AHMM, November 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Hey, pumpkin. How's tricks?"

  "Simms, I'm hanging up."

  "No, wait, I have a hypothetical for you.” He threw the ball down the slope to the lake's edge.

  "I don't need hypothetical. I already have three real rapes, two spousal abuses with fractures, and numerous raincoat flappers that need to be in jail. Good-bye."

  "Would an intelligent, attractive, professional woman—outside of the movies—voluntarily give a ride to a man who had groped her in the workplace cafeteria, causing her to tell the entire employee base that she'd rather see the human race die out than allow his DNA to survive? A ride the next day where they were being road buddies?” The ball returned wet.

  "Why are you wasting my time?” She hung up.

  "That's what I thought too,” Bubba said to the dial tone. He threw the soggy ball and went inside to change. He closed the porch door so the ball would stay outside. He emerged in a few minutes dressed in old jeans, T-shirt, and work boots. He found a shovel in the garage, put it in the Bronco, and allowed Elvis the shotgun seat so he could howl at traffic. Not quite a siren, but he wasn't bad.

  They arrived at the concrete buttress at the end of the construction zone. He parked as close to the ditch as he could so Elvis wouldn't be tempted to disobey and help him look. The pictures from the traffic report showed that the final landing spot for Seworth was about twenty feet past the impact site. The water level was lower in the ditch than it had been and the cattails along the edge were leaning over.

  Bubba walked carefully out into the ditch. The mud gave way and gave way some more. While the water wasn't more than a few inches deep, it quickly filled his boots as he sank in the mud. He poked with the shovel along the pathway he imagined that Seworth had flown. There had to be a knife here. That was the only explanation that made sense.

  The shovel blade struck a solid object. Reaching slowly through the mud and muck, he found a concrete chunk. Then he found a piece of rebar. An unbroken beer bottle. A tire for a boat trailer. Another chunk of concrete. Something that might have been a toaster oven. But no knife.

  After an hour, Bubba left the ditch and returned to the Bronco. Mud was drying on his shirt sleeves. His jeans were wet past the knees and his boots sloshed as he walked. Elvis had given up asking to help and was curled asleep on the front seat. Bubba opened the rear hatch of the Bronco, tossed in the shovel, and found a clean rag to wipe off his arms. Elvis yawned and looked expectantly, awaiting a new plan.

  "Maybe there is no knife out here. Maybe it was still with him, and the inventory was wrong. Let's go find out.” Elvis barked approval. Any plan was better than sleeping in a car seat.

  When Bubba reached the hospital parking lot, he realized there was no place to park that wouldn't leave Elvis in the sun. And bluetick hounds were not allowed in the emergency room. Harold was nowhere in sight, so he parked in a police-only space, rolled the windows down just a touch, and left the motor running with the AC on. Elvis would survive for a little while. He grabbed his briefcase and headed into the emergency room where the clothing inventory had been done.

  Gina emerged from her cubicle and met him only a few steps into the E.R. She was trying not to laugh.

  "What are you supposed to be? A mud rep?” Laughter spread across the E.R. There were only a few active patients waiting service, and all the nurses and clerks had time to appreciate her humor.

  Bubba sat the briefcase on a counter, opened it, found the file, and pulled out the inventory sheet. “I'm looking for J. Dawkins or Hawkins or Gawkins."

  "Josh Dawkins. He's not here today. What do you need him for?"

  "I'm looking into the Seworth death..."

  "I know."

  "...and there is something not on the inventory. I was wondering if he might have left it off by accident."

  "Did you notice that he listed the pocket change by the denominations? Josh never leaves anything out. Josh is The Littlest Detail. That's why he does all those kinds of things for us."

  "Would he have taken something if it caught his eye?"

  "Bright shiny objects? If it was a computer or a set of drums he might have taken it, but nothing else would have caught his eye. If it is not listed, it wasn't there."

  "That's what I needed to know. Thanks, Gina.” He put out his hand and Gina took it.

  "Thank you. We don't often have visitations from Pigpen. Come back anytime."

  As soon as Bubba left the E.R., he saw the golf cart parked next to the Bronco. Harold was sitting there with his feet propped on the dash, hands linked behind his head, listening to Elvis howl at him.

  "I suppose that now you are going to tell me that this is a police dog."

  "Search and rescue hound,” Bubba said as he unlocked the Bronco and let Elvis out to meet Harold. He sniffed him and then ran around the golf cart, then the Bronco. Eventually, he decided to sit on the other seat of the security cart. Harold patted his head and scratched behind the floppy ears.

  "What does he rescue?"

  "Mostly tennis balls, but he has higher hopes."

  "That's about what I figured. So, now tell me why you're dressed as Sergeant Preston of the Royal Southeastern Swamp Patrol."

  "I spent a long hour in a ditch because Elvis can't smell through mud.” Then he told him about the afternoon's activities. Harold laughed and put his feet down.

  "My shift ends in half an hour. Meet me at the ditch at five. I always thought you rednecks couldn't find your butt with both hands, and now I'll prove it.” Harold told Elvis to get off the cart, then sped away toward the far side of the parking lot where a horn was blowing.

  Bubba took Elvis home and then changed clothes. He was standing beside the concrete column when Harold arrived. Harold climbed out of a black Crown Victoria with rust showing on both back quarter panels. He wore brown plaid Bermuda shorts, lace-up sneakers, and a pullover knit shirt. His knees were larger than his thighs. A dark tan almost covered the varicose veins on his calves.

  "Someone needs to feed you,” Bubba said.

  "I have a liver like a rock. Started AA two years ago after spitting up blood. Not much for food or drink anymore. Just stay busy.” He opened the back door and brought out an elaborate metal detector—a long tube with electronics on both ends and a sling that went over his shoulder.

  "That thing going to reach down into the mud far enough to do any good?"

  "We'll see. I found a silver dollar almost two feet under one time. Show me the path Seworth flew."

  They walked past the concrete through the grassy space and then approached the ditch itself. Harold fiddled with the controls as he walked. He looked at the pile of debris that Bubba had dug out of the ditch. He shook his head.

  "The concrete won't be a problem, but any other rebar will show up.” He stepped off into the decaying plant matter at the edge of the ditch. He swept a path about a dozen feet wide for each step forward. A few feet into the ditch, he called out, “Bring me that rake out of my car."

  Bubba walked over to the car and pulled a short-handled garden rake with three curved prongs on it from the back seat. A beach towel covered the leather upholstery. He brought the rake to Harold, who shifted the metal detector to his left hand and dug the rake around with his right. He brought out a piece of rebar and tossed it on the back, then handed the rake to Bubba to hold. He continued his methodical search. Bubba watched and flicked mosquitoes away. After three more pieces of rebar, five beer cans, a hubcap, and something too rusted to be identified, Harold said, “Now this looks interesting. Take the detector.” He exchanged the rake with Bubba and began to carefully dig with the rake, then he bent over and used his hands in the mud. Water reached his shoulders and he had to lift his head to breathe. He stood and held a knife between his thumb and forefinger. He began to walk out.

  "A Yankee with a metal detector—crime's worst nightmare.” He laughed and dropped the knife into a gallon-size baggy that Bubba held. Bubba looked at the open knife through the plastic.

&nbs
p; "That what you need?"

  "It's a Case, single blade, lock knife. That's what I guessed it would be. An unlikely coincidence, I'd say."

  "Never believed much in coincidence myself. What are you going to do with that knife?"

  "Settle this claim against Patsy's insurance."

  "She was a nice little woman. Be a shame if anything happened to create any more speculation about her and what happened."

  "I can be subtle when I have to be."

  "Subtle as an elephant in a living room."

  "Depends on the size of the living room."

  "I guess it does. Anything else?"

  "No. I appreciate this."

  "Did it for her. Never did think she was dating Seworth."

  They shook and Bubba waited for Harold to wipe his arms and legs with a clean towel and then place another on his seat before he drove away. Bubba went home to eat supper and think about what to do about the little rapist bastard while Elvis partied in the yard. After all, it was Friday night.

  Even though it was eight thirty on a Saturday morning, Bubba figured Arnie would be at work. When he answered the phone, he sounded winded, like he'd been pacing the office since dawn.

  "What have you got for me, Bubba?"

  "Not completely sure yet. But what would be the settle number for you?"

  "One dollar and not a penny more."

  "I'm hanging up now. Elvis and I are going to hunt snipes. Do something useful instead of listening to you."

  "Wait. Fifty, hundred K at most. If it happens soon. People are nervous over this. What have you found out?"

  "That there are moments, and then there are moments."

  "Now I'm hanging up. Call me."

  Even though the pickup was gone from the Seworth's driveway, Bubba stopped and got out. He could talk to the missus without the Captain glaring. But there was a note taped on the front door inside the porch.

  Tom and Sister,

  We've gone to the Cedars. The headstone has arrived. Tried to call you but you had already left. We'll wait there.

  Harriet

  Bubba decided to drive to the cemetery and talk to them about dropping their suit. Seworth might be less volatile away from home when he heard what Bubba had to say. And how much money it was going to cost him.

  There was another couple with the Seworths standing in front of a tall headstone of red granite when Bubba arrived. He parked a few car links away and stood outside the Bronco watching Captain Bill disengage himself from the others and walk over. He stopped a few steps away from Bubba and spoke in a low voice,"I apologize about the other day. I had no business threatening you. Lot of anger in me that day. I made a mistake.” He held out his hand.

  Bubba looked at the red eyes and the splotched face, then reached out and shook the hand. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “The stone looks good."

  "She likes it. She should; it cost us five thousand dollars. But now she'll have something to visit and bring flowers to. Memories of Junior are about all she has. Why are you here?"

  "Wanted to show you something."

  Seworth stepped around the open Bronco door to see what Bubba had. His hand shook slightly as he reached toward the plastic baggy. The mud had dried and flecked off the handle of the knife. The blade looked dull in the sunlight. Green algae filled the recess. His hand stopped before he touched the knife.

  "Where did you find this?"

  "In the ditch where he died. The blade was already open."

  Seworth nodded to himself and withdrew his hand. “She can't see this."

  "No need for her to."

  "You giving this to the insurance people?"

  "Not unless I have to."

  "You won't. I'll call my lawyer Monday. Tell him to drop the suit.” Seworth's voice grew softer with each word.

  "Just tell him to settle for something reasonable. Less talk that way. Fewer questions to answer."

  Seworth nodded and stepped away. “I best get back to her now. I'm obliged to you."

  "I'll get the knife to you after this settles down."

  "Fair enough.” He walked off slowly, shoulders sagging.

  Bubba drove away while Seworth still hugged his wife. The Bronco found the road toward the hospital. He thought he ought to tell Patsy that the truth was known, even if she couldn't hear him. And maybe she could. Who knew what went on in comas? Perhaps Elvis was right, you don't have to be awake to chase rabbits.

  Copyright © 2006 Mitch Alderman

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  SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER

  The first time I ever saw him was when he flopped feet first out of that closet, dead as a mackerel.

  —John H. Dirckx, from “Body English,” AHMM, October 2004.

  xzacf bodyenglish jkmpqrtuvw

  ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  IN A CIVILIZED MANNER by Rex Burns

  Ron Chironna

  * * * *

  A flock of crows, circling and quarreling over food, had drawn an Aboriginal boy to a dry gorge in the Oombulgurri Reserve. When he saw what that food was, the hair lifted along the back of his neck, and he ran blindly toward his family camp to escape the spirit of evil.

  By the time the Aboriginal warden reached the scene and made it back to where his mobile phone worked, another day had passed. During that time, half a dozen Aborigines, alerted by a more efficient bush telegraph, had come out of the scrub and rock to look. Then the medical team called in from Wyndham to remove what was left of Roland Mitchell mucked up the site even more. In short, Sergeant Eddie Hall told Aboriginal Liaison Constable Leonard Smith, there was bugger-all of a crime scene left.

  "Which is fine with me,” the sergeant said. “Have no detective free to work a murder scene anyway. What I want you to do is fly to Wyndham, go out to Oombulgurri, and liaise with the Aborigines. Learn of any brawling, trouble over a woman, payback—whatever stirs up a suspect."

  Leonard asked, “Did the warden come up with anything?"

  "Wouldn't waste my time there. Warden Bates is a cousin of the victim. Hell, they're all cousins—you know how these bush settlements are: Everybody's related.” The voice on the telephone paused with sudden caution, then came back in a more measured tone. “As you know, our Aboriginal police wardens do not have statutory powers, so investigating a homicide is beyond Bates's charge."

  Aboriginal lawmen in the bush were often ill trained, poorly supported, and equipped with only a baton, a pair of handcuffs, and a spear. The sergeant probably had his doubts about ALC Smith too.

  Sergeant Hall cleared his throat and went on. “I'm billeted for ten constables, but the effing budget's good for only eight. All busy as bloody one-armed paperhangers. Tourist season. Every year we get more who don't know arse from elbow about survival in the bush. I need bodies, and Superintendent Roberts said he'd cut orders to attach you to my station. You'll hear from him directly, Constable."

  Which settled any doubt of Leonard's participation. He tried to stifle the excitement in his voice at this, his first homicide assignment. “How was the victim killed, Sergeant?"

  "Gunshot."

  "Shot?” That was unexpected. “Not stabbed or beaten?"

  "Gunshot to the back of the head. Pieces of the slug dug out by the medico—.22 caliber, I'd say, but sent it to Perth for analysis. Haven't responded yet. Medico says there were other wounds too. Six stab wounds to the left thigh. Almost healed and still bandaged. Means they came before death, of course. No other visible traumas."

  Death by shooting was a puzzle, and Leonard had turned it over during the afternoon flight from Derby. A knife, a head banging, that would point to an Aboriginal killer. Thigh wounds could mean a ritual punishment for Mitchell having violated some tribal law. That business—not officially sanctioned—still happened, especially on remote reserves like Oombulgurri.

  But in a nation where guns were both expensive and registered, a shooting fit a city murder—Sydn
ey, Melbourne—where, Leonard had read, the .22 caliber was often favored because that slug splintered too much to be matched to a weapon. Why would an Aboriginal on a reserve as isolated as the Oombulgurri be killed by a city crim?

  That question and others accompanied Leonard as he heaved at the steering wheel of the ancient Land Rover Sergeant Hall had assigned him. In some distant past, the worn vehicle had been handed down from the Regional Force Surveillance Unit. Their green and orange double diamond was slowly reappearing through a swipe of sun-worn paint on the door and, with the rattles, groans, and lurches, told Leonard of the hard use the vehicle had suffered.

  It was near midday when finally he splashed across the rivulets and sandbars of the Forrest River. Grinding up a low bank to the grassy flats, he passed a WELCOME TO OOMBULGURRI sign that marked the landing when the river was navigable during the Wet. On a low hill above the dusty town, a cross commemorated the Aboriginal victims of a massacre by state police. The facts of that 1926 assault had been garbled by history, but the sense of injury lingered. No longer an Anglican mission, the town had been reclaimed as an Aboriginal settlement partly because of that massacre. Now, it was the metropolis of the reserve and even offered occasional corroboree dances for tourists.

  A dirt road, once an old footpath, meandered from the landing and turned into a grid of sandy lanes lined by small, square homes. The warden's office was in the community house. Leonard rapped on its doorframe. A man with a trimmed beard peppered gray looked up from a desk that held neat piles of papers and memos.

  "G'day."

  "Warden Bates? I'm Constable Smith—assigned to look into that shooting death. Might we chat a bit?” Sergeant Hall might not trust the warden, but it was politic to let the man know an outsider was nosing about his reserve.

  "Ah—” The hum of a community generator and the distant, faint screams from children at recess in a school yard emphasized the silence. “Sergeant Hall sent you here?"

  "He told me you identified the body.” It wasn't a complete answer, but it wasn't a complete lie either.

  Bates nodded. “You're in that new Aboriginal Liaison program, eh?"