Fire Blight

by Nat Williams

  “Yeah, that’s it. You know what’s wrong with the world today? Well, there’s plenty. But one of the big ones is all these damn acronyms. They stand for things that make our lives too complicated. I couldn’t talk about any of that medical stuff even if I knew about it. I’m not a doctor. Not even a nurse. Just a poor woman trying to make other poor people’s lives a little - how’d you say it – a little less shitty.”

  Munro’s eyes focused on hers through a wisp of smoke.

  “You’re not a health professional,” he said. “You’re not subject to HIPAA. And you’d know if he had spent a lot of time away from work. This is a community, a small one. People talk. You know everyone here. Remember, Miguel Cuellar isn’t in trouble. No one is out to get him.”

  “Then who are you out to get?”

  Munro slowly leaned back. The metal chair creaked.

  “No one. Just working a case. This is an investigative visit. Nothing is recorded, nothing is official. I’m just trying to move along. Now if I wasn’t working a time-sensitive case, I’d love to hang around here a while. I like the place. I like the people.”

  Roseanne held up the cigarette, watching the smoke waft upward.

  “I guess I can trust you. You’ve got a pretty good face. Not sure if it’s an honest one, but I’ll take that chance. Anyway, as far as I know, Miguel Cuellar isn’t dying from some disease. But since we’re being real, I can’t say I have any kind of inside information about his health.”

  Munro paused, then took hold of a file he pulled out of his briefcase. He opened it and took a cursory look.

  “How about multiple sclerosis?”

  “No thanks. I’ll stick with PMS and the occasional migraine.”

  Roseanne took another drag and blew the smoke out through pursed lips in a long, skinny cloud.

  “I mean Miguel Cuellar. He hasn’t been treated for MS?”

  Roseanne looked through the storm door into the dusty parking lot.

  “As far as I know, Miguel Cuellar doesn’t have MS. He’s one of the best workers around here, I hear. Any more questions, Doug?”

  “No, you’ve been very helpful, Rosie. Thank you for your cooperation. Hopefully, you’ll never have to see me again.”

  “Well, I’ve seen worse. If you’re ever looking for a fun-loving gal with no attachment issues to show you around, let me know. Believe it or not, you can find some pretty good blues around here. That is, if you know where to look.”

  Munro stood up and showed himself to the door, which was about three feet away. Roseanne hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

  “By the way, you got another cigarette? I can’t get outta here for a couple more hours.”

  Munro pulled out the nearly full pack and tossed it to her.

  “Enjoy,” he said as he walked out the door, into the parking lot and to his car.

  Roseanne’s eyes followed his ass the entire way. Not bad at all.

  CHAPTER 8

  By mid-morning the Van Okin property had been ringed by yellow police tape and was swarming with officers wearing dissimilar uniforms that matched their respective departments. Bachelor had called in the Illinois State Police to help with evidence collection and processing. Several Cherokee Camp officers also assisted. He took charge immediately, making sure everyone knew who was heading the investigation.

  Bachelor was a native of C-Camp, but cut his teeth years ago in Altoona, a small city in central Pennsylvania, where he served on the 67-member police department. He had moved out there at the urging of his uncle, Roger Bloch, the city’s police superintendent at the time. Among other things, he assisted the felony crimes unit.

  Eight years later Bachelor decided to move back home, where he quickly landed a job as police chief. When the long-time sheriff decided to hang up his hat for good, Bachelor ran for the position and was elected handily.

  His experience in Pennsylvania made him aware of the sticky nature of competing agencies. As in war, business and virtually every other activity man has engaged in since the beginning of time, rivalry is common among allies in law enforcement.

  Cops protect turf like the drug dealers and gangsters they chase. Bachelor sometimes wondered how many cases have been bungled because a cop didn’t want to share the glory, or, conversely, one was hesitant to step on toes. He was committed to ensure that this wouldn’t be one of them.

  His eyes roamed over the grisly scene, taking in every detail: the position of the bodies, the orderly nature of the room, the gunshot wounds, the blood spatter.

  “Gloves on. Don’t touch anything unless you have to,” he announced as he continued to scan the scene. “FSC will be here in about an hour or so. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open.”

  The Forensic Sciences Command, a division of the Illinois State Police, is responsible for gathering and processing crime scene evidence. The closest of the eight offices is in Belleville, about 100 miles from Cherokee Camp.

  Bachelor carefully circled the focal point of the scene – the two bodies. There appeared to be no blood smeared on the floor, a sign that the victims likely died where they lay. Their bodies were not dragged into the living room from somewhere else.

  With a clinical eye he quickly determined the lack of a murder weapon. Not surprising, since there was also no apparent sign of a struggle. More interesting was how the bodies were clad.

  Dr. Van Okin was dressed smartly, in dress slacks, a button-down shirt sans tie and dinner jacket. Mrs. Van Okin was wearing a dress. Were they getting ready to go out? Not likely. The brief, initial interview with Morella Watson had revealed Norma Van Okin’s condition.

  When had they been killed? Hard to tell exactly. The blood had largely dried, but still glistened in small pools. He made a mental note to press forensic investigators and the medical examiner on a time of death. No other blood stains were immediately apparent, though the scene would be combed.

  Morella Watson had told Bachelor that the door had been ajar when she arrived. She didn’t think she touched the knob, recalling that she simply pushed on the heavy oak door itself. Cops and other first responders were told not to touch the handle. Maybe prints could be lifted, but Bachelor wasn’t getting his hopes up. Rarely do they show up well on doorknobs. Even if they did, that wasn’t a lot of help. Doorknobs are meant to be touched, and they are touched often, by many people.

  Why didn’t either victim move if danger was imminent? Was it someone they knew? How did the killer get in the house? Was he – or she – let in?

  Bachelor was careful not to move around too much before forensics arrived. He did notice the lack of security cameras. Surprising, considering Dr. Van Okin’s stature and the home’s rural location.

  So much for the round of golf he had been looking forward to. So much for regular meals and all the other routine tasks that would be put on hold for who knows how long.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Take a stroll around the property while I check the house,” Bachelor told Carroll.

  He cautiously walked throughout the premises, being careful not to touch anything that may bear fingerprints or other forensic evidence. The FSC agents would bring with them a case full of instruments along with decades of combined professional experience in identifying, gathering and testing anything that may be evidence. Bachelor wanted to get a jump on the identifying part. He kept a keen eye out for anything that seemed out of place.

  There wasn’t much. Most crime scenes he had seen in his years in the business were chaotic. Blood smeared across floors, lamps knocked over, clothes torn or missing altogether. He wasn’t sure whether the relative order of this scene would help or hamper the investigation.

  The adrenaline rush of the initial discovery was slowly waning. Bachelor was downshifting from crisis to contemplative mode. He had the opportunity to ruminate on the meaning of the crime scene. So far, his brain wasn’t producing any insights into why someone wanted this couple dead.

  The more he thought about the crime, the more it felt like an assassina
tion, or a mob hit. But so many elements were out of place. No forced entry, no sign of a struggle, no evidence of a burglary. This one was a real doozy. And the spotlight was going to shine bright on law enforcement.

  Citizens would be nervous. Is a serial killer – one who doesn’t have any compunctions about killing an elderly couple – on the loose? Is there a crazy neighbor out there with a get off my lawn attitude on steroids? Do they need to sleep with a knife under their pillow?

  His musings came to an abrupt end when he saw a woman drive up in a Toyota RAV4, park it, jump out and try to push through the tape. A city cop had his palms out, informing her that she couldn’t enter the yard.

  It was Janet Purcell.

  Bachelor quickly strode to the perimeter and engaged her.

  “What happened?” she said, her face full of dread.

  “Are you Janet?” he asked.

  “Yes. What’s going on here?”

  “Let’s talk in my car.”

  “What happened?” Janet said as she sat in the passenger seat of the SUV.

  “Your parents were victims of a violent crime,” Bachelor said.

  Janet stared straight ahead, taking in all the activity in the home and the yard.

  “A violent crime?”

  “A homicide,” Bachelor said. “They were both shot. I’m sorry.”

  Janet looked incredulous.

  “Shot? What do you mean? I don’t understand. Why would anyone shoot them?”

  She paused and worked at controlling her breath.

  “I need to see them.”

  “I’m sorry. You can’t. Not now.”

  Bachelor kept his eyes on Janet’s.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’ll need you to come down to the station. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  She gazed through the windshield at the azaleas in the front yard.

  “What was Mother wearing?”

  Startled, Bachelor cleared his throat. Blind-sided, he thought for a moment about what information should be disseminated and what information should be kept from public knowledge.

  But the question was so off-putting, he figured it would be worth hearing the response. Could be a valuable piece in the investigation. Or it could be nothing. He’d take that chance.

  “It was an evening gown.”

  “What color?”

  “Maybe like a purplish red?”

  “Magenta,” Janet said. “I got her that. She looked so beautiful in it. And Dad?”

  “He was wearing slacks, with a button-down shirt and jacket.”

  Bachelor let that sink in for a moment. He decided to chase the rabbit.

  “Were your parents going somewhere? Out to dinner, maybe, or some social function?”

  “I doubt it. Mother was not well, you know. They used to go out. But not … lately.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “How did … who found them?”

  Bachelor explained the 911 call from Morella Watson, excluding details about the nurse’s discovery of the scene.

  “Can I drive you to the office?” Bachelor said. “I’ll bring you back after we’re done.”

  Janet nodded. “OK. I probably don’t need to be driving right now.”

  CHAPTER 10

  David Purcell didn’t know any other life than farming. Even as a child he worked the family orchard in some capacity, helping sort apples on the line and learning the importance of pruning. He often hung around in the small on-farm market, charming customers. He was quite the salesman.

  He met Janet Van Okin at a party when he was 17 and she was 15. A doctor’s kid, she was an only child who was rarely seen apart from the giggling gaggle of girls roaming the halls of Cherokee Camp High School. She immediately took a liking to the lanky senior who kept his friends in stitches with impersonations of some of the teachers. He impressed her with his ability to suck the contents of a beer can in just a few seconds by popping the top, lifting the can to his mouth and punching a small hole in the other end.

  They got together, secretly at first, as her parents would not have been keen on her dating a senior, especially the long-haired and dangerous David Purcell. She lost her virginity in the back of a pickup truck on a dirty blanket, not exactly the romantic experience she had once imagined. Her friends warned her that David wouldn’t have anything to do with her after his sexual victory. But they continued to date and became a couple against the wishes of Dr. and Mrs. Van Okin.

  Her parents knew better than to protest; they knew Janet too well. Their only child had always been headstrong, and would never yield to pressure from outside forces, even those who wanted only the best for her. Besides, it wasn’t like David was a hoodlum or anything. He was rough around the edges, sure, but had a firm foundation in the family farm, and his parents were respected.

  Dr. Van Okin was quite familiar with the fruit industry around Cherokee Camp. He treated many of the migrant workers who labored in the orchards, even delivering a couple of their babies. He once treated David’s father, Hal, who suffered a nasty wound when a trailer hitch fell on him and broke his leg.

  Sure, the Purcell boy was a bit wild, but Dr. Van Okin had seen a lot of wild kids turn into responsible adults. And he expected David to settle down eventually and take over the family business. He would see to it personally. Especially after Janet got pregnant at age 17.

  “What do you intend to do about this development?” Dr. Van Okin asked him. The doctor’s language had always been a bit formal and clipped, perhaps a remnant of the Dutch spoken by his immigrant father. “Decisions must be made. Agreed?”

  David Purcell had gotten by so far on his looks, charm and gregarious nature. Up to this point, his major decisions had been limited largely to where to party and who to party with. And yet here he was, on the crux of a life-changing one. He lowered his already bowed head and kept silent. He knew it wasn’t his time to talk.

  “Janet will have the child,” Dr. Van Okin said with the weight of certainty. “And what will become of the father?”

  He let David squirm a bit. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

  “My daughter will not become a single mother. We will love this child but will not raise it. You will do the right thing, will you not?”

  Janet finally butted in. “What about me? What about what I think?”

  “What were you thinking when you decided to offer your body to this boy like a buffet at a Chinese restaurant?”

  The comment came dangerously close to making David giggle, but he gained control with a quiet grunt and full-body twitch.

  “Elmer, please,” said Mrs. Van Okin, who had been sitting in silent support. It was time to right the ship. “Let the boy talk.”

  The pregnancy led to hastily arranged wedding plans. By the end of the year, Mr. and Mrs. David Purcell danced to the strains of Chicago’s Colour My World at the Knights of Columbus banquet hall.

  Two months later, Janet miscarried.

  The couple lived in a two-bedroom trailer on the farm. David grudgingly joined his father in the orchard, putting in long hours stacking crates, cleaning equipment and running the cider mill. He hated every minute of it. When he was younger, the farm was fun. He enjoyed being the cute cut-up, fawned over by the Mexican workers and the customers.

  But now the orchard was a workplace, not a playground. It was a job, not a game. It felt more like quicksand than a sandbox.

  And things weren’t going well. It was becoming obvious that his father’s decision years ago to expand apple acreage at the expense of peaches was a poor business move. Advances in storing and transportation made Michigan and Washington apples a more economical buy for supermarkets in Illinois.

  To make things worse, Janet had become withdrawn. Following the ups and downs of the whirlwind courtship, the pregnancy, the wedding and the miscarriage, the couple soon settled into a tedious melancholy.

  She spent most days sitting in front of the te
levision, watching brainless soaps and lame come-ons from washed-up celebrities on QVC. Occasionally she would order some trinket, which, of course, would ultimately fail to bring any joy into her life.

  Then reality shook their drifting existence like an earthquake. David’s parents were on their way home from an auction when their truck was struck head-on by a drunk driver. David’s father died at the scene. His mother hung on for a couple of days before succumbing to her injuries.

  The driver of the Oldsmobile also died, sparing the emotional torture that accompanies a trial, but also providing some measure of closure.

  As tragic as it was, the accident provided the jolt that pulled David and Janet back into the world. It was as if the elder Purcells had given them a wake-up slap from the grave. David grew closer to his in-laws, and Janet began taking a bigger interest in the farm. They rolled up their sleeves, threw off the ennui that surrounded their marriage, and got to work at the orchard and at life itself.

  CHAPTER 11

  Bachelor pointed to a chair in an interview room at the Gilbert County Sheriff’s Office. Janet Purcell sat down, clutching a tissue. The room consisted of a table, three chairs, a whiteboard and two cameras, one on a wall and another mounted at an angle on the ceiling. A hand-held voice recorder served as an emergency backup. Bachelor was smart enough to realize the importance of recording interviews, and he made sure a glitch wouldn’t trip up an investigation.

  The sheriff took a seat.

  “I know this is the last place in the world you’d like to be right now. But in order to find whoever did this, we need to move fast. We need your help.”

  Janet straightened up in the chair. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were red and glistening.

  “Of course.”

  “Did your parents have anyone working for them, maybe yard work, odd jobs?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not that I know of. Except Morella, of course. She’s from H&H, the home health care agency. She looked after them.”