Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  “He doesn’t. He’s just pulling your chain. But, guessing a trucker was on speed and alcohol would be a fairly safe bet.”

  Sam knew uppers were a staple in the diet of many long haul drivers. “Probably.” She pushed a vagrant strand of hair behind her ear and released a long sigh. “I think I’ll go clean some of the mess off my desk.”

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Charlie peeked into Sam’s office. She sat with her back to him, one foot propped on the corner of her desk, gazing out the window. She looked so young and innocent. Of course, he always pictured her that way. When he looked at her, he didn’t see the beautiful young woman she had become, but rather the strawberry blonde eight year old that seemed to run everywhere she went, her mother struggling to keep up.

  He had always considered her his surrogate daughter. Probably because he and Martha never had a girl. After the birth of their second son, they resolved to keep trying until a daughter came. But, Martha’s third pregnancy and delivery, also a son, had been difficult, almost taking her from him. They decided to stop and be grateful for the three healthy children God had given them.

  As a child, when Sam had tired of her mother’s shopping and visiting with friends, she would come by and visit with him and Thelma. She loved it when Charlie locked her in jail or when he let her wear his hat, which balanced on the crown of her head and covered half her face. She would giggle with delight whenever he gave the hat a spin, sending it gyrating around her head.

  “Sam,” he said.

  She turned toward him, eyes red, glistening with tears. “Yeah.”

  “You OK?”

  “I still can’t believe Connie’s gone.” Her eyes melted into two blue watery pools. “And now...Juan and Carlos. I grew up with them. Went to school with them.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

  “You want to go home for a while?”

  “That’ll only make it worse.” She laughed, sniffed. “I’ll quit being such a ninny and tackle this junk.” She waved her hand across her desk, which held a two-foot high stack of reports.

  They both looked up as Lanny Mills stepped through the door. “Morning,” he said.

  “Lanny,” Charlie said with a nod.

  Lanny sucked his teeth. “Anything new on John and Connie’s accident? I hear the trucker might have been drunk.”

  “Probably. Won’t know until Ralph finishes the autopsy.”

  “Well, let me know.” He turned to leave and ran into Vince Gorman. “Excuse me, Vince.” He nodded to Vince, Junior, who stood behind his father. “What brings you guys here?”

  “Couple of bodies to transport.”

  “Bodies?” Lanny turned to Charlie.

  “The Rodriguez brothers,” Charlie said.

  “Here? In jail?” Lanny asked.

  Charlie could almost see the wheels turning inside Lanny’s head. How could he make political hay out of this? Lanny might be short on charm, but he was long on schemes. His talents lay in his ability to lie with a straight face and to shake your hand and smile while lifting your wallet. As Mercer’s Corner largest landowner, mostly inherited from his father who was a mover and shaker back when the town moved and shook, he was rich and powerful. Even though I-40, which moved travelers past the town faster than they could blink, had plummeted the value of his land, it hadn’t deflated his pompous self-importance an ounce.

  Charlie ignored Lanny and looked at Vince. “Go ahead. Ralph’s expecting them over at the hospital.”

  Vince and his son headed toward the jail area.

  “What happened?” Lanny asked.

  “Looks like a murder-suicide,” Charlie said.

  “Wasn’t anybody here last night? Guarding them?”

  “You know we haven’t had anybody here in months,” Charlie said. “We don’t have the manpower.”

  “And if the family sues the city?”

  “They won’t. They’re good people. They’d sue the county anyway.”

  “Even though this building’s leased to the county, it’s on city property,” Lanny said, his brow furrowed with his usual false concern. “I’d better let the council know.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Charlie said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’re conscientious about your job and of course you must inform the other council members about your concerns.”

  Lanny glared at him. “We need to devise a plan so this won’t happen again. We’ll get back to you with our recommendations. ”

  “I look forward to your help, Lanny.”

  Lanny turned and stormed out of the office.

  “Great,” Sam said. “That’s all we need.”

  “He’ll huff and puff, but there ain’t much he can do,” Charlie said.

  “Have you talked with the Rodriguez family yet?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I called, but Lupe had gone to take the grand kids to school.”

  “Why don’t I drop by and see her. I know her pretty well.”

  “Sure," Charlie said. "Then, I’ll buy breakfast.”

  “I had something at home, but I’ll meet you at Millie’s for some coffee.”

  *

  After Charlie left, Sam walked to the back door and watched as Vince Gorman and his son loaded Carlos Rodriguez’ sheet-covered body into the back of the black hearse where Juan’s body already lay. The lump in her chest expanded, causing her to swallow several times. She sensed moisture welling in her eyes again. The hearse pulled away, leaving a healthy trail of blue smoke in its wake. She sniffed back tears and closed the door.

  Returning to her desk, she called the Rodriguez’ house to see if Lupe had returned. She spoke with Maria, her youngest daughter, Juan and Carlos’ baby sister.

  “Mom took the kids to school,” Maria said. “Except for Little Carlos. He has a cold.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “She had a few errands to run so I’m not sure.”

  “I see.”

  “Sheriff Walker called earlier. Is something wrong? Does this have anything to do with my brothers fighting last night?”

  Sam debated whether to tell Maria about Juan and Carlos, but decided this news must be delivered in person. “Why don’t I come by and we can talk about it then?”

  “There is something wrong, isn’t there? Judge Westbrooke is going to lock them up like he said, isn’t he?”

  “No, he’s not. Look, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Sam hung up, grabbed her jacket, and started out her office door, colliding with Thelma.

  “Oh!” Thelma wobbled and reached for the doorjamb to steady herself.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said, grabbing Thelma’s arm, stabilizing her.

  Regaining her balance, Thelma said, “I should’ve been watching where I was going.” Sam released her arm. “Lupe Rodriguez is here.”

  Sam peeled off her jacket and tossed it in the corner while Thelma escorted Lupe into the office. She was a short round woman, who possessed a perpetual and infectious smile. She wore a loose turquoise cotton dress beneath a worn dark gray sweater. An over-stuffed tan leather bag hung from her arm.

  “Sam,” Lupe began. “I’m sorry my boys acted up again. Sheriff Walker called last night when he locked them up and told me what they’d done. I guess they’ll never grow up. They’re too big to whip. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them.”

  “Please,” Sam said. “Sit here.” She motioned to the chair facing her desk. Lupe plopped down in it with a sigh, obviously pleased to take the weight of her body off her feet. Sam leaned against the corner of her desk, eying the woman whose world was about to crash around her.

  Lupe leaned forward, hands on her knees, and shook her head from side to side as Sam told her what had happened. “No. No. No,” was all she could say, repeating the mantra between sobs.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sam said, tears now streaming down her face.

  “Santa Maria,” Lupe said, crossing hersel
f. “Madre del Cristo.”

  Sam knelt beside Lupe and hugged her.

  Lupe’s forehead fell against her shoulder. “They were good boys. They never really hurt nobody. Why’d this happen?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam stood, sniffing back tears.

  “Juan wouldn’t hurt Carlos. He loved him.” Lupe pulled a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her eyes. “I mean they used to fight and all, but that was a long time ago. When they were teenagers.”

  “Do you think they could have been afraid of Judge Westbrooke? What he had promised to do if they got in trouble again.”

  “No. They knew he wouldn’t do nothing.”

  Sam turned to the window and exhaled loudly, fighting back tears.

  “Can I see them?” Lupe asked.

  “Not yet. Vince Gorman took them over to the hospital. Dr. Klingler will have to do an autopsy.”

  “Is that necessary?” She sobbed into her handkerchief. “Does he have to do that?”

  Sam returned to her side and knelt once again. “I’m afraid so. They died in custody and the law requires it. I’m sorry.”

  “When can I see them?”

  “After Dr. Klingler finishes his exam, Vince will take them over to the funeral home. You can see them there.”

  Lupe stared past her, out the window. Her pain was palpable and seemed to thicken the air, making it difficult for Sam to breathe.

  Sam could only imagine what movies played in the broken woman’s mind. Remembrances of Juan and Carlos as rambunctious boys, or muscular young men. Perhaps the time they stole one of Lanny Mills’ horses and rode it through town and into the movie theater. Or perhaps the day Juan graduated from high school, the first person in the history of their family to do so. Sam remembered how handsome Juan had looked in his cap and gown and how Lupe’s face had beamed with pride.

  Her face didn’t beam now. There was no joy in her eyes or her pale, tear-streaked face.

  Sam gripped her hand. “I’ll take you home and talk to Maria.”

  “I’m OK,” Lupe said. “I’ll tell her.”

  “No. You can’t drive. I’ll take you.”

  Lupe didn’t argue.

  *

  After telling Maria what had happened, Sam left the two women with their private sorrow and drove to Millie’s. She sipped coffee while Charlie ate. He had just finished a healthy plate of bacon, eggs, and biscuits when Lisa McFarland took a seat in the booth next to Sam. Millie placed a cold Dr. Pepper and two slices of toast, dry, Lisa’s usual, in front of her.

  “What happened with the Rodriguez brothers?” Lisa nibbled the toast she had smeared with Millie’s homemade apple butter.

  “Ralph Klingler says it looks like Juan strangled Carlos’, then hung himself,” Charlie said. “He said he didn’t think Juan’s neck was broken or anything like that. Just hung there and died. No struggle, no nothing.”

  Lisa dropped her toast on the plate. “How does someone do that?”

  “Beats me,” Charlie said.

  “Did you or anyone from your office talk with Garrett yesterday or this morning?” Sam asked.

  Lisa shook her head. “Not that I know. Why?”

  “He knew details about Connie’s accident, but I don’t know how.”

  “Maybe Mark Levy told him.”

  “I called him,” Sam said. “He said no.”

  “Oooh, maybe he has supernatural powers like he says,” Lisa said, waving her hands over the table as if conducting a séance.

  “That’s probably it,” Sam laughed.

  “It’s a strange situation all around,” Charlie said. “But, not that strange.”

  “You know what bugs me?” Sam said. Charlie and Lisa looked at her. “The kids. Why’d they wander away from school and meet up with Garrett in the first place?”

  “Kids don’t make sense sometimes,” Charlie said.

  “I suppose,” Sam said. “But, everyone, their teachers, their parents, said it wasn’t like them to do that. And they didn’t leave the school grounds together. Witnesses saw each of them walking alone. Yet, they ended up on the same corner at the same time.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie nodded.

  “And they got into Garrett’s car willingly. They weren’t forced or anything like that.”

  “That’s Paul Ruiz’s story anyway. And he was the only witness,” Lisa added.

  Sam nodded. “And he was a block away. And he was drinking as usual. And he didn’t think much of it until he heard the kids were missing. But, I believe he saw what happened. Even drunk, he would be able to tell the difference between kids climbing in a car and a kidnapping.”

  “What’s your point?” Charlie asked, eying Sam over his coffee cup.

  “With all the news stories and the programs we have at school, why would they get in a stranger’s car? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Kids do it all the time,” Lisa said. “Seems like it’s on the news every night.”

  “But, not here,” Sam said.

  “But, they did,” Charlie sighed.

  “Do you think they knew Garrett?” Lisa asked.

  Sam shook her head. “We asked their parents and teachers. They all said no. That it wasn’t possible.”

  “I guess we’ll never know for sure,” Charlie said.

  Sam drained her coffee cup, then nudged Lisa. “Let me out. I’m going over to the hospital and see if Ralph Klingler has any news.”

  Lisa stood so Sam could slide out of the booth.

  “Want to go with me?” Sam asked.

  “I’d rather have a root canal than visit the morgue,” Lisa said.

  Chapter 7

  After Thelma Billups finished typing four letters and filing three dozen reports, she sat behind her desk and attempted to sort out the morning's events. Her thoughts turned to Lupe Rodriguez and Maria and Juan and Carlos. How many times had she baby-sat them during their stays in Cell #2, which she called “The Rodriguez Suite.” It seemed to her that they were permanent fixtures. Had it really been five months since the boys were last here? She had missed them. Missed refereeing their card games, missed bringing their food from Red’s, either ribs or cheeseburgers, sometimes both, and missed their constant laughter. Tears gathered in her eyes, crawled to the corner, and slid down her cheeks.

  She wiped her eyes with a tissue, then gathered the stack of letters from her “out box,” slipped a rubber band around them, and dropped them in her purse. Glancing at her watch, she decided she had just enough time to walk to the post office, mail the letters, pick up today’s mail, grab a muffin and coffee at Starbucks, and get back before Sheriff Walker returned from breakfast. She snagged her jacket from the coat rack by the door, but as she pushed open the door, a sharp pain in her left temple jolted her.

  She leaned against the doorjamb and pressed her right thumb into the web of her left hand, an acupressure trick for migraines she learned from her neurologist. The pain subsided somewhat. She returned to her desk and sat down, hoping the headache would pass. Again, she pressed her thumb into the pressure point of her hand, no effect.

  She had not suffered a migraine in at least two years. Why now? Maybe the stress of the trial, which had doubled her usually hectic work schedule, or the cold weather or the strain of preparing for Christmas. Probably Juan and Carlos’ death. Whatever the reason, she didn’t have time to deal with it right now.

  She removed a pill bottle from her purse, shook a Vicodin into her hand, and swallowed it with a sip of water from the bottle she kept on her desk. She would call the doctor later, she promised herself.

  She closed her eyes and massaged her temples.

  When she opened her eyes, a swirl of colors assaulted her. The office exploded with deep reds, brilliant yellows, and greens and oranges and blues and hues she had never seen before. Everywhere she looked were colors within colors, swirling, blending to create new tones. Streaks of crimson lightning arched across the room before entwining into a rotating ball, so brilliant it hurt her eye
s.

  Yet, she could not look away.

  At first, she sensed no fear, but rather confusion, bewilderment, even fascination. The fiery ball gyrated around the room before settling over and melting into the evidence room door. Somewhere inside, apprehension arose, telling her to back away, run out the door. But, the crimson door held her, drew her toward it.

  Using her key, she twisted open its lock and entered the windowless room. She flipped on the bare ceiling bulb and the room burst into color. Six-foot high metal shelves along the wall to her left held three rows of cardboard boxes, which now emitted more hues than the sixty-four-color Crayola box she had gotten for her tenth birthday.

  One box, which glowed a deep blood red, captured her and she seemed to float toward it. She lifted its lid, removed a sealed plastic evidence bag, and dropped it into her purse. Replacing the lid, she squared the box with its neighbors, and left the room, locking the door once again.

  She stepped outside into a world of dazzling colors and headed for the post office. People, people she knew but could not remember how she knew them or who they were, greeted her as they passed. She could only nod, unable to form a coherent response.

  When she reached the post office, now a bright canary yellow, she did not go inside, but rather skirted the building to the rear parking lot. The asphalt shimmered like a silver lake. Bolts of black and gold lightning rippled across its surface.

  Near the back door, a large cobalt blue air conditioner compressor squatted silently against the rear of the yellow building. She retrieved the plastic bag from her purse and turned it over in her hands, inspecting it, marveling at its bright crimson glow. She slid it between the compressor and the wall, making sure it was not easily visible to anyone who might walk by.

  As she returned to the front of the building, the world faded to its original colors--gray sky, black asphalt street, red brick post office. She stopped in mid-stride, looked around, up and down the street, then at the entrance to the building. How did she get here? She didn’t remember the half block walk from her office. Had she already been inside the post office? She fumbled through her purse until she found the bundle of letters.