Summer People

by Aaron Stander

  Marc retraced his steps, this time taking less care to find dry footing. He scrambled up the embankment, retrieving his bike on the way. A mile up the road he came across a Consumers Power truck; the driver was sitting on the tailgate eating his lunch. After Marc told him what he had found, the man called his dispatcher and asked that the sheriff be notified. He than drove Marc back to the scene and waited with him until the first sheriff car arrived.

  Ray arrived a few minutes later and surveyed the scene. Marc stayed above while Ray and the deputy, after pulling on rubber boots, made their way to the car.

  When Ray came back up the hill, Marc asked, “Someone in there?”

  Ray nodded, “I’m afraid so.”

  “How are you going to get the car out of there?”

  “We’ll have to get a small bulldozer with a winch. It’s going to be a while before the equipment gets here. I can have someone run you home,” Ray offered.

  “No, I am trying to work some things out—I need to do more miles.”

  Ray sensed Marc’s anxiety and gave a knowing nod. He watched as Marc started climbing the long hill, standing, leaning forward, pulling the bike from side to side with each forward thrust.

  21

  Gawkers, a dozen or so, stood on the side of the road watching the activity below. Some of them had just been passing by and had been attracted by the emergency vehicles. The remainder—people who sit at home and listen to police scanners, people who seem to be driven by a morbid interest in the misfortunes of others— rushed to the scene. Deputies kept them by the side of the road, preventing them from going down to the wreck.

  The bulldozer operator, Ronnie Toole (known locally as Little Tarzan), thirty-something, small, wiry, in jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket, no shirt, and heavy black leather boots, carefully backed his rig off the trailer. He followed an old fire lane from the highway and then picked his way through the scrub oak close to the wreck. He finally positioned the dozer on relatively firm earth, turned 180 degrees, and released the winch.

  He sloshed through the mud pulling the steel cable, put a choker—a short cable with a loop at each end—around the differential and frame of the car, and hooked the cable to the choker. After returning to his rig, he carefully removed the slack from the cable and then slowly applied power. The cable tightened; the wrecked car shuddered as it went taut, and then yielded to the power of the dozer. After winching the car close to the dozer, Ronnie moved forward onto dry ground, then slacked the cable, removed the choker, and rewound the cable on the winch. He attached the choker to the frame of the vehicle and fastened the other end to the hook at the top center of the dozer blade. He raised the blade forty-five degrees, lifting the car onto its side, then carefully reversed until the car rolled over onto its wheels.

  The windshield frame and convertible top were crushed into the cockpit. Water dripped off a lifeless hand that hung from the partially opened door. Ray pulled on the door handle, the door was jammed. He tried the passenger door, it wouldn’t open.

  Toole approached carrying a long, steel pry bar. “Let me get that open for ya, Sheriff.”

  “Go ahead, Ronnie.”

  Toole pushed the pry bar through the opening in the door, wedged it against the transmission tunnel, and threw his weight against the bar. The door gave slightly. Ray grabbed the opposite side of the bar and pulled as Ronnie pushed. With a grinding sound, the door grudgingly gave way. Ronnie extracted the bar. Ray dropped to his haunches and looked into car. He stood and said, “We’ve got to get the top off.”

  Toole pulled on the convertible top. “It’s all busted, but it’s still hooked together.” He pulled a hunting knife from his belt, pointed it at the top, and looked at Ray. “Sheriff?”

  “Go ahead,” Ray responded.

  Toole pushed the knife through the canvas near the front, half way across the top, and pulled the blade toward him. He made a small slash at right angles to the first, grabbed the flap of rotting canvas, and tore most of the convertible top from its crushed frame.

  The body, soggy and mud covered, was pushed down and forward toward the firewall. Broken pieces of the steering wheel penetrated the chest, and the head hung loosely to the side, like a broken doll.

  “Poor bastard didn’t feel nutten. Probably dead as hell soon as he run off the road. Least he ain’t rotten. I hate that stink.” Toole lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, and exhaling through his nose and mouth. He asked, “Ya want me to pull it up to the road after they get the body.”

  “After a bit, we’ll need some time to complete our investigation.”

  The EMTs had the body zipped in a bag and strapped in a wire basket when Deputy Sue Lawrence started down the embankment, camera in hand. Ray had watched her work her way down the hill, occasionally sliding on the wet grass and loose gravel.

  “What kind of car is this?” she asked when she finally stood at his side.

  “It’s a Triumph, early 60s.”

  “And only one occupant?”

  “Looks that way.” He handed her a driver’s license

  “Roger Grimstock, Grand Rapids,” Sue said looking at the license.

  “He’s a summer resident. He kept this car up here. I want photos of the car from all sides and from where it left the road to where it ended up over there.” He pointed. “Let’s see if we can reconstruct what happened.”

  As Sue photographed the wrecked car, the body was carried up the hill and loaded into an ambulance. She waded out into the marsh and positioned herself so she could capture the path made by the car on its way in. They climbed back up to the highway. “This is where the car left the road,” said Ray, pointing to ruts obliquely cutting across the soft shoulder. They followed the trail the car made through the brush and tall grass, noting where it had collided with trees as it careened and rolled down the steep embankment. Sue carefully photographed the path the car had taken on its deadly roll. Then they climbed back up the hill and walked along the road carefully inspecting the pavement and the shoulder. About fifty yards below where the car left the road Sue said, “There’s a lot of oil here.”

  Ray knelt down and looked at the surface of the road. He pulled two fingers across the blacktop. He turned his hand over and smelled the grime on his fingertips. “Dirty engine oil.” He walked to the edge of the road. “You can see where it ran on to the side here. See where it has soaked into the sand?”

  “Does that mean something?” asked Sue.

  “If it came from that car, maybe it threw a rod. If the engine seized, the rear wheels could have locked up.”

  “And?” said Sue with a questioning tone to her voice.

  “And it might have caused the driver to lose control. One possibility. But then a variety of things might have happened. I just want to make sure there isn’t anything to suggest that another car was involved. When we get the results of the post, we’ll have another piece of the puzzle. Victim might have been drunk, or had a heart attack. We better see if we can find Grimstock’s next of kin; the media will be hounding us for his name.”

  22

  Ray found Marc sitting on the front deck, leaning back, his feet on the rail, sipping a beer. Grendel was sleeping on the deck at his side. The dog stood and barked at Ray’s approach, but sprawled out again as soon as he recognized Ray.

  “Want a beer?” Marc asked.

  “Can’t, I’m working. Just stopped by for a while. You looked like hell when you left the accident scene. I thought maybe it would help if I came by and talked with you about it.”

  “I guess it would help to talk. I don’t know if I have worked it through enough to talk about it yet. What about the car? I couldn’t stay; I had seen too much.”

  “Well, it looks like the victim was dead soon after the car left the road. Probably broke his neck when the car went over. But it was good that you spotted the wreck.”

  “Who was it good for? Wasn’t good for me; didn’t matter to him.”

  “True, but the car could have staye
d down there a long time without anyone ever seeing it. I don’t think it would have ever been noticed by someone passing in a car or truck.”

  “And the victim?”

  “Fellow by the name of Roger Grimstock. I knew the car as soon as I saw it. Summer resident. From Grand Rapids. Spent most of his time at the Last Chance. We occasionally would pick him up after closing when he couldn’t keep his car on the road. I once found him drunk and asleep at the stop sign in Glen Arbor, motor running, lights on, radio blaring, car sitting there idling away in neutral. Don’t know what he was doing way over on Ely last night. I’m sorry you had to stumble onto the wreck.”

  “I didn’t need to find the car, but that doesn’t have much to do with it. I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I was in an absolute panic; I couldn’t figure out what was causing it. Then it hit me that I may have made a big mistake.”

  “What kind of mistake? What are you talking about?” asked Ray.

  “Moving here. It suddenly occurred to me that this had always been a place I stopped off at—a kind of never-never land that I visited briefly when I was a kid, or going to prep school, or college, or working. It was never a real place. My identity was always somewhere else. I also thought about the fact that I walked away from a career that took years to build, more than a career, an identity. I woke up wondering who I was now. Had I been too precipitous in making my decision?”

  “Well,” asked Ray, “is there any reason why you can’t go back?”

  “Well, no, but it would be embarrassing. I have always thought of myself as prudent and thoughtful in making big decisions. How would it look….”

  “Relax. It’s no big thing; people change their minds. Marc, your problem is you never allowed yourself to make a mistake. And if you made a mistake, you would live with it rather than admitting it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Marc.

  “How about Elaine?” said Ray showing some anger. “How many years did I have to come by and visit you with that cold bitch? I knew she didn’t like me; but she didn’t seem to like you very much either. But I could tell this was a contract you had entered into, and you were bound and determined to make it work. You were always so fucking high minded.”

  Marc let the comments about Elaine pass. He didn’t want to talk about her. “You don’t seem to understand. You don’t hear what I’m saying. I have always defined myself with my work. My work has been central to my whole life. What would you be if you suddenly weren’t the sheriff?”

  “That’s a real question, one I’ve thought about. It could happen. I like this work. It’s interesting, and I have been involved in it a long time. But if it all stopped tomorrow I would be able to make the adjustment. I’m not saying I wouldn’t miss being sheriff, but I could fill my time with other things that are worth doing. I could go back to college teaching; I could find work in industry. The thing that I would dislike most would be to have to move back to some urban area.

  “Marc, I hate to give advice, but you’re going to have to find some other things to do. You can only ride your bike and sail so many days. You’re too ‘type A’ to be on a permanent vacation. I thought you might be having some romantic problems that I could help you with.” Ray was giving Marc an ironic smile.

  Marc didn’t pick up on the humor. “Well, I’m worried about that too.”

  “What’s wrong? She looks happy as hell. You must be doing all the right things,” he said with a hint of lechery in his voice.

  “Goddamn it, Ray, this is serious stuff. It is going well. That’s what scares the hell out of me. It’s going too well. I can’t imagine that it will last.”

  “How long have you known her mother? Lisa’s just a chip off the old block. You know what a good person Pat is, and she has never changed. Lisa has those same qualities. Your problem is you never had anyone be really good to you. I know your grandparents did all the right things for you—but they were a somber pair—so stiff and correct—there was never much joy around here. Pat was the first good thing that ever happened in your life. Her daughter is the second. Stop feeling guilty, her mother is delighted as hell knowing you and her sweet daughter are having a wonderful time together—new love is terrific. It’s okay to stop and roll in the daisies. Enjoy this lovely woman, enjoy living without analyzing everything, your brain won’t rot.” Ray’s voice turned serious, “You’ve always been just too damn rational. There are a hell of a lot of things in life that can’t be figured out logically. You need to take some time to understand the feeling side of life. Just go with the feelings for a while. You can figure it all out later. You’re a hell of a good person, always have been. I’ve been lucky to have you as a friend all these years.”

  “That was a hell of a sermon.”

  “Well, you needed a kick in the ass. What are friends for, anyway? I’ve got to get back to work so you city folk don’t continue to kill yourselves off. I’ll take a rain check on that beer. Maybe I can stop back later tonight if things quiet down. I’ll call you.”

  23

  The driver killed the lights and turned off the pavement onto the small sand trail, two ruts, grass and thistles growing up between. The rusting Pontiac was pulled into the woods far enough so it could not be seen from the road. The driver, and only occupant, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, opened the trunk and unwrapped the AK-47 from an old cotton blanket. He walked through the woods to the west, his progress slowed by the heavy underbrush and the rapidly fading light. He found the sand road first and then moved along it until he could see the lights from the house. He stopped and slid a clip into the rifle.

  When he got close enough, he could see there was only one car, a light-blue Mercury, parked at the side of the house. Then he saw headlights coming down the long sand road. He moved to the side of the road and lay on his stomach in the thick underbrush. He heard the car stop, saw the lights go off. He crouched in his hiding place and waited. The car door opened, then closed. The driver, a tall male, was perfectly silhouetted against a large picture window as he walked toward the house.

  Initially, he fired two bursts, separated by a second or two. Most of the bullets from the first burst hit the man, jolting him, tearing gaping holes as they exited. The second burst was high, exploded through the window and ripped through the plaster of the wall opposite the window.

  The shooter liked the feeling the gun gave him. He liked the smell of the spent powder. He fired one more burst, blowing out the windows of the cars.

  24

  It had been a late night for Ray. He and Sue had been at the scene of the shooting until well after 2:00 a.m. They had collected dozens of shell casings and found several clear prints left by the shooter’s shoes. They made castings of the prints.

  They had tried to question the victim’s wife, but she was too hysterical. Ray thought her hysteria was a bit overdone, but decided not to pursue the questioning. He could accomplish more by waiting until morning.

  The call from Reverend Tim came in just after Ray got to the office the next morning. The call had first been directed to Sue. She put the caller on hold and walked the few yards to Ray’s open office door.

  “Are you in and taking calls?” she asked.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “It’s a Reverend Tim; he doesn’t seem to have a last name. He insists on talking to you. Do you want me to put him off?”

  “I’ll talk to him; might as well start the day with the bizarre.”

  “He’s on three,” said Sue.

  Ray lifted the receiver and hit the blinking button. “Good morning, Reverend Tim.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff. Sheriff, you’ve got to come out and talk to me.”

  “I’d be happy to do that Reverend Tim, but I’m real busy with a murder investigation right now. Could I have one of the….”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, the Hammer murder. I know who done it. Can you come out here at once so I can tell you about it?”

  “I’ll c
ome and see you, but can you give me some information on the phone?”

  “Sheriff, the devil has got this phone tapped, and he’s telling the murderer everything. Please come and see me. I’ve got to unburden my heart of this.”

  “Reverend Tim, you can’t come to the office, can you?”

  “My truck ain’t running. Will you come over?”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes to a half an hour. How does that sound?

  “I’ll be waiting, Sheriff.”

  Ray hung up the phone. He walked to Sue’s desk.

  “I’d like you to go with me on this one; bring a recorder and your laptop.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to take a statement from Reverend Tim. You’ve never met him?”

  “No, I’ve just heard stories.”

  Ray smiled. “This will be an interesting chapter in your education.”

  Ray drove out of the village, turned on Indian Hill Road and headed north. After several miles he pulled onto Deadstream, a sand and gravel road that wound into a low, heavily wooded area. After a few miles Ray pointed out the sign—crudely hand lettered, white paint on a weathered board nailed to a tree—Freewill Bible Synod of God: the Only True Followers of Jesus. Below it was another sign. Its message, sprayed in phosphorescent orange, read, Jesus Loves Bikers.