A Welcome Murder

by Robin Yocum

  By the time I pulled off the road, a hundred feet past the driveway to Daubner’s house, the roof had already caved in, sending the second and first floors crashing into the basement. The Daubner place was several blocks from the nearest fire hydrant. The fire department had emptied the pumper on the blaze, but it was already out of control. By the time I walked up the driveway, all the firefighters could do was watch the flames as the walls collapsed.

  Toots was waiting for me at the top of the driveway. “This is great. Just great,” I told Toots through clenched teeth. “The feds will be in my shorts, for sure.”

  I scanned the chaotic scene for Deputy Leonard Fairbanks.

  I spied him skulking around his cruiser, desperately trying to look busy and avoid my glare. “Sergeant Armor, did you assign Deputy Fairbanks to watch the house as I requested?” I asked between clenched teeth.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  I nodded and motioned for Toots to follow me down the gravel drive. “Good morning, Deputy,” I said to Fairbanks.

  “Good morning, Sheriff,” he responded, continuing to inspect the gravel drive. Leonard Quincy “J.C.” Fairbanks was a fifty-three-year-old, thrice-divorced career deputy with a gut like an overstuffed pillow that protruded both above and below his gun belt. He was not an unlikable guy, but I marveled at his ability to screw up every task to which he was assigned. He was a model of consistency in that regard. He had earned the nickname “J.C.,” which stands for Jesus Christ, because supervisors so frequently began bitching at him by saying, “Jesus Christ, Fairbanks . . .”

  I took a breath and said in a calm, even tone, “Sergeant Armor said he assigned you to watch this property last night. Is that so?”

  He nodded, faintly, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “When you relieved Deputy Wagner, did he reinforce that order?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he tell you it was a direct order from me?”

  “Yes, sir, he did.”

  “Did you do as you were ordered?”

  “I did.”

  “At any point during the night did you leave your post?”

  “Well, yes, sir, I ran down to the diner for a couple of minutes—twenty, tops—to grab a sandwich and—”

  I slammed my fist down on the hood of his cruiser. “And that’s when someone torched the house!” I screamed. “That is why you were given a direct order not to leave the area, so no one would disturb the house of a murdered federal informant!”

  I am not generally a yeller or screamer. I’ve never seen the value in it. But now my voice rang out over the roar of the blaze, and firefighters turned to witness my meltdown.

  “But, Sheriff—”

  “No buts!” As I yelled, flecks of spittle flew from my mouth. “You disobeyed a direct order, and someone burned down the house while you were out playing grab-ass with one of your ex-wives! Deputy, you had better pray to Jesus in heaven that the arson investigators tell me this was spontaneous fucking combustion, or whoever did this didn’t get out alive and we find his charred remains at the bottom of this mess. Otherwise, your ass is mine. The FBI’s going to be all over me, and when they ask me who I think killed Rayce Daubner, I’m going to tell them it was you.” I was getting light-headed and had to step back and take a breath. In a calmer voice, I said, “Now, as of this moment—this instant—you are suspended. Take the cruiser back to the department, and I want to see your badge, revolver, and keys on my desk when I get back.”

  Fairbanks had tears in his eyes as he climbed into the cruiser and backed it out of the driveway. Toots walked over to me, crossed his arms, and said, “Well, I think that went well. How about you?”

  I shook my head and said, “I’ll hang that lard-ass.”

  “Hey, remember who you’re talking to,” he said, rubbing his hand over the basketball-sized mound of his stomach.

  “You look like a Russian weightlifter. You could probably stop a bullet with your gut,” I said.

  Toots grinned. “On the outside chance that was a compliment, thanks.” He turned serious again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite that upset.”

  I leaned against the passenger-side door of the fire chief’s car, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. When I removed my hands, my eyes adjusted just in time to see the last remaining wall crumble into the basement and a wide spray of orange sparks erupt from the hole. The pumper truck pulled up with another tank of water and began pouring it onto the smoldering pile; it was an exercise in futility. It was two hours before I left. By the time I got back to the office, the little headache I had been fighting that morning had morphed into a thumper directly behind my right eye.

  There was only one cure for such a headache—caffeine, sugar, and aspirin. I fetched my favorite mug from my office and filled it from the coffee urn in the reception area, grabbed two doughnuts from the box—Allison always bought doughnuts at the Downtown Bakery on Saturdays—and retired to my office. I poured the last three aspirin from the jar in my desk drawer into my hand and washed them down with too-hot coffee. The donuts were gone in a couple of bites. I had Johnny Earl in a jail cell and had to address that issue, but I couldn’t even think about it until the pain in my head subsided. It was at that moment that my Saturday morning went from bad to worse with the piercing squeal of the voice that in all the world I least wanted to hear. She barged into my office, her wooden heels pounding out a staccato rhythm on the marble floor, and said, “Francis! I can’t believe you let him go.”

  “Good morning, Dena Marie. What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “You let him go. How could you do that?”

  “Dena Marie, I’m dealing with an unsolved homicide and a horrendous headache. At this moment, you’re keeping me from one and contributing to the other. Let who go? Smoochie?”

  “Yes, Smoochie.”

  “Why exactly would I keep him in custody?”

  “Why? Because he killed Rayce Daubner, that’s why.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “You expect me to believe that Smoochie killed Rayce Daubner?”

  “Yes. I can’t believe you didn’t figure that out.”

  “Dena Marie, last week I saw Smoochie in the hardware store, and he was buying one of those catch-and-release mousetraps. You’re telling me that the same guy who can’t bring himself to kill a mouse shot a human being in cold blood?”

  “It’s an act. It’s all a big act. You don’t know what he’s really like.”

  “I’ve known Smoochie since I was six years old. His dad was our preacher. I went to school with him. I’ve got a pretty good idea what he’s like, and the guy doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, you are such a fool. I can’t believe you’re falling for that act. He’s vicious.”

  “Vicious?”

  “Very. He’s violent. He beats me.”

  “Smoochie beats you?”

  “All the time, especially when he drinks.”

  “Really? I didn’t know Smoochie drank.”

  “Oh, my God, he drinks all the time. He’s a mean drunk.”

  “And then he beats you?”

  “Yes. So why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Dena Marie, I have a lot of things on my to-do list today, not the least of which is interviewing your former boyfriend, Johnny Earl, who is very anxious to get out of my jail. Let’s cut to the chase. Why would you think that your husband killed Rayce?”

  “He said he wanted to.”

  “He did?”

  “After Rayce beat him up a couple of months ago, he said if he’d had a gun he would have killed him; he would have shot him dead.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, how much more evidence do you need? Arrest him.”

  I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair. “I know what you’re thinking. You want me to help get you out of your marriage to Smoochie. It’s a good plan. I arrest Smoochie; he goes to prison. Bingo, you’re a free woman. But I�
��m not going to send a man to prison just so you can clean up another one of your mistakes.”

  “He’s a killer.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “He said if he’d had a gun, he would have shot him. He said that. I’ll testify to that.”

  “Anyone who took a beating like Smoochie took from Daubner would say something like that. I’ll grant you that it’s motive, but you can’t indict and convict someone on motive. Otherwise, there are probably fifty people in Jefferson County who could be suspects. Nobody liked the son of a bitch, including Johnny Earl, who, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go interview.”

  At that moment, my wife appeared outside the door, looked at Dena Marie, mouthed, “You miserable son of a bitch,” and disappeared down the hall. The little vein on the side of my head began to thump with my heart.

  “You have to investigate Smoochie some more. You need to bring him down for more questioning. Squeeze him. He’ll crack.”

  This woman was trouble. She was one of those individuals whose life was always in a deep state of chaos, as were the lives of those with whom she had even the slightest contact. She could create a situation in paradise. My dad had said she was poison, and he was right. Despite this, I wanted to pull her across the desk, rip off her jeans, splay her legs across my hips and have my way with her. She was braless under a blue stretch top, her nipples erect and practically winking at me. I was starting to jump in my loins. My wife was pissed, I had a headache that was causing my vision to blur, the FBI would soon be swarming over my county, my career was teetering on a precipice, and still I couldn’t not think of taking Dena Marie on my desk.

  This, of course, is exactly what she wanted me to think. She wanted me to believe that as soon as Smoochie was tucked away in prison, it would open a wonderful opportunity for the two of us to be together. In reality, it was simply an opportunity for me to completely ruin my marriage and all my political aspirations. Fifteen minutes after the judge gave Smoochie the death penalty, she would be pantiless and charging through Johnny Earl’s front door.

  Still, beneath my desk my erection grew. “I am a troubled man,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Okay, I’ll talk to him again. But I don’t believe for one second that he did it, and I think you know that, too. You just want me to do your dirty work.”

  She tilted her head to one side and offered a slight grin. “Squeeze him hard. He’s weak.”

  “I thought you said he was vicious.”

  “Maybe he’ll confess.”

  “To a crime that he didn’t commit? I doubt it.”

  Dena Marie used the polished nail on a pinkie to brush a strand of hair away from her eye. The tip of her tongue brushed her lips. “You never know, Francis. Maybe we’ll both get lucky.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JOHNNY EARL

  I have really screwed up my life. Have I mentioned that yet? I’ve been home from the federal penitentiary for two weeks, and I am now a prisoner in the Jefferson County Jail, where I’m being held on suspicion of murder. Despite the fact that it’s a totally bogus charge, it might be enough to cause the feds to revoke my parole.

  Making things worse, if that’s possible, is the fact that there is only one other prisoner on the floor—Fritz “The Masturbator” Hirsch. The loony bastard is also known as “the announcer,” because he never carries on a normal conversation, but rather walks through life announcing the events around him as though he was a sportscaster. At first, it’s funny, though it doesn’t take long before you want to punch him in the face. He walks down the street, talking into his right fist, which is wrapped around an imaginary microphone, broadcasting anything he sees.

  “Oh, there’s Mrs. Eleanor Donaldson, mother of the luscious Kelli Ann Donaldson, Steubenville Catholic Central High School class of 1976. You all remember Kelli Ann, she was a little Catholic hottie, folks—runner-up homecoming queen, as I recall. Mrs. Donaldson is now frantically digging into her purse for her keys. She appears to have been doing some grocery shopping at Schumacher’s Grocery and Meats. That’s Schumacher’s Grocery and Meats in downtown Steubenville, Ohio, your number one supplier of fresh meats and poultry since 1936. When you want it fresh, you want it from Schumacher’s. Yes, sir, picking up some groceries and a twelve-pack of Iron City Beer for Mr. Donaldson. Iron City—the beer drinker’s beer. When you’re really ready to pour it on, pour on the Iron. Oh, and now Mrs. Donaldson is practically sprinting to her Oldsmobile Cutlass, which she purchased at Orion Oldsmobile in Steubenville. Yes, that’s Orion Oldsmobile, a dealer you can trust, located on Sunset Boulevard in Steubenville. She’s getting in the car now for the short drive to the Belmont Street home that was the recent recipient of a fresh paint job by Hap Strausbaugh. As most everyone in town knows, Hap is a latent homosexual and possesses the finest collection of dildos in town.”

  When Deputy Majowski had left after locking me in my cell, Fritz, in the cell right across from me, immediately went into his routine. “Oh, can you believe our luck, ladies and gentlemen? It’s Steubenville’s most famous jailbird, former star of the Steubenville Big Red, Johnny Earl. Johnny, Johnny, over here, Johnny, could we have a few words with you, please?” he said, extending his arm and the imaginary microphone outside the cell. “Johnny, what are you doing back in jail? Really, your adoring fans want to know.”

  This monologue went on nearly all night. He talked incessantly, broadcasting any appearance by the deputies, giving me a play-by-play of eating his dinner. “The star of tonight’s dinner is meatloaf, and Fritz is a huge fan of jailhouse meatloaf. Oh, and they brought succotash tonight, always a crowd favorite . . .”

  The events of the evening had put my bowels in an uproar. Some people get nervous and eat. I get nervous and shit. I was on the toilet before every game I ever played. Also, I detest an audience when I’m using the john. As you might imagine, this created a bit of a problem in prison. There was a single toilet in my prison cell—the throne—but I only used it under the most dire of circumstances. I worked in the prison library primarily because it had a restroom that offered at least a modicum of privacy. So I sat on my bunk in misery, my bowels rattling like castanets, dreading a potential play-by-play of a trip to the toilet.

  The single light that burned in each cell was turned off at 10 p.m. The fluorescent lights in the corridor between cells burned all night. I stretched out on the cot and fought off the urge to go until two in the morning. By then, the pressure was nearly unbearable, and I was confident that Fritz was asleep. I silently eased myself off the cot and onto the toilet.

  No sooner had I started my business than Fritz leapt off his cot and began talking into his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re back live from the Jefferson County Jail where former all-state star Johnny Earl has just hopped on the crapper for a late-night dump, and let me tell you, sports fans, there’s been a major eruption in cell number two. It sounds like a flock of sparrows taking off. Johnny, what did you eat today to cause such a spectacular release?”

  He was still standing at the bars of his cell, grinning, when I crawled back in my cot and draped my right arm over my eyes. I fell asleep, awoke briefly when the overhead light in my cell went on at six, then dozed again until I was jolted awake by a booming, familiar voice. “Earl! On your feet, soldier.”

  I bolted out of my cot, and had anything been left in my bowels, I would have lost it. “General Himmler! What are you doing here?”

  He stood erect, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight, staring hard at me. He was in camouflage fatigues, shiny black boots, and a green beret pulled down on his brow. The little weasel of a preacher, Reverend Wilfred A. Lewis, poked his head out from around the general. He was in an ill-fitting, double-breasted green suit with braided gold epaulets and brass buttons the size of quarters. He looked like a hotel doorman. “Salute your general,” the preacher said.

  I did. He returned the salute and said, “At ease, soldier.”

&nb
sp; “General, I didn’t think you were getting out for another month.”

  “The important thing is, I’m here.” He smiled; the preacher looked at me in disgust, as though I was unfit to be in the mere presence of the general.

  I was pretty certain why he had lied about his release date. He suspected my lack of commitment to the cause and had allowed me to believe I had a bit of a buffer to get my money and leave town. I had been outsmarted by a man with a unibrow who couldn’t tell German from Yiddish.

  “So, tell me, Colonel, how did you manage to get yourself back in jail so soon?” the general asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s no big deal. How did you know I was here?”

  “I stopped by your aunt’s house. She said two deputies showed up at the house last night and hauled you off.” The disgust on the preacher’s face melted into a smirk. The little weasel had pried into my release papers for my aunt’s address.

  “When are you getting out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s right, he don’t know,” announced Fritz, up against the bars of his cell and again talking into his hand. “Suspicion of murder. Could be in here for a long time, folks. But wait—what’s this? Suddenly, Johnny Earl, the great Earl of Steubenville, gets two mysterious visitors, and one is called ‘the general.’ Let’s see . . .”

  The general turned to face Fritz, who glanced up at him and immediately dropped the imaginary microphone and backed away from the bars. It was the first time I had ever seen Fritz intimidated into shutting his mouth. The general turned back to me and said, “That isn’t the answer I was hoping to hear. You see, that creates a problem. We need to get started. The republic needs us. In order to expedite our operation, just tell me where you hid the money, we’ll get it, and you can catch up with us when you get out of jail.”