Carnies and Wildcats: Ulciscor

by Robert Spearman

  At that moment Allen’s newfound, easy-going nature made a serious turn. Dottie saw the anger in his eyes and ran to the screened-in back porch of the lake house. Allen turned to make sure his mother was still sleeping and then ran after Dottie. She was standing in the middle of the porch, the puzzle pieces still in her hand.

  “Give them here,” Allen shouted but tried to whisper. He did not want to wake his mother.

  “Come and get them.” Dottie ran out the back door toward the dock.

  Allen ran after her, but Dottie arrived at the dock before him. When she neared the dock, she turned to Allen and smirked. She tossed the puzzle pieces in the lake. Allen’s jaw tightened. His face turned red, and his lips quivered. He lunged at Dottie and shoved her into the lake.

  Dottie gasped and breathed in water as she fell into the lake. She popped back up to the surface, frightened. She fought for air, her arms thrashed the water trying to swim.

  Allen jumped into the water and waited for her to pop up again. Dottie came to the surface, her eyes wide with panic. Allen’s hands forced her under the water and held her there. Dottie continued to thrash around for a few minutes, and then her body went limp and offered no more resistance to Allen’s hands.

  Allen searched for the puzzle pieces and found a few floating near Dottie’s body. He shoved them into his pocket and walked back to the house. His sister’s blond hair floated on the water like fine strands of golden silk.

  Allen crept onto the back porch and stared through the open, sliding-glass door which separated the porch from the den. His mother was still sleeping. He removed his wet clothes, except for his underwear, and put them in the corner of the room under an old rocking-chair. He slipped into the den, making sure not to wake his mother and continued down the hall to his bedroom.

  Once inside, he stripped off his briefs and threw them under his bed. He grabbed new clothes from his closet and changed. Allen took another jigsaw puzzle from the shelf and tiptoed back to the den.

  Allen opened the new puzzle and started again. He glimpsed at his mother, she was still asleep. He spent the rest of the morning working on the puzzle.

  Myrtle Ridley opened her eyes a few minutes before noon. The headache was gone. She went to the bathroom, and a few minutes later she returned to the den.

  “Where is your sister?”

  “I dunno Mom, did you look in her room?”

  Myrtle walked down the hall leading to the bedrooms.

  “Dottie? Dottie?” she called out. Myrtle made a tour of the house calling Dottie’s name. She returned to the den and then went into the kitchen. She walked out to the back porch. Allen heard the screen door of the back porch open, a few seconds later, his mother screamed.

  “Dottie! Oh my God, Dottie!” Myrtle screamed. “No, no, no, please God, no!”

  Allen walked outside and saw his mother wading in the lake. She was holding Dottie’s limp body in her arms. Allen was close enough to see his mother glaring at him.

  “You did this! I know you did!” she screamed. She kept walking toward the house, and Allen backed up as she came closer. “Look what you did. You’ve killed your sister! Get in your room and don’t come out, I will deal with you later!”

  Allen ran inside and locked himself in his room. He remembered the rage in his mother’s eyes and could hear her crying in the next room. He tried to cover his ears to shut out the noise of her wailing. Allen covered his head with a pillow, but her grief was getting louder and louder. He needed to escape the torment of his mother crying, the sounds of her pain were maddening. He unlocked the window in his bedroom and climbed out.

  Myrtle laid Dottie on the sofa in the den. She was weeping with deep heavy breaths—her face streaked with tears. Her trembling hands reached up and grabbed a knitted afghan from the back of the sofa and covered Dottie’s body. She forced herself to concentrate on what to do next.

  Call Harvey. Must call Harvey.

  She struggled to get to her feet and stumbled to the nearest phone. Her hands were shaking as she tried to dial the number. She had made several attempts before she finished dialing the number. Harvey’s secretary answered and informed Myrtle that Harvey was in the warehouse and could not come to the phone right away.

  “I want him now dammit!” Myrtle screamed.

  A few moments later an out-of-breath Harvey Ridley came to the phone. By this time, Myrtle was again sobbing, loud, long sobs. The words strained to come from her mouth. “Harvey, come home now. Dottie is dead. I need you here now.”

  Harvey dropped the phone and ran to his car.

  * * *

  Harvey made the trip from the office to Ocean Pond in record time. As he turned onto the gravel road leading to the lake house, he glimpsed Allen sitting on the side of the road. Harvey did not stop but continued speeding to the house.

  He entered the house through the kitchen and heard Myrtle’s relentless sobs and her repeating the words, “Oh my baby, my sweet baby.” He walked into the den. Myrtle was kneeling on the floor beside the sofa, stroking Dottie’s hair.

  Harvey went to console her, but she pushed him away. She scowled at Harvey. “It’s your fault, all your fault. You just had to bring him back and now look what he’s done. He’s killed my Dottie!”

  “You think Allen did this?”

  “I know he did!”

  Harvey backed away. In spite of Myrtle’s sorrow and anger, there were things that needed to be done. He went into the kitchen and called the sheriff’s department and told them there had been an accident at his house on Ocean Pond. He asked them to please send someone as soon as possible and to send the coroner.

  Harvey walked out of the house and up the gravel road to where Allen was sitting. Allen had pulled his knees up to his chest, his arms were resting on his knees, his head buried in his arms. Harvey touched the back of Allen’s neck. Allen looked at Harvey with red, tearful eyes. The thunderclouds had arrived. The rain came down in a sprinkle.

  Harvey rubbed Allen on the head. “Son, why don’t you come on back to the house?”

  “Mama thinks I killed Dottie.”

  “I know, but I don’t think that. Come on back and let’s talk. You can tell me what happened.”

  “Don’t you understand? I don’t know what happened!”

  The lightning flashed nearby. The thunder grew louder. Harvey nudged his son to stand and took him by the arms and made him stand.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I was playing in the den, and Mama was sleeping in the recliner. I don’t know where Dottie was. Mama woke up and asked me about Dottie, I told her I thought Dottie was in her room.” Allen stared at the gravel road and sniffled away more tears. “Mama looked for her in the house and then ran out the back door. Later I heard Mom screaming. I went out to look too…”

  Allen was sobbing, tears streaming down his face. “And then I saw Mama coming out of the lake carrying Dottie. She screamed at me, Daddy! Mama thought I did it! Oh, Daddy, I would never hurt Dottie. You know that!”

  “Okay then. Why don’t you get out of the rain and come back in the house?” Harvey asked, putting his arm around his son.

  “Daddy, I can’t go back in there. Mama’s going to kill me, I know it.”

  Allen’s frightened face made Harvey’s heart melt. It was horrible that Dottie was dead, but his son was hurting too.

  “Then come with me and sit in the car while we get this sorted out.”

  Allen followed his father to the car and sat on the passenger’s side. The rain was now falling in sheets, and lightning sparked around the lake house like a fireworks show gone awry. The lightning bolts flashed, immediately followed by thunder—the storm had arrived.

  Harvey Ridley walked away from the car, his arm shielded his eyes from the sheets of rain blowing sideways. Harvey pushed through the rain to the single-car garage. He sat beside Myrtle’s car and wept. He cried for Dottie, for Myrtle, for Allen and he cried for his marriage—it would never be the same af
ter this, he was sure of it.

  Harvey stared at the floor of the garage. His chest was tightening, and small, numb, pinpricks traveled down his left arm. He didn’t have time for this pain, too much to do. He rubbed his arm and took deep breaths until the tightness in his chest eased and he rose to his feet.

  Harvey had to talk to Myrtle again before the deputies and coroner arrived. He walked into the house and saw Myrtle still hovering over Dottie’s body. Her sobbing had turned into small whimpers—her body continued to heave, and the tears were still falling.

  “Myrt,” Harvey said. His voice was just above a whisper.

  She turned to look at him. She glared and said nothing.

  “We need to talk before the deputies and coroner get here.” He waited for a reply from her but received none. “I know you think Allen did this, and maybe he did, or maybe he didn’t, God only knows. Please, don’t discuss this when they arrive. Allen is hurting too, and he doesn’t need any problems from them. I don’t want us to lose two children today.”

  Myrtle thought for a moment, but to Harvey it seemed like hours. “I will do this for you Harvey, but not for Allen. I will never forgive him. You said that God only knows, well you are wrong, I know.”

  She took Harvey by the hand and led him to the screened porch. Piled in the middle of the room were Allen’s wet clothes.

  Blood rose in Harvey’s face, and his mouth became like cotton, his chest tightened again. He lifted the clothes. Harvey recognized Allen’s clothes. They were wet.

  “Where did you find these?” Harvey asked.

  Myrtle raised a trembling finger and pointed to the rocking-chair. “Under there. And now we both know. Something must be done about Allen. You want this from me, but here’s what I want from you. Starting today, you will take Allen, and you will live together at the house in town. I will stay here and live at the lake. I want Dottie buried here, behind the house, under that dogwood tree.” She pointed as she spoke. “You may come to visit, but I never want to see Allen again, do you understand?”

  Harvey nodded. He wanted to object to her demands but reconsidered. “Okay, I understand.”

  “One more thing,” she said. “No funeral. Go to Burke’s and buy her a nice little casket—a light blue one, she hated pink. When everything is ready have Bill Burke bring her back here with Pastor Gladwell. No obituary and no service, just me, you and the pastor. Can you do that for me, Harvey?”

  Harvey nodded.

  Harvey picked up Allen’s clothes and walked to his car. Allen was still sitting in the car. He tapped on the window, and Allen turned his head to face him. Harvey slammed Allen’s wet, discarded clothes to the window for Allen to see. Harvey shook his head in disgust, and Allen dropped his head in shame.

  For a brief second, the thought crossed his mind of telling the police and the whole world that his son was a murderer. Harvey walked away and placed the clothes in the car’s trunk.

  Harvey closed the trunk and two, gray, unmarked cars arrived followed by an ambulance. Two men wearing suits exited the first car. The driver was thin and tall with curly, red hair and wire-rim glasses. His partner was shorter with greased, jet-black hair combed back like Elvis, he was muscular and the brawn of the two.

  The last car contained a short, plump, old man. He wrestled his way from beneath the steering wheel and out the car door. He was A.C. “Fatty” Durant, the Lowndes County coroner. Durant walked a few short steps and was out of breath when he reached Harvey and shook his hand.

  Like all coroners in the small counties of Georgia, Durant was an elected official. He had no specialized forensic training like the medical examiners in the bigger cities of Atlanta, Macon or Savannah. If someone died at home from natural causes or died from an accident, Durant could pronounce them dead, nothing more. If he suspected foul play, he would ask the sheriff’s homicide detectives to take over and investigate. Once the local detectives were on the case, they could call in the GBI (Georgia Bureau of Investigation) if they needed more help. The GBI had a full forensics lab in Macon to help with cases too difficult for the local authorities.

  “What’s going on here Harv?” Durant asked.

  Harvey sighed. “Our little girl has drowned.”

  Durant pointed to the house with his head. “She inside?”

  Harvey nodded. “Come with me.”

  Durant and the detectives followed Harvey. Durant paused at the ambulance and instructed the two men in the ambulance to wait. One detective saw Allen sitting in Harvey’s car. He punched his partner in the side and jerked a thumb in Allen’s direction. Neither said anything. They walked into the house on the heels of the coroner.

  Myrtle had resumed her position at Dottie’s body and was continuing to stroke her hair. She was no longer crying. Her eyes were red, and her face showed trails of tear-stained makeup.

  “Myrt, please come here and let Mr. Durant do his job.” She hesitated, then stood and joined Harvey, following him into the kitchen.

  Once Myrtle and Harvey exited the room, Durant went to work while the detectives watched. They were more qualified to examine the body than the coroner, but that was not the law. He put his hand on her neck and felt for a pulse. The brawny detective, the one called “Grits” Hammontree, shook his head in disbelief at Durant’s examination, he could tell by Dottie’s color she had been dead for a while.

  Durant announced that Dottie was dead, the cause of death, drowning. He turned to the investigators and asked if they concurred. Durant did not need their opinion, but he felt it was better to get a second opinion. The one on the right, the taller one known as “Oatmeal” Miller, nodded his head in agreement. He then raised his hand like a kid in a classroom.

  “Mr. Durant, who’s the boy sitting in the car?” he asked.

  “I didn’t notice anyone in the car,” Durant said. He walked in the kitchen. “Is there someone else here, Harv?”

  “In the house?” Harvey asked.

  “Nope, the detectives noticed a boy in the car in the driveway.”

  Harvey ran his fingers through his hair and then rubbed his neck. “Oh, that’s our son Allen. We just couldn’t bear to have him see Dottie like this.”

  “Do you mind pointing out where the drowning occurred?” asked Detective Miller.

  “Sure,” said Harvey. Harvey led him to the screened porch and pointed out the back door to the dock. “Over there.”

  Harvey watched as the detective paused on the back porch before walking out to the boat dock. Miller walked out onto the dock and looked at the water. Then he stopped at the bank, dropped to one knee and examined the grass near the edge of the lake.

  Durant was inside pacing like an elephant in a cage too small. Fatty Durant had been around death scenes hundreds of times, and he hated to tarry too long after he finished his official duties. Durant looked at Detective Hammontree and said, “Go grab your partner and let’s get going. We’re done here.”

  Harvey followed Durant to the door and thanked him for coming. Durant shook Harvey’s hand and patted him on the back. “I’m sorry for your loss. I wish I knew what to say. Been doin’ this for thirty years and still don’t know what to say or how I can help but let me know if I can. You want Burke’s to handle everything?”

  Harvey nodded though he didn’t understand why Durant asked the question. There were three funeral homes in Valdosta and Burke’s served the white families. The other two catered to Valdosta’s black community. In the Deep South, even in the days of civil rights and integration, segregation was alive and well in the funeral business.

  A.C. Durant walked back to the ambulance and tapped on the driver’s window. “Burke’s,” he said.

  The ambulance attendants pulled a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. Myrtle Ridley was sitting on the sofa with Dottie’s lifeless head in her lap. She was singing Dottie a lullaby. The ambulance attendants approached, and Myrtle held up her hand, motioning for them to stop. She finished singing and stood. Myrtle lowered her daughter
onto the sofa and kissed her on the forehead. She turned away and walked down the hall to her bedroom.

  * * *

  James “Oatmeal” Miller and Bud “Grits” Hammontree had been partners for sixteen years. Miller had moved to Valdosta to escape the below-zero winters of Pennsylvania and was hired by the Lowndes County Sheriff’s Office as a uniformed deputy. The department partnered him with Hammontree, a five-year veteran of the force.

  Their nicknames came from an incident at breakfast on their first day as partners. Miller had tried to follow Hammontree’s lead and ordered grits, that southern breakfast delicacy made from ground corn. After a few bites, he asked the waitress to bring him oatmeal and with that he became stuck with a new nickname—”Oatmeal”. He responded in kind by calling his new partner “Grits”.

  Six years earlier, the county elected a new sheriff, and he promoted Oatmeal and Grits to detectives. Miller was the brains of the duo and Hammontree was the brawn.

  James Miller was not a very handsome man—a thin, six-foot beanpole with curly red hair and pale complexion. His wire-rim glasses, which always sat crooked on his face, made him look more like a twenty-five-year-old bookworm than a forty-year-old sheriff’s detective. Bud called him “Professor” as much as he called him “Oatmeal.” Miller didn’t have the looks, but he possessed a sharp, intuitive, logical mind.

  Bud Hammontree was different—a looker, a lady’s man, and a local boy. Hammontree wasn’t tall but was stocky and muscular. His dark eyes, black hair and muscular build made him popular with the ladies to the tune of three ex-wives. His local roots made him the ideal partner for a newcomer like Miller.

  What Hammontree lacked in logical, deductive reasoning was offset by his knowledge of the county and its people. He was a walking map and encyclopedia of the county. If Miller needed a specific who, what or where of Lowndes County he only had to ask his partner.

  Miller and Hammontree followed the ambulance north to the Dasher city limits. Miller turned the unmarked car in Dasher and traveled the back roads to the sheriff’s office. The ambulance carrying Dottie Ridley’s body continued north to Valdosta. They had been riding for more than ten minutes in silence. Bud was sure Oatmeal’s silence meant something.