Death in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  The room looked pretty lived in. The motel’d kept up housekeepin’, but that didn’t extend to hangin’ up clothes or unpackin’. Peter’s stuff lay ’round on every flat surface an’ overflowed his suitcases. An’ the table was covered with half-full bottles of booze an’ mixers, an’ half-empty bags of chips an’ pretzels. I’d a bet fifty bucks the bathroom was a mess, too, in spite of Lucy.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. It were a older fella. Probably some guy ran afoul of the mob in the city, an’ got hisself whacked.”

  “You didn’t come all the way out here to tell me you didn’t find Roger Devon.”

  “Well, I was hopin’ you might could help me out with somethin’ else.”

  He stood up. “Cut the corn-pone, deputy. I’ve been asking around about you and I’m not going to fall for your country Columbo routine.”

  I stood, too. “Well, if you wanna put it like that, Mr. Peter, I’m conductin’ a investigation into two deaths an’ a couple suspicious disappearances, an’ I expect you to cooperate.”

  “I’ve already told you why I’m here, Deters. So far I’ve been stonewalled, cheated, and continued. I’d like nothing better than to finish my job and shake the dust of this place.”

  I’d heard about the “cheated” the previous evenin’, when I was out celebratin’. I said, “If you’re cryin’ foul ’cause you severely underestimated our local pool sharks, you oughtta be ashamed. You’re old enough to know better’n to try hustlin’ hustlers on their home turf.

  “As for the other stuff, I been busy an’ ain’t heard. How is it you been stonewalled and postponed?”

  “I haven’t gotten a single hard fact from you or anyone else since I got here. And that shyster that passes for a judge, told me he was giving me a continuance so he could ‘consider the merits of my petition.’ For a court order to get a forwarding address, for Christ’s sake!”

  I shrugged, then hitched my thumb in the general direction of Arnold’s room. “Not to change the subject much, but you seen the guy in 108 lately?”

  “I’ve never seen him. Who is he? And what’s your interest?”

  “Claims he’s with ATF. I got no interest in him, but I do have business with him.”

  “What does he look like?”

  a “borrowed” poster

  Nina was just closin’ the post office for the weekend when I got back to town. She didn’t even wait ’til I got my car parked ’fore she was yellin’ for me to “come quick.” I took my time. Quick is not the way I prefer to come.

  “What is it you’re so all-fired fired-up about now?” I axed her when I finally got parked an’ crossed the street.

  “One of my Wanted posters is missin’.”

  “Good Lord, girl. I got three missin’ persons, two murders, an’ truancy runnin’ rampant, an’ you want me to investigate a missin’ poster?”

  “Well, who’d you s’pose’d take a Wanted poster?”

  “Probably someone who wanted a target an’ is too cheap to buy one.”

  “Nobody’s that hard up. Not to take a chance on me catchin’ him. It had to be someone didn’t want us to recognize the guy in the pi’ture.”

  “Who?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Who was it a poster of?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Well, if you don’t even know whose pi’ture it was, how’m I s’posed to go after him.”

  “I don’t know, Homer. You’re the sheriff. I thought you’d have some ideas.”

  “Tell you what. You ’member his name, I’ll have the state cops fax me a pi’ture.”

  heavy trafficking

  I ain’t one for goin’ to church, except for weddin’s an’ funerals, though I do put on a clean uniform the Sundays I work. This Sunday I was workin’ an’ I had all the open case files out on my desk. I was tryin’ to set up one of those charts where you put all the names across the top, other pertinent information down the side, an’ X in the places where a pertinent fact applies to a particular name. I put a X in all the places where I could be fairly sure a fact—like missin’ or dead—applied to the party in question, a O where I could be pretty certain that a fact couldn’t apply—like Arnold bein’ the father of Angie Boone’s kid—an’ a ? if the fact might apply, however unlikely it was.

  What I ended up with was:

  After playin’ with the possibilities for a time, I added Angie an’ Peter to the top line, an’ Os an’ ?s to show neither of ’em was dead or missin’; Angie might have killed either victim but didn’t father her own child; an’ Peter might’a killed Headless, but not Puzzle Man, an’ he almost certainly wasn’t the father of Angie’s unborn kid. My chart looked like a scratch game of tic-tac-toe, but I couldn’t think of nothin’ else to do just then ’cept say to myself, Cheer up, Homer, things could be worse. I should’a knocked wood.

  My thinkin’ was interrupted, suddenly, by horns honkin’ an’ brakes squealin’ outside on Main Street. This is highly unusual for Sunday mornin’, when most of our citizens are either in church or home sleepin’ off Saturday night. Of course, I got up an’ had a look. Main Street seemed like the city in rush hour—cars an’ trucks bumper to bumper in both directions. Lot of ’em were blowin’ the four-way stop at Cross an’ peelin’ off down that street as well. There was more vehicles in sight than I’d’ve bet were even registered in Boone County. A lot of ’em had outta state plates.

  I grabbed the phone an’ dialed the state police. “This is Deputy Sheriff Deters, West Wheeling,” I tole the dispatcher. “What in hell’s goin’ on?”

  She tole me. A waste-oil tanker’d turned over on the interstate, westbound, an’ blocked the westbound lanes. An’ the sludge it was carryin’ had run down onto the eastbound lanes an’ put them out of commission, too. “It’s a mess,” she said. “I hope you don’t have another murder you need help with, Deputy, ’cause we got every man, woman, and draftee out there with the EPA trying to clean it up.”

  “I don’t s’pose you got any detours marked?”

  “I guess not if you’re callin’ about it.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” I said, an’ hung up. I got out my crowd control bullhorn, my traffic citation book, an’ a pile of accident report forms. I figured I’d need ’em.

  I went downstairs an’ was about to go out the door when the Evangelical Congregational Church service let out—or maybe they broke early ’cause of the commotion outside. Anyway, Nina was at the head of the pack that come filin’ outta the town hall council room. When I spotted her, I had to take a step back, an’ I nearly fell over the congregation’s portable notice board.

  It was the first time I ever saw all of her in a dress. It came to just below her knees, an’ the sight made my knees a little wobbly. Her legs were just as pretty as I’d imagined. The rest of her looked fine, too. I took off my hat without thinkin’, an’ stood there, starin’ in awe.

  Nina pretended not to take much notice. She was studyin’ the notice board message: THE LARGEST ROOM IN THE WORLD IS THE ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT, though I’m sure she knew it by heart.

  I might’ve stood there all mornin’ ’cept just then there was the screech of metal scrapin’ metal, lots more honkin’, an’ some major takin’ of the Lord’s name in vain.

  That got to the congregation, which was pilin’ up behind Nina. I led the parade outside, where we discovered a semi-truck’d overturned on top of several cars. Weren’t no people hurt, but the truck’d split open, liberatin’ its cargo: what seemed like thousands of white chickens was escapin’ in every direction. At least half a dozen cars, that I could see, had run into the back of the truck in a huge chain reaction, an’ a couple had run off the street to avoid a tail-ender. Motorists trapped by the wreckage were streamin’ outta their cars. Chaos was buildin’. The situation called for organization, an’ I was suddenly glad for my stint in the army. When in doubt, get ’em to line up an’ salute.

  Forgettin’ her dress for a moment, I turned to Nina an’ said
, “Quick, get down to Saveway an’ commandeer their take-a-number machine.”

  She nodded an’ took off.

  The park across from the town hall was startin’ to fill up with chickens; stranded motorists an’ their passengers; Congregational parishioners; an’ people pourin’ outta the Baptist church across the square. I spotted the Truck brothers an’ several other volunteer firemen about the time they spotted me. We all come together in the middle of the park.

  “D.W.,” I said. “You think you can round me up a livestock truck?”

  He said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Patrick Truck tossed Dwayne his keys, sayin’, “Take my Jeep, D.W., so you can go ’round traffic.”

  Dwayne took the keys an’ took off. I told Patrick, Richard an’ the others to see if anyone was hurt.

  Just about then, Nina come back with the number dispenser. People was shoutin’ an’ carryin’ on, so I could hardly think straight. I needed to get their attention, so I took out my pistol an’ fired two rounds into the parkway. That did it. There was a short pause in the action. I got on the loudspeaker an’ told everyone to take a number an’ I’d write up their accidents in order. I finished with, “Line-cutters will be sent to the end of the line.”

  Meanwhile, the chickens was spreadin’ out all over downtown.

  a Chinese fire drill

  “How many chickens was there?”

  The chicken truck driver, a man in his twenties, looked to have aged thirty years in the last half hour. He swallowed an’ said, “Five hundred.”

  The mayor said, “Holy shit!” His Sunday suit was dotted with white specks of feathers.

  “No,” I told him. “Chicken shit. Everywhere.”

  Our mayor’s a short man with thinnin’ gray hair an’ a beaky nose. He’s generally good-hearted, but political to the bone. He’d appeared, suddenly, while I was writin’ up the truck driver, to ask me where I got off pushin’ everybody around. It seemed his car was one of the first to be involved, an’ he didn’t want to take his turn for service.

  “And what makes you think you can discharge a gun on Sunday?” he axed.

  I didn’t have time to play games. “Get in line, your honor, or you could be the last one I get to.”

  “Who died and left you king?”

  “Well, last time I checked, I was charged with traffic enforcement an’ maintainin’ the peace.”

  “You were. You’re fired.”

  “Fine with me.” I held out my bullhorn an’ clipboard. “Have fun.”

  The mayor took a step back an’ said, “Get back to work. We’ll discuss this later.” He stomped toward Nina an’ her number dispenser.

  I had to grin, ’cause she jerked it away from him an’ pointed to the end of the ever-lengthenin’ line.

  At that point, Rye showed up. I give him my deputy’s badge an’ said, “By the power vested in me as actin’ sheriff of Boone County, I hereby deputize you. Get yourself a safety vest an’ get out to County C an’ divert some of this traffic.”

  “Ten-four,” Rye said an’ took off the way he’d come.

  One of the volunteer firemen came back to say they’d found four casualties. Three was minor, the fourth had a possible concussion. All of ’em were on their way to the hospital. He give me descriptions an’ license numbers of their vehicles so I could keep my records straight. I sent him off to the other side of town from Rye to direct traffic.

  Nina’s line thinned out, an’ she drifted over to where I was still writin’ up the chicken truck driver. In that dress, she was incredibly distractin’, so I deputized her, give her a fistful of accident report forms, an’ the instruction: “Don’t get too creative.”

  It was a warm mornin’ an’ looked to be a long one, so I broke off from my writin’ to arm-twist the Baptist an’ Congregational ministers into vyin’ for title of best Good Samaritan. In no time, they had housewives in their Sunday finest hurryin’ home to make iced tea an’ lemonade, an’ Sunday-suited husbands cookin’ up a barbecue. I finished writin’ up the truck driver an’ told him to start roundin’ up his stock.

  Dwayne showed up with a borrowed stock van that looked like he’d drove it off-road across the state. I had him leave it by the Civil War statue in the park, an’ gave him a stack of report forms. “You’re deputized,” I told him. “Find out what number Nina’s workin’ off of, an’ take the next customer in line.”

  We made slow progress. By the time we’d gotten sixteen vehicles wrote up, the volunteer firemen’d got back from their hospital run an’ had dispatched all the injured chickens. They’d also plucked an’ cleaned ’em, an’ were commencin’ to make lunch.

  The flood of “foreign” cars through town slowed to a trickle, which changed to a trickle of local folks as word got ’round that somethin’ was doin’ in town. Rye meandered in with the last of ’em an’ gave me back my badge an’ traffic safety vest.

  “How’d you get us outta the detour business?” I axed.

  “I jus’ blocked the road an’ put up a sign pointin’ the detour back to the highway. People don’t seem to care much where they’re goin’ long as they keep movin’.”

  “You got that right. Good work.”

  “Thanks. Now, if you don’t mind, I got some business to conduct.”

  “If you’re gonna sell your stuff on Sunday, you gotta pay the Sunday tax.”

  “Sunday tax? What kind of flimflam is that? If you want a cut, jus’ say so. Don’t gimme no Sunday tax.”

  “I ain’t foolin’, Rye. You wanna sell your stuff here today, you gotta supply paper goods an’ plastic forks for this picnic.”

  “Whyn’t you jus’ say that?”

  “I just did. An’ I don’t want Burt or the Reverend Elroy on my neck, so keep a low profile with your merchandisin’.”

  “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs!”

  Rye stalked off, an’ I took stock again. The Chinese fire drill was beginnin’ to look more like a down-home Fourth of July picnic. The chicken truck driver had managed to get a dozen or so hens in the stock truck, though it looked like corrallin’ the other 450 might do him in. The park was still full of people an’ loose chickens, but the chickens was scratchin’ an’ the folks was standin’ ’round socializin’. Father Ernie’d showed up with more volunteers, includin’ Ben an’ Martha Rooney, an’ refreshments. The Reverend Elroy’d sent a crew to bring tables from the church basement, an’ the ladies from all three congregations was loadin’ ’em with food. The whole show reminded me of the poster Father Ernie keeps in his church vestibule: If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

  The last driver I had to write a report for, even though his car was the first to be flattened by the semi, was last ’cause he didn’t understand about the number thing. He was waitin’, with his wife an’ kid, like they had the whole afternoon. I axed him his name, an’ he looked around to see who was I talkin’ to. The second time I axed, he handed me his wallet an’ said, “No hablo ingles.”

  I understand enough Spanish to get that. I looked at his wife—eight months’ pregnant, if she was a day—an’ said, “Do any of you understand English?” All I got was a blank stare.

  I yelled for Nina to find me the Spanish teacher.

  She said, “Sure, Homer.” She was bein’ unusually cooperative, but I didn’t have time to wonder why.

  While we waited for the teacher, I thumbed through the wallet. There was some Mexican money an’ a couple of things in Spanish, one looked like a driver’s license with his pi’ture. Apart from the fact his name was Lopez, I couldn’t understand a word.

  The Spanish teacher eventually showed an’ jabbered with Lopez for a while, then told me, “This gentleman’s name is Haysoos.”

  I showed her the license. “It says here, his name is Jesus Lopez.”

  “That’s English. In Spanish it’s pronounced HAYSOOS. They were on their way from Texas to Chicago to visit relatives when they got turned around, and ended up on the Pennsylvania turnpike�
�two days ago. They used the last of their money this morning, to fill up their tank.”

  An’ I thought I was havin’ a bad week.

  I finished fillin’ out the report an’ gave Mr. Lopez back his wallet. Then I axed the teacher to tell the family to enjoy the picnic. It was the least we could do to make up for their inconvenience. The four of ’em wandered off together.

  The chicken truck’d turned over on four cars, two of ’em local folks’, but the others belonged to outta-towners; fourteen other vehicles got caught in the chain reaction. The two West Wheeling fellas who do odd jobs for a livin’ an’ act as an unofficial taxi service for the town were in hog heaven shuttlin’ the stranded out to Motel Six. Dwayne resigned as deputy to handle the overflow towin’ business from the Shell station, an’ the two younger Truck brothers got in some overtime doin’ emergency repairs. Still, five of the drivers involved found theirselves with no wheels an’ no rooms. When the local ministers got done exhortin’ their flocks to take in the strangers, everyone got parceled out but the Lopez family. As they were foreigners, they ended up bein’ without a chair when the music stopped.

  I felt for ’em. Their car was totaled, an’ their paperwork highly suspicious. But short of lettin’ ’em camp in the park, or callin’ immigration—which would’ve made me feel as bad as turnin’ Rye over to the ATF—I couldn’t see what to do. It was time to ax for advice.

  I found the Rooneys near the barbecue. When I explained the Lopez deal to Martha, she axed to meet the family. I went to get some food—chicken an’ tater salad, greens an’ corn-bread, chocolate cake an’ the best iced tea this side of Atlanta. After I finished, I located the Mexicans.

  They was trailin’ after the Spanish teacher like ducklings followin’ their mother. I explained to her that Martha wanted to meet ’em, an’ she made a beeline for the Rooneys with her charges trailin’. After she made introductions—Mrs. Lopez was Maria an’ the kid was Jose—an’ a brief speech in Spanish to Lopez, he took off his hat an’ she skedaddled.