Death in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Which particular say is that?”

  “’Bout him findin’ work for idle minds—’pears you don’t have enough real work to keep you busy.”

  She got all uptight, like a woman whose new dress ain’t been noticed, an’ sniffed. “Show’s what you know. If you don’t do somethin’ to spice up them posters, no one even notices ’em. Might as well have pi’tures of Rocky an’ Bullwinkle. As I see it, I’m doin’ the Law a favor.”

  I had to admit she was right, but I didn’t. I said, “You wanna go to lunch?”

  “Not a chance!”

  As I shook my head an’ turned to leave, I did manage to get the last word in: “Nice dress.”

  the ME’s report

  When I called Martha after lunch to tell her I was ten-eight, she told me to call Doc Howard. I did. He told me to come pick up my jigsaw puzzle.

  “Ain’t you gonna do a autopsy?”

  “What’s to autopsy? You come get your box of parts so I can have my cooler back.”

  The pathology lab at the state medical school always gives me the creeps. The big walk-in cooler has dead bodies laid out in it like turkeys in the meat section at Saveway. Doc Howard ain’t at all bothered—he’s been doin’ this since Moby Dick was a minnow. When I got there, he went in the cooler an’ come out with the state cops’ ice chest. It had a manila envelope duct-taped to the lid with the chain of custody form stuck to the outside with sticky tape. Half a dozen signatures’d been added to the form since I’d seen it last.

  “You been passin’ my victim around like the latest joke,” I complained.

  “I had faculty members from several specialties look at him. Their reports are in the envelope as addenda to mine.”

  “So you figured out he was male. What else?”

  “Yes. We were able to reconstruct enough of the pelvic girdle to determine sex, and the beveling around the hole in his frontal bone fragment makes the cause and manner of death rather apparent.”

  I held up my hands. “Just gimme the short version, Doc. In English.”

  He sighed like talkin’ to me was a pitiful waste of his time. “The bottom line is that all we can tell you is that your victim, a male who was probably in good antemortem health, was shot through the skull before or very shortly after death. He was subsequently consumed—eaten in the vernacular—by large carnivores, probably bears.” He gave me a Happy-now? look an’ waited.

  “Thanks, Doc. That pretty much confirms what we figured. Any idea how old he was or how long he’s been dead?”

  “He was old enough for the cranial sutures to have closed and the long-bone ends to have ossified, but not old enough to have any osteoporosis or arthritis—at least not in the joints you’ve got there. My guess is he was between eighteen and thirty-five. As for time of death, the condition of the remaining cartilage and ligament is consistent with a period between a few days and a couple of months.”

  “Anythin’ else I should know?”

  “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “One more thing—Was he shot from the front or the back?”

  “If the bullet had impacted just an inch lower, it would have hit him between the eyes.”

  the Thistle place

  I figured I’d better stop at the Thistle place on my way back to the office. It was a two-story, once-white frame house with a gable roof, a peelin’ green door an’ shutters, an’ a screen porch across the front. All the windows had dingy curtains, all shut. The screen door sagged open, an’ the front steps was broke. The condition of the house kinda reminded me of the Jackson place, but at least Ash kept his yard decent. Thistles’ drive was a collection of potholes hangin’ together outta habit, an’ the yard was overgrowed with weeds an’ overflowed with junk, from empty food cans to dead white goods. The whole place looked just like what’d happened—the man run off an’ left the wife with a run-down house an’ too many kids to handle. Mavis Thistle had give up on livin’ an’ was drinkin’ herself to death—along with all that come with drinkin’.

  I kept a eye on the front as I shut off the car an’ got out. If I hadn’t been watchin’ for it, I would’a missed the little movement from the curtain in one of the windows near the door. Mavis didn’t have a dog—even with the checks from Child Welfare she could hardly feed her kids. An’ nobody with two bits to his name’d board with her an’ those outta-control kids. So unless it was Mavis herself behind that curtain, Penny was likely right about Dotty bein’ home baby-sittin’.

  I rang the bell but didn’t hear it ring inside, so I knocked. Nothin’ happened. I knocked again, louder. After a third knock, a muffled voice—sounded female—said, “Who’s there?”

  “Deputy Sheriff Deters.”

  “Whatcha want?”

  “I wanna talk to you.”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “Nope.”

  “Go away.”

  “Be easier on you if you don’t make me get a warrant.”

  This time she didn’t answer. I knocked again, but didn’t get nothin’ more. After a few more minutes of starin’ at the ratty door, I went back to my car an’ drove off.

  search warrants

  The search warrant contained words like “Squalor an’ Filth,” words the judge’d have to look up in his Thorndike an’ Barnhart dictionary. Time I got done, I was on a roll. I felt so good I wrote up another warrant just for the hell of it—to search Ash Jackson’s place.

  Out here in the country, the circuit court judges really do ride a circuit—there ain’t enough business to keep ’em busy in any one town. Tuesday was West Wheeling’s court day, an’ it wasn’t Tuesday, so I had to go all the way to Okra to get my search warrants issued. Me bein’ from outta town, the Okrans let me go ahead of ’em. Or maybe they was just curious as to what kind of crimes afflict our town. Anyway, the judge looked over my paperwork an’ signed the warrant to search the Thistle place without comment. Then he held up the other one an’ axed, “What’s your probable, Homer?”

  I pointed to the paper. “Like it says there, Judge. We got some human remains unaccounted for, an’ a missin’ man—mebbe the same man as the remains. An’ Ash Jackson was the last one seen with him.”

  “Says here you got a reliable informant. Who?”

  I stepped up to the bench so no one but the judge could hear me ax, “Off the record?” The judge didn’t say no, so I said, “Rye Willis.”

  “Rye? He’s a moonshiner.”

  “You drink his shine?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Humph. Says here you hope to find evidence of a murder: blood, personal property of the victim—that should be the alleged victim—guns and drugs. ’Course you’re gonna find guns and drugs. Everybody knows Ash’s got more guns than the national armory, and everybody in Boone County has—”

  “Okay. Okay,” I said. “How ’bout if I change it to illegal guns an’ drugs?”

  “That wording would be acceptable.”

  I wondered where he learnt a word like “acceptable.”

  Ash’s place revisited

  Ash’s place looked like the ATF’d been through it. The door’d been kicked open, the jamb splintered. I was careful goin’ through it. Inside, the front room’d been tossed an’ scrambled. Any place you could think to hide anythin’ was open an’ emptied or smashed an’ dumped out on the floor. Even the stereo an’ CD player was in pieces. Ash’s furniture was early American, an’ he had a couple nice antiques. They were all up-ended; most were broken. His papers was in a pile with the desk turned upside down on top. The braided rug’d been heaped at one end of the room. Enough of the pine floorboards’d been pried loose to make a hole a man could put his head through. I made a mental note to look into it as soon as I was sure there was nothin’ in the house would jump on me if I got down on all fours.

  I went on to look in the kitchen an’ found the same general situation. Everything’d been opened an’ dumped out, from cabinets to tin cans.
Somebody with more guts than brains’d even taken a ax to the aerosol cans, someone who’d read—in one of those Build-Yourself-a-Arsenal magazines—’bout cans with hidden compartments. I stayed outta there to avoid trackin’ the flour an’ smashed eggs around.

  The bathroom an’ bedroom were the same. Stuff dumped out in the sink an’ tub, in the toilet, an’ on the floor. The closets’d been emptied, the light fixtures broke, pi’tures took off the walls, even the wall outlet covers were off. A kitchen chair’d been dragged up under the open trap door to the attic space. I was real cautious puttin’ my head up there, but I needn’t a been. Somethin’ had been up there—all the ceiling insulation was tore up. But that was all I saw—that an’ dust motes dancin’ in the sunbeams sneakin’ through the attic vent louver.

  I went back out the front, an’ made a quick tour of the yard. I didn’t see no one so I guessed it was safe to go back in an’ stick my head in the crawl space. There was nothin’ there but pea gravel an’ spider webs. I come up for air an’ went outside for a think.

  Ash’s front porch view was finer than he deserved. I sat on the weathered steps an’ admired it. The sky was bluer than Nina’s eyes an’ dotted with ripe-cotton clouds. The air smelled a little like cut grass an’ old compost. An old burr oak tree held the line between the grass an’ woods, an’ a pair of little birds chased a big old crow from outta the tree clear outta the yard. A red-winged blackbird was singin’. The grass was a week’s worth taller’n last time I seen it, but it was summer sweet an’ shimmerin’ in the breeze like ripples on a green lake. There was some dandelions still bloomin’ like bright splashes of yellow paint on the grass, but most were blown an’ gone. The bright sunlight made the shadows on the porch an’ under the trees look black an’ mysterious.

  I tried to guess why Ash’d leave all this—even supposin’ he’d killed the missionary. It’d been more in his nature to brass it out, not run ’til the warrant was served. His boat was gone, an’ his fishin’ gear. There wasn’t a gun or a cartridge in sight. If he’d cleared out for good, it made sense that he’d take those. But why leave everythin’ else? Why not sell it, or give it to his kin? An’ who smashed the place? An’ when? An’ why? An’ what the hell was I supposed to do about it? I must’ve gone over it for fifteen minutes without thinkin’ of anythin’ useful.

  Eventually I did the right thing. I got out my camera an’ took pi’tures. Then I dusted damn near everything with fingerprint powder. I got maybe half a dozen prints. After photographin’ ’em in place, I lifted ’em with tape an’ saved ’em on cards, each labeled an’ dated. ’Fore I went back to the office to write my report, I dropped the fingerprint cards off at the state cop shop so they could run ’em through their computer. Then I stopped at Rooney’s to report in person. Ben listened to the whole story without comment. Martha give me tea an’ sympathy.

  the Boone dispute

  If you counted Ash Jackson, I now had two missin’ persons an’ a dead body—parts, anyway. Ash was probably AWOL voluntary ’cause someone was after him, but it was a real coincidence—all that happenin’ at once. Law enforcement tends to disbelieve in coincidences. However, I still didn’t have enough of a good idea what was goin’ on to work it all out. So I decided to fall back on that old law enforcement standby—procedure. If I kept followin’ through on all my leads, an’ made thorough reports of everythin’, sooner or later I’d have enough pieces to make a pi’ture. That was my theory, anyhow. As for the truancy matter, it was pretty late by the time I got my pi’tures of Ash’s place developed, an’ since the Thistle warrant was good ’til the next day noon, I guessed I’d wait ’til tomorrow mornin’. Then I could take Penny when I went out to the Thistle place.

  As soon as I wrote up the report on the break-in, I needed to talk to Angie Boone. In fact, as murder investigations go, this one was pretty lame without me havin’ talked to one of the chief—maybe—witnesses.

  Interviewin’ her was gonna be a tricky proposition ’cause Angie was at that awkward age where she could run off an’ marry someone without her folks’ permission, but if she stuck around, her folks could claim she was a minor an’ refuse to let me talk to her. I also needed to conduct my interview in town—somewhere I could deputize Penny or Nina or Alethia to search her if I had to actually take her into custody. I thought about the problem all the way back to town.

  I thought about it off an’ on while I did the paperwork on the break-in. I was still thinkin’ about it when Len Hartman shouted, “Sheriff! Trouble. Post office! Come quick!” He was jumpin’ up an’ down under my office window—the one that faces Cross Street—like he’d stepped on a fire ants’ nest.

  When I got there, all hell had broke loose. Mars Boone was standin’ in front of the counter shakin’ a paper bag in the direction of his daughter, Angie, who was standin’ behind Nina. Nina was behind the counter with her twelve-gauge aimed at Mars. Angie was wailin’ like a banshee, wringin’ her hands like some soap opera character. Mars was yellin’ at his wife, who was standin’ next to him, yellin’ right back.

  Mrs. Boone spotted me an’ screeched, “Sheriff, thank God you’re here.”

  Everybody shut up an’ looked at me like I was some kind of Mr. Fix-it. I figured it’d be safest to play along an’ said, “Nina, put that gun away. Mars, back off. Somebody tell me what’s goin’ on!”

  They all started talkin’ at once. I bellowed, “Shut up, all a you!” It was an old Sheriff Rooney trick, actin’ madder or crazier’n anyone else. It worked. They all got quiet an’ waited for further orders. “That’s better,” I said, reasonably. “Now, s’posin’—startin’ with Nina—you tell me what’s goin’ on.”

  Nina put her twelve-gauge away. “Damned if I know, Homer. Angie run in here screamin’ he was gonna kill her, so I got out my gun. Then Mars run in here yellin’ he was gonna kill her. Then Miz Boone run in here shoutin’ at Mars not to kill her. Then Len run outta here like the devil was after him, hollerin’ he was gonna call the Law. Then you showed up.” She shrugged.

  I said, “Mars?”

  Mars was red as a preacher caught with his pants down in a whorehouse. He shoved the paper bag at me an’ shook it, then shook it at his oldest girl. “I caught that little slut with this—This—” He couldn’t bring hisself to say what. He shoved the paper bag in my direction.

  I took it an’ looked inside.

  “There ain’t but one reason she’d have one of those—” He still couldn’t say it.

  I said, “Angie, what you got to say for yourself?”

  “It ain’t none of your business, Homer. Or his, either.” She nodded at her pa. “I’m old enough, I don’t have to account to him no more.” She looked like she was scared shitless, but she clenched her fists an’ shoved her jaw out.

  “You sixteen?” I axed.

  She nodded.

  Mars looked like he’d been pole-axed. Whatever he’d been plannin’ to happen, I guess that wasn’t it. “Have it your way,” he said, quietly, like he was too mad to trust hisself to talk. “But I don’t ever want to see your face again.” He turned to Mrs. Boone an’ said, “Come on, wife,” an’ stalked out. Myra Boone looked like she’d been slapped. She gave Angie as sorrowful a look as I ever seen, then turned without a word an’ followed Mars. Angie started gnawin’ on her thumb knuckle.

  The post office was quiet as a graveyard for a good long minute before Nina said, “For God’s sake, Homer, what’s in that bag?”

  I didn’t feel much like sayin’ in front of ladies, so I handed her the bag. She didn’t have any such reservations. She took one look an’ turned around to Angie an’ said, “Girl, are you pregnant?!”

  What was in the bag was a home pregnancy test.

  Angie said, “None of your business, either, Miz Ross.”

  Nina did what she always does durin’ family emergencies—closed the post office. Then she dragged Angie in the back room an’ sat her down at the table she’s got there. Nobody told me not to, so I tagged along
.

  After half a hour of tellin’ us it was none of our business, Angie broke down an’ admitted she was for-a-fact pregnant, but claimed she didn’t know by who. Finally, an’ with a straight face, she said a angel had come to her in a dream an’ knocked her up. She held fast to this particular story until we gave up tryin’ to get her to change it. I did ask, at one point, if the angel’s name was Ash Jackson; she got huffy an’ said, “Gross! No way!”

  “You got any idea what you’re gonna do, girl?” Nina axed. “Where you’re gonna go? How you’re gonna live?”

  “I’ll think of somethin’.”

  “Yeah. Well, while you’re thinkin’, you best stay with me.” Nina waited to see if that was all right.

  Angie nodded cautiously.

  “An’ you can earn your keep by helpin’ out around here.”

  Angie nodded again.

  “The baby’s father, he likely to—?”

  “Ain’t got no father! It was a angel.”

  Nina said, “Horsefeathers!”

  An’ I wondered if the angel was Roger Devon.

  Angie Boone

  I hung around the post office, waitin’ for a chance to get Angie Boone alone, ’til Nina threw me out, then I went back to the town hall to arrange with Penny to have her serve the Thistle warrant. I headed back across the street about closin’ time. Nina was takin’ care of all the folks who’d waited ’til five-to-five to get their business done—maybe eight of ’em, two with packages. I busied myself lookin’ at the Wanted posters. The felon of the day was Leon Whistlesmith, car thief an’ burglar.

  “Homer,” Nina said, “you got business here or you jus’ holdin’ up the line?”

  “I got to ask Angie somethin’. She still here?”