by Ralph Dennis
A wide streak of light curled around the side of the barn and then stopped. The light hesitated and went out. A car door slammed in the distance.
“That’ll be Doc,” Wilt said.
Joe pushed away from the tree trunk. “I’ll lead him down.”
Wilt rubbed his back against the tree trunk. Now he not only wanted a drink, he needed one. He closed his eyes. The drink wasn’t possible yet. That was an hour or two hours away. He’d have to stay around while Doc completed his field examination. He’d have to mark the crime scene and, to be on the safe side, he’d have to arrange for one of his men from the off-duty roster to patrol the area so the curious and the downright ghoulish didn’t tramp all over it. Tomorrow, at first light, he and Joe would comb the ground of the crime scene inch-by-inch.
So he needed a man to sit in the cruiser all night. No, on second thought he needed two men to split the shift. Sunrise was a few minutes before seven. Seven a.m. and counting back. It was going to be a short night.
Wilt opened his eyes when he heard Doc Simpson’s voice. Doc was the last of the old breed. A family doctor who made house calls. That was during his office hours. At other times he was the county medical examiner. A good man delivering a baby at a farm or in the cutting room at the hospital morgue.
He was pudgy and he carried a potbelly with a certain odd grace. His suits were expensive but there was always a new burn hole in the sleeve or on the trousers.
He stopped at the edge of the tarp and spoke around the cigar stub that was always in his mouth. “You here, Wilt?”
“Who else is dumb enough to be here?”
“The ambulance is right behind me. It ought to be here in five minutes, unless the driver gets lost.”
“The sooner the better,” Wilt said. He pushed away from the tree trunk and almost stumbled. The hip felt tight, encased in cement.
Joe stepped around Doc. He kicked a couple of stones from the edge of the tarp and reached down and gripped it. “No need for you to stay around, Wilt. Why don’t you wait in the cruiser?”
“There’s a thermos in my car,” Doc said. “Red hot coffee.”
“It ain’t coffee I need, Doc.”
“It ain’t all coffee,” Doc said. “It’s got a touch of bourbon extract added for flavoring.”
Wilt huddled in Doc’s car. The rain on the roof and the condensation isolated him. He sipped the coffee and bourbon mixture from the thermos top-cup. His guess was that the drink was half-and-half instant coffee and rotgut bourbon. It was warming, numbing and he clutched the cup in both hands and closed his eyes. He took a series of deep, shuddering breaths. The tensions, the long day slid away from him in warm waves.
The ambulance from Topper County Hospital arrived while Wilt was on his second cup. Floyd slogged through the mud and met the ambulance and came over to Doc’s car. Wilt rolled down the window. Wilt told him to lead the crew down to the pecan orchard. “I’ll watch for the tourists.”
The gurney the ambulance men took behind the barn and down the path returned ten minutes later. The gurney was in the open, between the barn and the ambulance when the television van from one of the Raleigh station roared down the road and parked behind Joe’s cruiser, officially known as Car #2. Wilt slugged down the coffee and bourbon that remained in the cup and mumbled, “What the hell?” and stepped outside, into a slashing cold rain.
Doc Simpson followed the gurney like a mourner. The girl’s small form almost seemed lost under the black rubber covering. Doc stopped and turned to face him. “Now who the hell called them?”
Wilt shook his head. “You think Amos …?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
The technician leaped from the back of the van as soon as it stopped. He had a minicam on one shoulder and held a mike in his hand. The on-camera reporter, one Wilt didn’t know, got down from the front seat and adjusted his rain hat and looped the belt to the trenchcoat in the European way. “We ready?” the reporter asked the technician.
The technician tossed him the mike. “We are now.”
There was a flare from lights mounted on the top of the van. The whole area was lit. The glare blinded Wilt. Doc stepped close to him, “It’s as bad as any I’ve seen,” Doc said.
“Autopsy?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Call me,” Wilt said. “I’ll want anything you have.”
The voice of the on-camera reporter, doing his standard opening, rasped at Wilt. He felt the anger building in him. The reporter faced the van. That meant everything else, the barn, the cars and the ambulance were being used as a background by the reporter.
“Doc, the panties …”
Doc touched his arm and stopped him. Wilt heard the crunch of rock and twigs underfoot. Wilt turned slowly, favoring the left hip and saw the reporter approaching him. The lights and the man with the minicam were right behind him. The reporter shoved the mike toward Wilt.
“Sheriff Drake …”
“Not now,” Wilt said. “I’ve got an investigation to conduct.”
“Sheriff Drake …”
“I’ll talk to you in the morning when I know more. Now, if you’ll cut off those lights and get in the van and …”
“The people have a right to know what happened here tonight.”
“They will know when the time is right,” Wilt said.
“The little girl … was she assaulted?”
“The people have a right to know that?” Wilt glared at him. “Before the medical examiner knows? Before her parents have been informed?” Wilt saw the impact, the way the reporter backed away a couple of steps. Wilt used that moment of uncertainty and grabbed the mike and tossed it to the camera operator. “You,” he hissed at the reporter, “you get the fuck out of here before I break your head.”
Doc pulled his slicker sleeve and dragged him away. “Easy, now you be easy.”
He escorted Wilt to the medical examiner’s car and pushed him into the passenger seat. He closed the door on Wilt and walked to the rear of the ambulance. Wilt rolled down the window and watched Doc as he oversaw the loading of the body into the ambulance. Near the television van, Joe was doing the interview the reporter wanted, filling in.
Doc trotted back to his car and got behind the wheel. He shivered and poured half a cup and slugged it down. Then he passed the thermos and the cup to Wilt.
The interview continued near the Van. Doc looked through the back window. “That bother you?”
“What?”
“The flair Joe has for courting the media.”
“Should it bother me?” Wilt sipped the coffee mixture.
“It doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me.” But Doc gave Wilt an odd stare. “You leave me any?”
“Maybe a swallow.” Wilt passed the cup.
Doc poured. “Nasty business down there. It was almost more than I could take and I thought I’d seen everything.”
“Raped?”
Doc nodded slowly. “Vagina and rectum.”
“Cause of death?”
“Strangulation or a blow or blows to the head.”
Wilt took the thermos and shook it near his ear. It was almost empty. He drank from the mouth of the thermos. “The panties … where are they now?”
“In an evidence bag with the body.” Doc drank the last drop. With a mock sad look on his face he capped the thermos. “Odd thing. I asked Joe if he’d gathered all the child’s clothing. He said he had but he didn’t find her underpants.”
“A trade?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll find those underpants when you do your search in the morning.”
Seven in the morning. That didn’t seem far away, not with all he had to do and some sleep to fit in if he could find a time for it.
The lights went off at the television van. It was loaded and back on the road about as fast as he had arrived. Wilt looked over his shoulder and watched the dark shape of Joe Croft heading toward Wilt’s cruiser. “You talk to Amos tonigh
t?”
“I had about as close to a conversation as a man can have with a dumbass.” He rolled down the window on his side of the car and tossed the soggy cigar stub away. “One favor Amos did you. He told me he’d send the Dobbs’ preacher over to tell them about the death of their child.”
“I knew Amos wouldn’t do it himself.”
“But he’s all heart.”
“One hundred percent.” Wilt put his hand on the door handle. Now that he was warm he didn’t want to leave the shelter of the car and step into the cold rain again. “I’ve got to confer with Amos. I guess tonight is as good a time as any.”
“Don’t confer. Advise. Amos doesn’t know his armpit from a posthole about police work.”
Wilt laughed. He felt lightheaded from the rotgut bourbon. “I quote you, Doc?”
“Do what you think best. It’s no red off my candy what Amos thinks of me.”
A pull at the door handle. Wilt stepped into the rain. “Call me tomorrow.”
Doc nodded and waved.
Joe and Floyd waited for him in Wilt’s cruiser, officially known as Car # 1. Wilt tipped his cap over his eyes and headed in that direction. It was time to give Floyd the bad news. He would stay at the crime scene until midnight or one. Then he’d be relieved by someone from the off-duty roster.
He settled that in his head.
A couple of minutes later, he left Floyd in Car # 2 to begin the watch. He let Joe drive his cruiser back to town while he slouched in the passenger seat with his eyes closed.
A few miles from town, after a silence that had lasted all the way from the Henshaw place, Joe looked around at Wilt. “What did Doc say about the little girl?”
Wilt shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it.
Joe let it drop.
After another minute or so Wilt sat up and looked at the approach to Edgefield. The lights of the growing town formed an ugly rainbow across the horizon.
CHAPTER FOUR
Chief Amos Wilson sat directly under the huge picture of himself as a Carolina football player. A can of Diet Pepsi was almost completely engulfed by a puffy hand with fingers like sausages. His jowls were spreading. His eyes were pale and watery. Red drinker’s veins spotted his face and nose.
The other man in the Chief’s office when Wilt came in was the mayor of Edgefield, Ben “Red” Colson, who was seated on the right side of his desk.
The office of mayor was mostly honorary. It was an unpaid job and it was passed around from one prominent townsman to another. Colson was in his late thirties. He was tan and slim and athletic. He was a Carolina graduate too, a former fraternity man who’d never grown past the glad-handing and the back-slaps. He could small talk with anyone about anything and he was equally at home in church praying or at some men’s club telling a dirty joke.
The Colson family had been in business in Edgefield from the time real estate meant selling a downtown building or a home or a plot of farm land that would be used for farming. How well he’d done was obvious from his new offices that overlooked the town square.
Colson wore tan twill trousers and a British tweed hacking jacket with leather elbow patches. His lowcut black English boots were spotless, as if the weather outside hadn’t bothered him.
Amos motioned Wilt to the other chair. After Wilt was seated Amos took a gulp of Diet Pepsi and belched softly. “Is it as bad as they say?”
“Worse.” Wilt let it go that that.
“Doc Simpson called me. He said you might have some ideas how we could coordinate our efforts so we won’t both be doing the same thing.”
That was the Chief’s way of asking for help, as close as he could force himself to ask with Mayor Colson listening to them. Wilt wasn’t certain what Colson thought about Amos Wilson’s abilities. If Colson had doubts, he kept them to himself.
He considered letting Amos squirm. It would be a payback for several slights he’d had at the hands of Amos. But that thought passed. The killing of the little girl was too awful to play politics with. He couldn’t take the risk that, while he and Amos were having their petty war, the killer might use the time to cover his tracks.
“Like we talked about earlier …”
Amos blinked and held his breath.
“… the first step is to send a team of policemen to the West Oak and 12th area, where the school bus dropped the little girl this afternoon. We need a door-to-door interviews. Did anyone see the red and white 1980 or 1981 Thunderbird? Did they see the driver? We need descriptions of anyone on the street around the time the girl was kidnapped … anyone who might not have belonged there. Strangers. That kind of person. And it’s got to be a real door-to-door. Every house, every apartment checked. If there’s no one at home, the address has to be noted and there’ll be a callback later. We’ve got to touch all the bases this early in the investigation.”
Amos nodded. “I’ll have a team there in twenty minutes.”
“And there was that other idea you had, Amos. I think I’ll go along with you. You handle the in-town part of it and I’ll put two cruisers to work on the county part of the job.” Wilt couldn’t resist letting Amos sweat for a few seconds.
“What idea was that?” Amos fumbled. “We talked about so many.”
“Gas stations,” Wilt said. “If the man driving the Thunderbird lives in the town or the county, he’s got to buy gas now and then.”
“Oh yeah, that idea.” Amos grinned.
“That’s the one. Your men check every gas station within the city limits. Those outside fall to me. And again, no skips, no misses. Return trips when we have to. Until we’ve covered every station. One bit of luck and we get a description or we put together an identi-kit.” Wilt stood. He could taste his boozy breath and he wondered if the smell carried across the desk to Amos or to the mayor. But the alcohol was wearing off and his hip was stiff. He could feel the pain from his knee to his shoulder, all down his left side. “We stay in touch. We share what we learn.”
“That sounds good to me.” Amos was relaxed, off the hook. He hadn’t lost his credibility with Mayor Colson and he’d acquired the first two steps in the investigation. “Appreciate you stopping by, Wilt.”
Colson followed Wilt toward the office door. “I assume everything’s been taken care of at the Henshaw site.”
“I’ve got men watching the crime scene tonight and first thing in the morning we give it our best close look to see if the killer got careless.”
“I know you’re doing your best, Sheriff.” Mayor Colson extended a hand and gave Wilt his best tennis grip. “It’s too bad the incident had to take place at the Henshaw site. It could have happened a hundred other places.”
“If it had to happen at all.” Then Wilt remembered that development of the property was the work of the Colson company. Colson had his money tied up in it as well as funds from out-of-state investors. The investors wouldn’t be happy with the child molestation and killing at the still undeveloped property.
Wilt found his cap on the coat rack by the door. Water had run from it and pooled on the floor beneath it. “Six o’clock comes early. I’ve got to tie up some loose ends, get my supper and a few hours of sleep.”
Colson followed Wilt from the office. Outside, Wilt turned and saw Amos Wilson still at his desk. The meeting, he guessed, was not over yet.
Colson stepped close to Wilt, so close the cologne or aftershave gagged him. “Let’s get that cocksucker,” he said in a low voice. “For the good of the town.”
And to wipe the stain off the Henshaw property.
“I’ll do my best,” Wilt said.
Colson’s tanned hard hand patted his shoulder and remained there until Wilt walked away from it.
Wilt sat in his cruiser in a space outside the Police Department. He felt the weight of the day, the bitterness of the evening, and he couldn’t find the energy to move. The gut-deep well of energy that he usually had just seemed to dry up. The pump had stopped. And the rain that pounded the car’s roof remin
ded him of his childhood and rain on a tin roof and being very small and very warm, at a time when the whole world seemed stretched out before him. All he had to do was reach out …
That against the reality of now.
The restlessness was in him, the go-to-hell. But he knew he was too old, too settled for that. He didn’t have the flow, the gush, the river running in him.
One person. Diane. He wanted to see her, but he knew that an interest in her would compromise him. Between the time he revealed it, and the Biker Mafia tried to use it against him, that was only a finger-snap or the blink of an eye. Only a matter of time before they decided they could buy him by the pound, badge and balls and all.
It would be better for him to drive to Raleigh, where he wasn’t known. Better even to see Widow Thumb and her four daughters at the whorehouse there. Anything but stepping into that honey trap when he knew better.
But Diane was the only woman who’d interested him since his ex-wife Mary Ellen left him while he was recuperating in a California army hospital from the sniper shot that blew out his hip.
Oh, there’d been other women. He wasn’t a monk. But this one, for all the absurdity that was involved with it, was the only one that made him think there could be more to a relationship than a grope, a fumble and a few grunts in the dark.
He’d reached for the ignition. He’d just have a drink. And if Diane was there, he’d say his hello and that would be all there was to it.
A hello didn’t compromise a man. A hello didn’t commit a man to anything. Not even to saying hello the next time he saw her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wilt parked as close as he could to the entrance to the Blue Lagoon. The rain had slowed some. There was a chill wind across the open parking lot.
He stepped from the cruiser as soon as he switched off the engine. Any delay and he might change his mind. He might back and turn and roar toward town.
You’re on parade, he told himself. On fucking parade, no matter how you feel. And by the time he reached the door to the Blue Lagoon, he’d adjusted his stride so that the limp hardly showed at all.
