Behind the Badge

by David R Lewis

  “Got your pepper spray on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lemme borrow it.”

  Crockett opened the cell door and shot a brief spray onto Spud’s face. Spud instantly fell down, began crying, and attempting to wipe his eyes on his knees.

  “Every time you kick that door or scream, I’m gonna spray you, Spud,” Crockett said. “You get quiet and settle down, I’ll wash your face. You continue to behave yourself, I’ll take the cuffs off. How you get treated is completely up to you. By the way, I think your nose is broken. You be good, we’ll get that fixed up. No charge.”

  Spud had to be sprayed two more times before he got the drift.

  *****

  “I think that’s it,” Charlie said, holding a sheaf of papers in the squad room. Morning sun beamed in the window. “Open liquor in a motor vehicle, no proof of insurance, no proof of registration, driving on an expired license, expired license on the truck, no license on the trailer, no safety chains on the trailer, no working taillights on the trailer, operating unsafe equipment, reckless endangerment of livestock, driving while intoxicated, resisting arrest, and assault on a police officer. Anything else?”

  “You forgot Mopery with intent to Gawk,” Crockett said.

  “What?”

  Crockett grinned. “Nothing. Just bullshit. Go home. Good work, kid.”

  “Thanks. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “You really hit ol’ Spud only once?”

  “Just once.”

  “With what?”

  “My fist.”

  “Jesus. It musta been a helluva lick.”

  “Go home, Charlie.”

  *****

  Crockett saw Dale’s cruiser in front of the café and stopped. He joined the big man at the back booth.

  “Saw that list of charges against Spud,” he said. “You sure he isn’t the one that shot Lincoln?”

  Crockett grinned. “You throw enough spaghetti at the wall, some of it is bound to stick.”

  “Killed a horse, huh?”

  “What a mess. It was awful. I can take hurt people a lot better than I can take hurt animals.”

  “I went down and talked to Spud a little while ago,” Dale went on. “Told him we were gonna take him to the hospital to get his nose fixed.”

  “They should work on his brain, too,” Crockett said.

  “He asked about you.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yep. Wanted to know who in the hell you were.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I told him that you were the baddest sumbitch in the valley.”

  Crockett grinned. “Can’t keep anything from you, can I?” he said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Satin was still sleeping when Crockett arrived home. He let Dundee out, made sure Nudge had an ample supply of kitty crunchies in his feeder, made coffee, let Dundee back in and fed her, let both animals out, filled his coffee cup, added cream, lighted a Sherman, went out on the porch, and sat in the swing. He was about halfway through both the coffee and the cigarette when something niggled at the back of his brain. He got up, walked around his house and down the driveway to the road. Sure enough, his mailbox, now severely bent, lay on its side in the weeds. He picked up the scattered correspondence and headed back to the house.

  Damn. Now what?

  *****

  On his second cup of coffee, Crockett limped up the slope toward the cabin from his customary “almost-a-lake” inspection. Satin graced the swing, mug in hand.

  “Morning,” she said. “Long night?”

  “All night,” he replied, schlepping up the steps and easing down beside her. Satin kissed him on the cheek and patted his good leg.

  “Crime fighting get a little tedious?”

  “I met Spud Cantral.”

  “Oh, shit. How was it?”

  “Spud lost.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Knocked him out.”

  Satin chuckled. “My hero.”

  “Not hardly. Sap gloves. Without them I’d have a broken hand and probably a kicked ass.”

  “Spud know that?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “My hero,” Satin repeated.

  They sat quietly for a few moments, listening to the woods wake up, before Crockett spoke again. “Our mailbox is down.”

  “Down?”

  “On its side, all dented up.”

  “Somebody sideswipe it or something?”

  “I hope that’s all,” he said. “If not, it’s enemy action.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to take a nap, I’m going to drop by the Post Office and have them forward our mail to the Sheriff’s Office, I’m going to call Dale and tell him I’m taking the night off, I’m going to buy a new mailbox and a device whose name I do not know, and then…” Crockett let the sentence hang and bumped his eyebrows.

  “What?” Satin said.

  “I’m gonna go to Cabelas.”

  “Oh. Well that makes perfect sense.”

  “Wanna come along?”

  “Desperately.”

  “Good. Nap time. Wanna come along?”

  “Desperately.”

  Crockett grinned. “God,” he said. “I do enjoy desperate women.”

  *****

  They returned home a little before five. Crockett handed the Cabelas bag to Satin.

  “I’m gonna put our new mailbox out in the mudroom, and go out and tamp its post down. It’s kind of wobbly,” he said. “Figure out how these things work, will ya?”

  Satin sat on the couch, removed one of the two Cuddleback digital motion sensing camera units from its box then did something men hated to do. She read the directions.

  *****

  The next morning, Crockett continued the motion sensing onslaught by installing the two parts of different motion sensor on trees, one on each side of his driveway, about thirty feet into the property. He put the receiver on a nightstand upstairs beside the bed. Should a vehicle enter his driveway, a light would flash and a beeper would sound. If someone came into the drive, he’d know.

  After that achievement, and being assured that Satin could read and follow simple instructions, he took the digital motion sensing cameras out to the road and hung them on trees, one aimed at the mailbox from the east, the other from the west.

  When he returned to the house, Satin was in her office, and the door was closed. When Satin was buttoned up in her office, she was only to be disturbed if the house was on fire. Crockett built a sandwich for lunch, took a shower, attended to his stump, dressed in his non-official police clothes, and went to town. He found Smoot hanging around the Sheriff’s Office in plain clothes.

  “It’s Saturday,” Crockett said, “don’t you have days off?”

  “I notice you’re here.”

  “I took yesterday off. Don’t wanna cheat the county. Cantral still in jail?”

  “Yep. He’ll be arraigned Monday morning. You won’t have to be there.”

  “I’ll probably drop by in case the judge has any questions.”

  “Thought you would. How come you’re in so early? Not even two yet.”

  “I’m only gonna hang around ‘til eight or so. You run an extra deputy on weekend nights anyway. Dispatch has my number. I’ll show up if there’s a problem. Speaking of problems, I think the guys all should have a supply of those disposable latex or rubber gloves. Might be good if every car had a couple of spit masks on hand, too. Could save the city or county a lot of money in the long run.”

  “The gloves are a done deal. Got some coming from a police supply house next week. I like to use police supply houses ‘cause everything is three times as expensive as it should be. Stimulates the economy. Good idea about the spit masks. I’ll look into it.”

  “Thanks. Everything okay in policeland so far today?”

  Smoot grinned.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “Some dumbass backed a ga
s truck about halfway over some gal’s little bitty Toyota Yaris down at the co-op this morning. Good thing she wasn’t in it. Hart-eight, Cleaver, tried to get her to understand that it happened on private property and there wasn’t anything we could do about it. The guys at the co-op are tellin’ her their insurance will cover everything; it’ll be fine. She’s screaming about her car, the lousy cops that won’t do their jobs, she’s only a helpless woman, you know the drill. Finally, the guy that was driving the truck tries to apologize to her. She takes a poke at him. Pops him right in the eye. Next thing you know, he’s on the floor, blood is all over the place, and she faints. Turns out, she was wearing a big ol’ diamond ring. The guy goes to the ER with a torn up eyelid and a scratched cornea. Cleaver busts her for battery, her husband shows up, gets outa hand, and he goes to jail, too. After everything settles down, Cleaver rises to the occasion. He talks to everybody and works out a deal. The gal and her husband will pay the driver’s hospital bill, the Co-op will replace or repair her car, no charges will be filed against her or her husband, and the company will give the driver time off, with pay, until he can see where he’s going. That’ll be nice. If he could have seen where he was going, he wouldn’t have backed over the car in the first place.”

  Crockett grinned. “You have anything to do with the settlement?”

  “Not me. I hid in the john until it was all over.”

  “No fool, thou,” Crockett replied, and headed for his truck.

  “Have fun,” Dale said.

  *****

  It was a beautiful afternoon, sunny and nearly seventy degrees. Crockett cruised aimlessly for an hour or two, then, finding himself on Ninety-two highway, headed toward Gillman Road. Even on Saturday, the construction site was a hive of activity. The steel supports and rafters for the big wing of the building were in place, and a crew was welding and bolting stringers to the skeleton. He pulled into the parking area, got out of the truck, hung his badge on his pocket, and walked toward the chaos. About halfway there, he was intercepted by a short man in his fifties with immense shoulders and a yellow hard hart.

  “Sorry mister,” he said. “This is a closed site. You can’t…uh…oh! You’re a cop?”

  Crockett smiled. “Just a curious bystander,” he said, offering a hand. “Call me Crockett.”

  “Mel Banks, Officer. I’m the assembly foreman for the building.” They shook.

  “Nice to meet you, Mel. I don’t want a thing. I’ve just been noticing this place, and I can’t believe how fast it’s going up.”

  “It don’t take long. Just putting together a puzzle with all the pieces marked for ya.”

  “Good size.”

  “Yessir. The main piece, the one we’re workin’ on today’ll be about a hundred and fifty square. Then there be the center structure, I guess that’ll be for the wet area, kitchen and bathrooms and such, and then the little end. I think that’s gonna be a restaurant or somethin’. I just read the blueprints and put ‘em up. Ain’t got nothin’ to do finishin’ out the inside.”

  “I don’t want to use up too much a your time, Mel. Just thought I’d stop by and take a peek.”

  A voice shouted from Crockett’s right.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here, you sonofabitch?”

  Crockett turned to see Shorty Cantral striding toward him from across the lot. Shorty was wearing a kaki shirt and pants, much the color of a deputy uniform, with a gunbelt, pepper spray, a handcuff case, and what was either a Smith and Wesson .357 or .44 magnum, with a barrel so long it came halfway to his knee. Shorty’s dark brown cowboy hat was cheap and a little bent.

  He stopped in front of Crockett and puffed up. “You got a fuckin’ warrant?” he asked.

  “For what?”

  “For any goddammed thing!”

  “Let’s see,” Crockett said, and paused for a moment. “No, no I don’t think so, Shorty. I need one?”

  “You damn sure do if yer gonna come on this place. I’m head a security on this property an’ unless you got a warrant, you ain’t allowed here. This is my turf, motherfucker. Git the hell off of it, right goddamn now!”

  Mel, obviously embarrassed, mumbled something about how glad he was to have met Crockett and drifted away.

  “Gee, Shorty,” Crockett said, “I had no idea I was trespassing on your, uh, turf was it? I’m so sorry. Can you possibly find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  “This here is private property an’ you ain’t got no warrant. You just shut yer mouth an’ git the fuck outa here.”

  “Yer right,” Crockett went on, affecting a western drawl. “This here parkin’ lot ain’t big enough fer the both of us. I reckon I’ll mosey on. I doan want no trouble, little lady.”

  He showed Cantral his back and walked away. Shorty didn’t say a word.

  Back in the truck, Crockett called Dale Smoot on his cell phone.

  “What do you want now?” Smoot asked.

  “I want to know who owns this property and new building that’s going up out here on Ninety-two at Gillman.”

  “A company of investors of some kind.”

  “Can you find out who the primary money guys are?”

  “I can try. Why?”

  “I just stopped out here to look the place over, and I got thrown off the property by the head of security.”

  “What?”

  “A fella named Shorty Cantral.”

  “Shorty?”

  “Yep. Asked me if I had a warrant. Then when I told him I didn’t, told me to shut my mouth and get out.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hmmm. Hurt your feelings, Crockett?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Piss you off?”

  “A lot.”

  “Bet it did. Try not to take it out on the citizenry.”

  “I’ll do my best, Dale. See ya.”

  *****

  Crockett spent the next three hours looking for trouble but couldn’t find any. He finally went home. Satin and scotch were always good therapy.

  *****

  Court was already in session when Crockett went to Spud Cantral’s arraignment Monday morning. He wore plain clothes and took a seat in the back row of the courtroom, next to Deputy Charlie Rogers. Charlie grinned at him.

  “You come here often?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” Crockett said. “Whenever I’m in town. What’s your sign?”

  “I have a Vertigo sun, a Feces moon, and Cappuccino rising,” Charlie replied.

  Crockett strangled his laugh down to a snort that threatened his eardrums. Shortly after he regained control, the bailiff called for Theotis Cantral. Spud and his attorney stepped up to the table. The list of charges was read, a plea of not guilty was entered on all of them, and Eugene Macklin, the prosecuting attorney, asked for a bond of a quarter of a million dollars. Cantral’s attorney, a dark-haired, stocky forty-year-old in a fifteen hundred dollar suit that made him stand out like a lobster tail on a pile of fish sticks, argued that Mister Cantral, a lifetime respected resident of the county with deep family ties to the area was, in no way, a flight risk. The judge, J.R. McPherson, himself a lifetime resident of the county, peered at Cantral’s attorney over the top of his reading glasses and informed him that he well knew how respected Cantral was, as the man had appeared before him on numerous prior occasions for various infractions, agreed that Theotis “Spud” Cantral was not a flight risk because he couldn’t find his way out of a crowd of three, and that bail stood at the level requested by the prosecution.

  When’s Spud’s lawyer began to object to the court’s ruling, McPherson shut him off with a raised hand.

  “Now, I do not know where you usually practice law, sir,” the judge said, “but if your suit of clothes is any indication, it is not in this county. Out here in the sticks, sir, when a member of the judiciary, such as I, offers a ruling on a matter such as we have at hand, he customarily brooks no further argument. I adhere strictly and vehemently to that custom.
Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, your honor.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Mister Cantral, you are hereby remanded into the custody of the Hart County Sheriff’s Office until such time as you can produce ten percent of the two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars requested by the prosecuting attorney. Do you understand me, sir?”

  “Yeah,” Spud grunted.

  “Very well. A date for trial will be set, you will be notified; and, at that time, we shall proceed with this delicate matter. Next case.”

  Crockett got to his feet, and he and Charlie ambled out into the hallway. There they happened upon Shorty Cantral, dressed for his work as a security guard, leaning against the wall.

  “Well, hello Shorty,” Crockett beamed. “Good to see you. You brother’s in the courtroom over there you know.”

  “I know goddamn good an’ well where he is,” Shorty said. “You’re the reason he’s there.”

  “No, not exactly. He’s the reason he’s there. I just clanked the door on him. Something I can do for you today?”

  “You can leave me the fuck alone, you sumbitch.”

  Crockett smiled.

  “See? There ya go, Shorty. You seem to resent me somewhat. That makes you do stupid things like swearing in the courthouse and calling people names. That type of conduct makes you subject to arrest. Watch your mouth, Shorty, or you and your brother’ll spend a little time together. How did you put it the other day? Oh, yeah. You’re on my turf.”