklahoma in the last forty-five years.”

  Martin felt as if he were going to be ill.

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Casteel told him. “I’m sure he’s smart enough to’ve worn gloves. We don’t have to have the prints to convict him of aggravated assault and resisting arrest.” The sheriff raised his coffee mug and took a long drink.

  Watching him, his face drained of color, Martin told the man he’d be back in a moment. He went out to his car, dug around the front seat, and found the cup he’d accidentally taken from church the night before. Carrying it inside, he pitched it to Casteel.

  “What’s this?” the man asked, studying the flattened piece of Styrofoam. “You feeling okay?”

  Martin didn’t answer. He walked down the hallway and into the bathroom. Even the sheriff, deaf as he was, had no trouble hearing the sound the bolt made when the deputy shot it to behind him.

  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, Jacob Hollis pleaded guilty to assault charges and paid fifty-seven hundred dollars in fines. He sold his home to a Dutch family at the end of summer and, much to the liking of the First Pentecostal, moved back to New England. Hollis didn’t appear in court for the civil suit filed against him by Doyle Withers, and Judge Petersen issued a bench warrant should the man come back through Oklahoma. He told Withers, however, not to hold his breath. The judge didn’t expect Hollis would be eager to revisit the state.

  It was also along thi
s time that the church brought its camp meeting to an end. The revival, said the elders of the congregation, was the longest they’d heard of, services every day for two and a half months. Leslie Snodgrass and his grandmother moved out of their hotel room and went back to the even smaller town outside Tishomingo. When the United Pentecostal Board of Churches sent in a new pastor, a Virginian by the name of Don Shockley, Mrs. Snodgrass wrote a letter of protest to the UPBC chairman. She had hoped her grandson could apply for the post and felt he hadn’t been given proper consideration. Hearing of the letter, Reverend Shockley phoned to see if the boy would be interested in preaching the next summer. The woman told him she would think about it.

  Gerald Martin found himself in the process of moving as well. In December of that year, he resigned the office of deputy sheriff and took a position as fire watcher in central Colorado. Standing on the balcony of his tower and looking out over the miles of evergreen, he could, at times, convince himself he’d made the right decision. The foothills of the Rocky Mountains lay on the horizon, and the air was clean and crisp. But every evening, as the sun declined and stained the western windows, Martin felt that a hollowness had grown inside him, and while eager for companionship, he didn’t know if he could return to suburban or even rural life. He thought he must be looking for a different community altogether.

  The day he’d resigned, Casteel had wanted to know why he was losing his best deputy, why, in his opinion, Martin was throwing away a promising career in law enforcement. The wide receiver for the football team had been missing since the end of summer—Casteel might need assistance with that—and, after all, didn’t Martin understand he had an opportunity to be sheriff himself in a few years? The deputy simply shook his head in answer to such questions, but when Casteel wanted to know who it was had handed him that Styrofoam cup, Martin told him flatly that he didn’t remember. The sheriff attempted to jog his memory, using as incentive the fact that the prints on the cup had proven a perfect match with the ones on the nails. Martin said he’d like to help, but it seemed such a trivial thing at the time, there was no way he was going to recall it.

  Casteel merely shrugged. He was just glad Hollis was no longer his problem. “Let those Easterners deal with him,” he told Martin. “They’re used to nuts like that. It’s so bad out there, they can’t tell the priests from the perverts.” Martin said the perverts were better received.