Carla was a year behind Millard at Sturn County High. The slender brunette may have been one of the few people to ever truly love Cash Raskin. In their high school days, he was more bluster than anything else, something Carla understood. She not only loved him, she felt a little sorry for him and his terrible home life. Even in her late teens, Carla was insightful enough to know there was a connection between his tortuous family situation and Millard’s social turmoil. However, all her sincere feelings and gentle, understanding ways had never been enough to fully sway Cash Raskin her way.
Carla was married during the first three years of their relationship after high school. At the time of Raskin’s escape, she had been divorced for six years. After all that time, she was still willing to take Millard Raskin any way she could get him.
Considering what he faced in his current circumstance, the relationship with Carla could not be more perfect. The stolen pickup would be left somewhere off Perkins Road in Butler County, the opposite direction from where he and Carla would ultimately be heading. She could provide him a car, food and her bed. Absolutely no one knew about their relationship – no one!
On that first Tuesday evening following Raskin’s escape, Carla went to the grocery store for one-inch thick ribeyes, two large baking potatoes, Blue Lake green beans and twenty-four long-neck bottles of cold beer. When she returned, his steak was prepared medium rare; the potatoes were left slightly firm with real butter and fresh sour cream; the green beans were seasoned with medium amounts of salt and pepper and smoked bacon. All were done per Millard Raskin’s direction. He’d take his desert later that night.
Perhaps nowhere was Cash Raskin more of a degenerate, than in the belittling way he misused Carla Bayliss’ love and devotion.
14 Special Delivery
Monday, March 1, 2010 10:15 AM
Sparky Mills Taxidermy could do it all; large or small, partial or full, fur, fins or feathers, the work done by Sparky, Bobby Deason and Piper Houser was second to none.
Customers would tell you the assortment of trophies wasn’t the only thing interesting around the studio. The Mills team itself was a colorful and intriguing crew.
Piper Houser and Seth Acree had three children but never bothered with a marriage ceremony. When not roofing houses, especially during busy times at the studio, Seth worked with Sparky and the team. Piper needed only four more courses to earn her degree in art. Her creative eye often was very helpful in defining the most intriguing pose for the subject and making slight adjustments, which more often than not helped insure success.
In addition to hunting and taxidermy, Bobby Deason enjoyed racing in the Sportsman Division at Sturnburg Raceway. The three-time champion had two sponsors – Brantley Hunting Lodge and Sparky Mills Taxidermy.
Before the sponsorship got underway, Scott asked Stephanie Powell to help Bobby with company graphics on the car and hauler. She was able to incorporate renderings of the Lodge, a handsome buck, two hogs, a great tom turkey and several waterfowl – no easy task without things looking too cluttered. The scheme was a top head-turner at the track and appeared in several trade publications.
After seeing what she’d done on Butch and Scott’s layout, Sparky asked Stephanie to help him with a design for the studio – a development which brought a sigh of relief from Bobby Deason. The graphic arts student was able to hold the pictures of mounted heads provided by Sparky to a minimum, but was not as successful downsizing Sparky’s favorite new slogan – “You Snuff ‘em, We Stuff ‘em”.
It was something to see, when Sparky’s fire-engine red Ford F 350 crew cab with the snuff ‘em-stuff ‘em lettering down both sides was parked out front alongside the rig driven by Carroll Swicegood. Carroll drove a canary-yellow ’93 Dodge crew-cab, with a chicken sporting a big toothy beak. “Swice-GOOD-Chicken” vinyl lettering appeared in several places on the Dodge.
When it came to the studio’s namesake, there was no bigger character in all of Franklin County than Freeman “Sparky” Mills. He earned his nickname in high school, working with his dad’s electric company. One afternoon he connected an “a” wire to a “b” terminal and the nickname was born.
Sparky stood just an inch or two over five feet tall. He was born with his left leg one and a half inches shorter than his right. His folks never could get him to wear his platform shoe on a regular basis. He would always say, “I like growing almost two inches with every step I take”.
When Sparky walked, the sway in his head and shoulders seemed exaggerated sitting atop his small frame. What was most noticeable though was the chrome, long-nose .38 he wore on his right hip. Every time he led with his left foot the revolver’s pearl handle was hiked into the air. It was hard not to do a double-take, when this half-sized guy sea sawed by with a full-sized pistol.
“Knock knock,” said Bobby Deason as he eased open and leaned in the front door at the Lodge. “Is anybody home?”
Sara Mae Mooney stepped into the living room from the kitchen about the same time Preston Knowles came up the hall from the bedroom and bath area.
“Oh, Mr. Deason, how are you?” asked Sara Mae.
“I’m doin’ good there Ms. Mooney, doin’ really good. Is Butch or Scott around?” asked the Saturday night racer, glancing at the unfamiliar man standing in the hall entrance.
“No sir, I believe Mr. Butch has gone to Sturnburg and won’t be back until after lunch, and Scott is in the Hummer out somewhere on the property.
“Okay. Sparky and I got those two hog mounts out in the truck for the man in Savannah. Any idea where they might want us to put them?”
“If ya don’t mind, why don’t ya just bring ‘em in here? I’ll be sure to tell Scott about them when he comes back in.”
Sparky was waiting by the truck when Bobby came back out, thumbing over his shoulder in the direction of the Lodge. Both boxes were unloaded and placed on the floor by the fireplace, as Dr. Preston Knowles stepped up.
“You men mind taking one out and showing off some of your work? I’d like to see the finished product.”
Sparky nodded the go-ahead to Bobby, as he extended his hand toward Knowles.
“I’m Sparky Mills and your name is….?”
“I’m Dr. Preston Knowles.” said the long, lanky PhD, glancing down briefly at the undersized taxidermist. His gaze quickly returned to the hog's head mounted on the one-inch-thick solid oak plaque.
Sparky was still thinking about the lifeless, insincere grip of the guest researcher’s hand shake. Man that was sort of like grabbin’ hold of a dead trout.
“You said doctor….are you a medical doctor sir?”
“No, my doctorate is in a field related to Wildlife Management – helping to see to it animals like this hog have an opportunity to grow up and live a happy and healthy life. The taxidermist continued to fix his gaze on Knowles, puzzled by what sounded like an impertinent retort.
Knowles seemed fixed on the unusual tan fur, tipped with light silvery gray. The boar’s eyes looked deep set and somewhat small. That was likely due to the black coloration surrounding them. Knowles was taking in every detail as Sparky smiled widely. He always did when showing one of his company’s products.
“And let’s see, those tusks, they aren’t real are they?”
“No doctor, they’re artificial but the owner insisted. I don’t really like using those things. But done right they can make one look like a…real…bad…boy.”
“You do many hogs at your taxidermy place Mr. Mills?”
“Oh, we do quite a few. Probably more deer in a year’s time than hogs, but hogs are a growin’ part of our business.”
“I couldn’t help noticing the pistol on your side there. You ever shot something with that?”
Sparky, as well as Bobby Deason, was beginning to pick up on the snippy tone in Knowles’ questions.
“Only shot at something breathin’ one time with this piece and that was the bastard who tried to mug me in a parking lot down in Charleston.”
Spar
ky’s reply came with no trace of a smile.
“And, did you kill him?” asked Knowles with a touch of arrogance.
“No, but it sho was a while before he could sit down again.”
Scott Brantley, who was walking toward the living room, passed Knowles who was headed out the back door. Scott spoke and the lanky researcher responded with only a nod of his head.
“Sparky Mills and Bobby Deason,” said Scott walking toward the fireplace. “You guys been here long?”
“No just got here a little while ago. How you doin’ Scott?”
“Just fine Bobby. How’d we do Saturday night up at Sturnburg?”
“Now, we don’t start racin’ for another few weeks,” replied Bobby, sounding a bit irritated at having to tell Scott for the third time. “Hope you can get up there a few times this year.”
“You can count on it. Anxious to see you win another Championship, while you’re flying those Brantley colors.”
“Sparky, you’re being quiet standing there. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothin’ much Scotty, just hopin’ you guys gonna like these two shoulder mounts we did for your customer in Savannah.”
“That’s one of ‘em I suppose,” said Scott, nodding toward the mount on the table.
“It is,” replied Deason, as he stepped aside so Scott could get a closer look. The attention to detail and resulting authenticity was there – a sure indication of a Mills Taxidermy job.
After a short visit, Bobby placed the head back into its box and pushed both boxes over against the wall. He then followed Scott and Sparky out on the porch.
“Here Bobby, take these keys and get us cranked up over there.” Deason took the key ring from his boss’ hand and headed down the two porch steps toward the truck.
“Scotty, who’s that Knowles fella?”
“He’s a guy working with us on some new game management things. Seems like a smart guy – little aloof, but smart.”
“I don’t know. He just seems peculiar to me.”
“Aw, don’t worry about him man. His head’s always in some research paper. He’s no problem.”
When Dr. Knowles left the Lodge, he headed for his RV in the camper parking area.
“Hey Doctor Knowles,” shouted Eddie Fulford, who was standing at the corner of the processing building. “Come over and take a look at the new equipment.”
“Appreciate it Eddie, but I’ve got to get back to my trailer right now.” Preston Knowles never looked around, while maintaining his brisk pace.
Eddie rubbed his chin…Don’t think that guy’s ever been in this building. Guess he ain’t got no interest in how we get meat ready for the supper table.
15 Somebody’s Snoopin’
Thursday, March 4, 2010 5:45 PM
Following the Raskin episode in court, just about everyone on staff at Solicitor Marshall Hazelhurst’s office visited with Ken Stepp. They knew the Stepp household was very much on edge. There had been no sign of Millard Raskin and Stepp’s visitors were promoting the idea that he was likely well down the road by this time.
Marsha Dinardo had been particularly thoughtful, taking Ken to lunch twice in the past several weeks. Her extra effort was understandable since she was the only person in the office to hear and “feel” Raskin’s unnerving vows in the courtroom that day.
The uneasiness was heightened by the fact that neither he nor Judge Bodner were sure just how long the County would continue providing twenty-four-hour-a-day protection. After all, there had been no sign of Cash Raskin in going on two months. Stepp and the Judge knew the ill-at-ease meter would go up when the officer assignments stopped – particularly with their wives.
Ken and Melinda Stepp lived in the Twisted Oak Subdivision west of Sturnburg. The lots were large and the homes well above average. There was a Neighborhood Watch Program and many of Ken’s neighbors, fully aware of the situation, were keeping a sharp eye. Residents were more vigilant than usual, especially those living closest to the two-story tutor on the corner.
Jack Triplet was in his garage when he saw Ken’s black Chrysler stop at the mailbox across the street. Melinda had been gone all day and Ken wanted to get the day’s mail.
“Kenneth!” shouted Triplet as he started trotting across the street.
“Hey Jack, how you doin’?”
“I’m just fine neighbor.” replied Triplet.
“Kenny, I don’t know if this means anything at all, but I wanted to say something to you about it.”
“Okay.”
“When I came home for lunch this afternoon, some guy was parked at your mailbox. He took out the mail, looked at the first couple of envelopes and put it back in the box. Then he just closed the door and drove off.”
“You get a look at this man’s face Jack?”
“No, no he was not even there that long and of course he was looking in the opposite direction. I don’t mean to alarm you and Melinda, just thought you oughta know.”
The Assistant Solicitor paused a moment gathering his thoughts.
“Jack, I appreciate you keeping an eye on the place for me.”
Shaking Stepp’s hand and holding on to his forearm with the other, Triplet quipped, “No problem Ken. When you’ve got four daughters like we do, you gotta be on the lookout for anything.”
Stepp went into the house and sat down in a kitchen chair. Suddenly, he was missing Melinda. He felt unusually alone. A quick walk into the living room and a pull on the sheers revealed a Sheriff’s car at the curb and a quick wave from the deputy. As usual, within minutes of his arrival a County patrol car was in the drive.
Stepp loosened his tie and flopped down on the end of the sofa.
My address….the son-of-a-bitch was confirming my address and exact house!
A few minutes later Ken put the semi-automatic pistol back in his briefcase – the same gun he’d taken out only a week before.
16 Killing Time at a Rest Stop
Tuesday, March 9, 2010 11:15 AM
Melinda Stepp’s husband was conflicted as to whether or not he should tell his wife about the car at the mailbox. On the one hand, he knew how upset she would be and on the other he questioned whether it was wise not to let her know of a new development on the Raskin front, especially one this close to home?
After a good deal of consideration, he decided she should know. Following his account of the visit at the mailbox with Jack Triplet he moved on to the second part of the discussion – insisting she go stay with her mother for a while. Ken was surprised at her overall reaction. She was no more upset by Jack Triplet’s report than she was by the idea of leaving home. Melinda wanted to stay with her husband.
Ken’s father-in-law was no longer alive. Melinda’s mom lived in a condominium development just outside Summerville, SC. It wasn’t a long ride but seemed far enough away to help Ken get out from under worries about Malinda’s safety.
“Kenny, I don’t like this. I should be with you through all this mess,” said Melinda as she watched the pasture streaming by the passenger window. They were fifteen minutes north of Summerville.
“Mel, I’m gonna be watchful every day. Deputies are with me at the office and at the house. And don’t forget honey, I keep this with me all the time,” said Ken, patting the holster and pistol lying between them on the seat.
“God, seven weeks since that bastard broke out of jail and we’re living in different places, losing sleep every night, peeking out our windows at all hours of the day and night and carrying loaded guns. When’s it gonna end Kenneth?”
Her husband couldn’t answer that question, at least with any certainty. That’s what made things so difficult. There was nothing shaking loose in the search for Millard Raskin. There were no tips, no leads and no new ideas about which way to go. Nothing had turned up to ignite some light at the end of the tunnel.
Melinda’s mother, Mrs. Dana Kennedy, knew nothing of the threats and concerns in her daughter’s life. Even when Melinda called and asked about the visi
t, her mom was given only a summary update. Greater detail would come when they reached the condo.
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry you and Ken have to go through this,” whispered Mrs. Kennedy as she opened the door and hugged her only daughter.
“And Kenneth….,” said his mother-in-law stepping toward Ken to hug him. Dana Kennedy was just about as good an in-law as a fella could have. Her tears testified to her genuine concerned about the two people she loved the most.
The three moved into the kitchen and sat down around the table. “How long can this go on Ken?”
“Dana, I don’t really know. There’s a small army looking for him and you gotta believe they’ll get something to go on just any day. Hell, I think the bum just might be several states away by now. Believe I would be, if that many people were looking to throw me back in jail.”
It was almost an hour before Ken was headed back to Sturnburg. His intent was to get back in time to spend a couple of hours at his desk. A current prosecution was evolving into a much more complicated, time-consuming challenge than he’d expected.
A few miles up the road, he called in to check for messages. As always, receptionist Libby Carter answered the phone.
“Hey Lib, this is Ken.”
“Hello Mr. Stepp. How are you sir?”
“Doin’ just fine and hope all’s going well there at your desk.”
“It is. Everything’s going smooth so far.”
“Lib, would you put me through to my in-box? I’m on my cell drivin’ up the road on this end.”
“I’ll be happy to Mr. Stepp.”
“Thanks a bunch,” replied Ken.
There was only one message and it was brief.
“Today’s the day….Kenneth….Stepp!” According to the time-received announcement, it had been recorded only a few minutes before.
For the third time in the past two months his heart seemed to stop at the thought of Millard Raskin. A soft beep in his right ear signaled the end of the recording. The thirty-three-year-old attorney didn’t even turn off the cell; he dropped it in his lap, before looking in the rear view mirror and trying to resist an impulse to swing his head and shoulders in all directions.
Elvin Bodner's Stand Page 5
