A Reckoning in the Back Country

by Terry Shames

  Alvin shoves his plate away. “If I was you, I’d let it alone. Those people are flat-out dangerous.”

  “You trying to tell me that I should let them get away with murdering somebody?”

  Gabe clears his throat. “This is all speculation. You don’t even know if that’s what really happened to Wilkins.”

  He’s right, but I’m annoyed at the idea of them suggesting that it’s best to ignore dogfighting. And another thing, it makes me uneasy about finding one puppy when others are missing. Could there be some relationship between the missing puppies and these dog people?

  “No, I don’t. But I do know he was attacked by dogs.” I shove my plate away. “Speaking of dogs, I found a dead dog out in the woods in the same area where Wilkins’s body was found. I had Doc England out there to examine her, and he said she had had a litter of pups. Have you heard any rumors about somebody having a bunch of puppies in their possession?”

  “How would we hear anything like that?” LoPresto says. The men are looking at me with wary eyes. I’m angry, and they know it.

  “What kind of puppies?” Lunsford asks.

  “Mixed breed. Doc says some border collie and maybe golden lab.”

  Lundsford is frowning. He’s got something on his mind.

  “What is it Lundsford?”

  “I hate to say it, but I heard a rumor that sometimes these people who train dogs for fighting will use a regular dog for bait.”

  “Oh, come on. That can’t be true. That’s hateful,” LoPresto says.

  I look around the table and see I’m not the only one sickened by the idea, but they most likely don’t have the experience I have.

  I’ve been here a good forty-five minutes. I need to check on the puppy, and I need to calm down. “Well, now that I’ve ruined everybody’s lunch, I guess I’d better get on back,” I say. I’m aware that I’m leaving behind a bad taste.

  When I come in, the puppy is sleeping so hard that I watch to make sure he’s breathing. I’m glad he’s feeling secure enough to sleep soundly.

  I sit down at my desk and put in a call to my pal Wallace Lyndall at the sheriff’s office in Bobtail. He and I have worked together one time and another. He’s no ball of fire, but he does keep his ear out for what’s going on in the county.

  “You hear about any dogfighting going on in our neck of the woods?”

  “Craddock, I swear to God, you get up to the damnedest things. Can’t you ever call just to pass the time of day?”

  “Let’s pretend that’s what I’m doing and I just happened to ask the question.”

  He snorts. “I haven’t personally heard anything, but I’ll ask around. Is this connected with that man who was killed out at the lake? The guys that went out on the call said he was all torn up and that his hands were tied.”

  “That’s right. It was ugly.”

  “Sounds like he got in with the wrong kind of people. You think it might be somebody in the dogfighting business?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, I’d have somebody in jail and all the details tidied up. He has some other issues that could have gotten him killed, but this is a pretty particular way of killing somebody.”

  “What else could have happened?”

  I tell him that Wilkins was sued for malpractice and lost the case and was in financial trouble. “Not only that, his family was mad at him.”

  “Mad enough to tie him up and sic dogs on him?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Now, I said I don’t know of anybody sponsoring any fights around here,” Lyndall says, “but I’ll tell you what sparks my interest. We’ve had a run of dogs reported missing. As I understand it, some of the old boys will get cats and dogs and use them for bait.”

  “Shoot. I heard that from somebody else. What kind of sick person would do something like that? That turns my stomach.”

  “What about the whole issue of dogfighting doesn’t turn your stomach?” he says. “And I’ll tell you something else, you don’t want to be messing with them. From what I hear, them old boys are mean as rattlers.”

  I don’t tell him that I already know this. “I don’t want to, but I may have to.”

  “If you wait it out, they’ll move on.”

  “That doesn’t mean they won’t come back.”

  No sooner have I hung up than a pitiful little wail emanates from the jail cell where the puppy is sleeping. I walk in and rescue him from starvation, and then take him out. I wish Maria was here. She loves dogs and she’d be tickled to death with this little guy.

  I remember that I haven’t told Ellen that I found a puppy, and I try to call her, but her cell phone is off. I don’t leave a message.

  After the puppy eats and does his business, I let him roam around, and I watch him while I try to push away the terrible memory that Lundsford’s words has brought roaring back.

  My daddy was a drunk and a coward. I knew the first part from the time I was old enough to know what drunk meant, but I was a teenager before I recognized him for a coward, prone to picking on those who were too weak to fight back. And in my early years, that meant me.

  One day, when I was ten years old, he told me to get ready, that he was taking me somewhere to have some fun. I had long since stopped expecting that he intended anything good for my brother or me, but I guess every kid holds that little bit of hope. We drove way out in the country, a place I’d never been. It’s only in hindsight that I believe I had a premonition that something terrible was going to happen. I probably didn’t.

  We drove down a road that was barely passable, rutted and overgrown, until we came to a clearing where there were other cars parked along with a fair number of motorcycles. At that age I was all for motorcycles, and wanted to stop and take a look at them, but my daddy hurried me along. He had brought a pint bottle of whiskey, and pulled from it frequently as we walked. I was used to that, and it didn’t seem unusual. We walked at least a mile until we came in sight of a ramshackle wooden building with a barn-door opening. Men were gathered around outside, talking and smoking, but I remember having a sense that they were nervous and excited. Maybe it was in their voices or their jerky movements. I remember for sure, though, noticing that I was one of just a few youngsters my age.

  It was only when we got inside and I saw the arena and the dogs penned around the outside of it that I had an inkling of what was up. I had heard about dogfighting from boys at school. Not that anyone had ever seen one, but the boys had plenty of speculation and opinion. One or two had older brothers who claimed to have seen them, though details were vague.

  In my memory it’s hard to pick out what was worse, the fury of the dogs, massive beasts with their ears clipped, who went after each other making hardly a sound, all their energy going into tearing each other to pieces; or the brutal whoops and hollers and snarls of the men who had bet on them. They screamed, urging their dogs to fight even after they were bleeding and torn. The rank smell of cigarette smoke blended with the odor of sweat and blood. Money changed hands out in the open, and more than one fistfight broke out over whether a dog had been pulled too early. After a couple of fights in which dogs were carried or dragged bleeding from the ring, I told my daddy I wanted to leave. He’d have none of it.

  I managed not to disgrace myself by crying or puking, but I couldn’t control trembling. It was the longest day of my young life, and the day I knew that my daddy did not have my best interest in mind. I hadn’t even thought about why my brother was not included in the outing, but when I got home he was there, grinning. “What did you think? You ever think a dog could be that tough? I might get me a fighting dog one of these days.”

  He probably would have, too, if he hadn’t been too lazy to follow through. Horace and I were always different from each other, but until the dogfight, I hadn’t known quite how different.

  It was weeks before I stopped waking in the night, drenched in sweat, shaking, not daring to make a sound in case my brother heard me.

  I was a k
id then, and there was nothing I could do about it, but now I’m chief of police, and in a position to see to it that such abomination does not happen in my territory. I have no idea if Lundsford is right and there is some link between a dogfighting operation and Lewis Wilkins’s murder, but if there is, we’re going to have a showdown.

  I shake myself from my dark thoughts and see that the puppy has worn himself out and is lying near my feet, dozing. I put him in his box and take it outside to my squad car. I go back and leave a note on the door saying to call me if anybody needs me, and I head out to the lake to talk to Dooley Phillips.

  CHAPTER 11

  People from out of town come here to fish and camp out most weekends and holidays. The only time the weather is usually too bad for people to come is February, when it sometimes rains for days on end and has even been known to snow and sleet. Today, despite the chill and the threat of rain, there are boats zipping around on the lake and a lot of RVs hooked up in the campground.

  Dooley Phillips’s café is doing a brisk business, but the kid behind the counter, who is frazzled by all the customers, says with a resentful pout that Dooley isn’t coming in today. “He’s got family coming in for Thanksgiving and he’s taking the day off.”

  I don’t have to have Dooley here to take a look at Wilkins’s slip again, but I don’t remember exactly where it was. “Is there a ledger that tells whose boat is in which part of the marina?”

  “Yes, sir.” Eyeing two men who are looking at some fishing gear on the back wall, the kid pulls the ledger out of a drawer and plunks it down in front of me.

  It takes me only a minute to find Lewis Wilkins’s slip number. When I get to the docks, I’m confused. I recall that we turned to the left when we first went to check if Wilkins’s boat was out. But the numbers clearly point me off to the right. I follow along until I find the number. It most certainly is not the same slip that Dooley showed me.

  There’s a boat in it, but it doesn’t look like any fishing boat I ever saw. It’s a sleek-looking, luxury powerboat with a cabin and a motor that looks like it could pull a skier easily. The most interesting thing about the boat, though, is that it looks like it has never been used. And there’s a line of green algae around the waterline, which means it must have been sitting here for a while. Why would somebody have a big, new powerboat out here and let it sit? Did Wilkins intend to fish and he lost interest? Maybe it doesn’t even belong to Wilkins. It could be the number in the ledger was wrong. I need to have another talk with Dooley.

  I get Dooley’s home address from the kid at the marina and head on over there. On the way, I think about when Dooley took me to the slip that supposedly belonged to Wilkins. I remember at the time thinking there was something odd about the scene. And now I realize what it was. There were no ropes on the cleats. The slip look unused. Surely Dooley would have known that. Was he lying to me? And if so, why?

  Dooley lives in a modest house smack in the middle of town. He does a brisk business at the boathouse, and I would have thought he would live a little more high on the hog. But he might have kids to get through college, or maybe he’s just thrifty. The other possibility is that no matter how prosperous he may seem, running a business is always a matter of worrying if you’re going to be sunk by something beyond your control.

  Dooley’s panel truck, with the “Dooley’s Boathouse and Bait Shop” logo painted on the side is in the gravel driveway next to a small Chevrolet. When I knock on the front door, a young man in his twenties opens it. He looks a lot like Dooley, with his head of bristly sandy-colored hair, bushy eyebrows, and a jaw thrust out so that it looks like he’s inviting a jab. I introduce myself and ask if Dooley is at home.

  “I’m Dooley’s son, Bobby. You know anything about turkey fryers?” There’s a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Too bad. Daddy’s out back wrestling with the turkey fryer, and I think we might be having turkey baked in the oven tomorrow instead of deep-fried.” He laughs.

  “I expect you’ve heard some creative language this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t even know my daddy knew some of those words. Come on out back.”

  We walk through the small house that smells of pumpkin pie and something tangy. From the kitchen off to the right I hear pots banging.

  “You home for Thanksgiving?” I ask.

  “Yeah, me and my sister. She’s not getting here until later this afternoon. She had to work this morning. My last class was yesterday, so I came on down this morning.”

  “Where are you in school?”

  He opens the back door, chuckling. “I wish I was still in school. No, I’m a teacher at a high school in San Antonio.” Seems like teachers get younger every year, but I keep that to myself.

  We pause on the back porch and see a pitiful sight. Dooley is standing in the middle of a mess of parts that could be a turkey fryer, but could also be a small vehicle. He’s thrown his jacket off on the side and his billed cap is set back on his head. With his hands on his hips, he is the picture of frustration. He looks up and spots us, and kicks one of the parts. Then he hollers, “Craddock, stop snickering and get down here and help me figure this out. My son has washed his hands of the whole thing.”

  I walk down the steps and eye the mess. “If I were to put my hand in, that would be a matter of the blind leading the blind,” I say. “Don’t you have any instructions?”

  “We must have had some at one point, but they’re long gone. Bobby, go tell your mamma that there’s no way in hell I’m going to get this cooker together. We’re going to have to cook that bird the regular way.”

  Bobby snorts. “You’re not going to like it when she comes out here and puts it together in five minutes.” He walks back into the house.

  “Wouldn’t you think a man who can fix any boat engine he ever ran across could figure this thing out?” he says to me.

  “I never could understand why anyone would want to fry a turkey anyway,” I say. “Hardly seems worth the trouble. Turkey is turkey.”

  “I suppose. Come on into my workroom. I have a little whiskey in there and we can get a pre-Thanksgiving sip in peace. I know you don’t drink on duty, but the day before Thanksgiving, you can have a sip.”

  I follow him into the garage, which Dooley has set up as part workshop, part den. There are a couple of ratty easy chairs off in a corner on a rug whose color has long since melded to dirt gray, with a rickety table set in between. He walks over to a countertop that holds an array of tools in good order, opens a little cabinet, and pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  “The good stuff,” I say.

  “I get a nice discount on account of my grocery business at the marina.” He pulls out a couple of glasses and pours us each a hefty shot. We sit down in the easy chairs.

  “You and your son have a good relationship.” I’m particularly sensitive to that at the moment, having seen the difficulty Ellen has with her kids and Margaret Wilkins with her daughter.

  Dooley grins. “The turkey fryer gave him a chance to make fun of his old man, which he sincerely enjoys.” He laughs. “He’s a good guy. We have good times together.” He picks up his glass, takes a sip, and smacks his lips. “But you didn’t come here to converse about my family.”

  “No, I didn’t. I need to talk to you about your friend Wilkins.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know what to make of that. Can you fill me in on the details? I sort of know the general idea, but anything you can tell me that might not be pure gossip?”

  I tell him as much as I know. When I tell him that Wilkins’s hands were tied when he was attacked, he draws a sharp breath. “Son of a bitch.”

  “I’d like to get your take on that. Do you have any idea of somebody who might have had it in for him? I know about the lawsuit he lost, and seems like the woman he injured had a lot to be upset about, but she did win a pretty tidy sum.”

  “Goose with the golden egg,” he mutters. “That jury ruined his lif
e. What makes people think doctors are supposed to be perfect? Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “I read the information about the verdict. It looked like he was pretty careless.”

  He runs a hand across his forehead. “I guess since he’s my friend I didn’t want to believe he could bungle something so bad. He didn’t think it was all his fault.”

  “Loyalty counts.”

  We sit without speaking for a minute. He keeps his gaze on his whiskey.

  “How often did you spend time with Lewis?” I ask.

  He looks at the ceiling. “When he was down here, we tried to get together once or twice with the wives, and every now and then we’d have few beers together in the evening.”

  No use beating around the bush. “Dooley, I have to ask you something. You took me to a slip where you said Wilkins’s boat was tied up, and when we saw the boat wasn’t there, you said he must be out in it.”

  He holds up his hand. “I know, I know. I took you to the wrong slip. I thought about it that night and I almost called you to tell you, but I figure it wasn’t that important.” He chews on his lower lip. “How did you find out it was the wrong slip?”

  “Since his body was found yesterday, I wanted to see if the boat was back in the marina, so I went out there this afternoon and looked up his name in your ledger. The interesting thing is, when I found the boat, it didn’t look like it had ever been used.”

  He nods.

  “Why would you tell me he took the boat out if you knew he had never used it?”

  “I wasn’t thinking. I’d been working on an engine all morning and didn’t have my head on straight.”

  “Dooley, I don’t want to push you, but that’s hard to believe.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know why. I guess I thought maybe he was up to something he shouldn’t be up to, and I wanted to cover for him.”

  “Like what?”

  He doesn’t say anything. Finally I say, “Like maybe going to a dogfight?”

  He looks surprised. “Not that I ever knew.”