by Teresa Quill
Of course, they wanted to go, too.
Gracie smiled. He had said, “My Gracie. . .” It made her chest feel full.
When the four of them arrived at the boat dock, Wally’s bad leg kept him from going down the hill. Rain from the night before had washed away any sign of tire tracks or footprints. The three returned to the car empty-handed with muddy shoes.
Chapter 7
“Why don’t you drive down the road apiece to the fishing hole?” Wally pointed with his cane. “It’s downstream, something might have washed up. It’s a good place for catfish ’cause it’s deeper and it’s kinda still-water down there.”
At the fishing hole, Wally slowly led the four down the wide dirt path to the river bank. It was more level than the slope to the dock so Wally could manage. The water ran deeper here. Peaceful water flowed by and woodland sounds were all they heard. Gracie took a deep breath of the fresh spring air tinted with fish. Another fine place to read a book, if the fish didn’t stink up the area. A few silent moments later, the sound of cursing and rustling caught their attention.
Irene plowed through some dry brush downstream along the river path to the next clearing, followed closely by John and Gracie, and surprising a fisherman who thought he had the area to himself. When the poor man saw the three of them, he dropped his rod and jumped.
After the man recovered from his near heart attack, John asked him if he’d found anything unusual. This part of the bank smelled like dead fish, period. Gracie pulled a tissue from her pocket to cover her nose. Wally poked his head though the underbrush. Irene took his arm and helped him to the bank.
“Not a good day for fishing. I thought I caught a catfish but it turned out to be a shirt collar. My line is snagged on something else now, but it isn’t fighting back. If it’s a fish, it’s a dead fish.” With a final yank, the line released and a glob of light brown and slime green landed on the bank.
Gracie gasped.
But before she and Irene could say anything, John put a finger to his lips to hush them.
“I give up, the bank is yours. I’m headed up river. The only thing this lure gets me is crap.” The fisherman snapped his toolbox shut.
Before he could retrieve his lure, John stepped between him and the blob. “Let me see that lure.”
“You can have it.” The man cut the line, snatched his tackle box, and tromped away. When he was out of earshot, John took a stick and picked up the yellow shirt collar.
“That’s the man’s shirt,” Gracie whispered, gagging.
Irene bent over to get the blob but John exclaimed, “Don’t touch it.”
She froze. He carefully replaced the shirt collar where the fishermen had thrown it. They surrounded the blob, and he pointed to the hair, which was attached to a bit of skin mixed with algae.
“Oh Lord.” Gracie backed away, her stomach roiling. This was horrible proof that everything John said was true. “I’ll call Tom.”
While they waited, Irene and Wally peered into the river. Gracie waited by the road, but John carefully examined the bank and the algae-covered hair blob.
Gracie led Deputy Tom down the path and along the bank to the fisherman’s clearing.
“Now tell me I’m crazy, Tom.” John squatted beside the hair blob. Gracie choked but didn’t run away. Tom squatted beside John and peered closer.
“Damn, John. I honestly thought you’d lost it. I have to apologize.” Tom put his hands up. They stood and nodded as if a silent agreement was made, then Tom offered a handshake.
“I understand. Thank you.” John grew two inches when he stuck his chin out to return the handshake. She was proud of him, too.
“Okay John, I want to talk to you later, but you all need to move back now. I have to secure this crime scene.” Tom shooed them up the small path to the top of the hill.
Wally struggled on Irene’s arm but made it without falling. John parked his car along the road and pulled a couple of folding chairs from the trunk. A row of scrub brush grew beside the top of the path, and the seniors waited behind them to watch Tom.
Tom pulled out the crime scene tape while he made a call. Within the hour, the fire department’s search and rescue diving team was in the water. John indicated where the man tossed his line. Soon one of the divers popped up, waving her arms.
Gracie peeked over the bushes with the others. Firemen scurried to the truck, retrieving a body sized basket and a bag of equipment. One man laid a tarp on the bank.
Sirens approached and the state police screeched to a stop. Two uniforms in wide-brimmed hats blew past them, gear jangling. The coroner’s van followed close behind, backing close to the path.
Gracie couldn’t hear much of the proceedings until Tom shouted, “Bag it and drag it.” What a phrase! What a way to talk about a person. This was the grossest event she had ever imagined.
When they lifted the basket from the water, John shoved past her to get as close as he could.
“That’s him,” he whispered. “That’s the man I saw.”
Recognizing the shirt was the only way he could have known that. All Gracie saw was a grey bloated figure that looked like a Halloween character in a yellow shirt. He was a soapy mess. Her stomach lurched. She wanted to turn away but couldn’t.
The divers dragged the basket onto the tarp and wrapped the tarp over the whole basket. Then they plonked tarp and all onto a stretcher and bumped it up the hill. The coroner left, but the others kept diving and poking around the area. Divers pulled rope and cement blocks to the bank. Pictures were shot, and the evidence was taken to the state police car. As the coroner pulled out, a van from the Frederick Post newspaper pulled off the road beside them, followed closely by the Hagerstown TV news team.
The TV reporter, a shapely brunette with a microphone, met Tom at the yellow tape with the newspaper man closing in quickly. The four seniors kept their distance but moved close enough to hear.
“Deputy, can you tell us about the body you found in the river?”
“We don’t have any information at this point.” Tom stood close to the brunette.
“I’ll take care of this, Tom.” One of the wide-brimmed hats dismissed Tom before he finished talking. The wide-brim turned his attention to the brunette. Tom’s pursed lips were a good indication that this wasn’t going well.
John motioned Tom to the side. “You know this is not the primary scene. The dock is where I found the evidence.”
“I know, but the state police have jurisdiction for this, and they don’t want to listen right now. The state police detective should be here soon. Maybe I can talk to him.” Tom stomped toward his car. The seniors followed like ducklings behind him.
“Why don’t we go to the dock with you?” Gracie lightly touched Tom’s arm.
“I’m having a hard time explaining how all of you knew about a murder and I didn’t. There’s a bit of history between me and some of the state police.” He nodded toward the wide-brim who had dismissed him. Gracie patted his arm. He looked just like a kid who wasn’t picked for a team. Poor guy. “In a murder investigation that crosses county lines, jurisdiction goes to the state police. This area is just over the line.”
Tom flipped his hand in the air and walked away from the river bank. “Oh, what the hell. Meet me there. But you have to stand back.”
The state policeman didn’t even glance Tom’s way when he left.
At the dock, Tom taped off the area and scoured the bank by the dock. The four of them stood at the top of the drive where John and Gracie had stopped the first day. He called the state detective, now in charge, who arrived at the dock to look over the situation. The two wide brims had gone to tend to other business.
Gracie could see that the burly bald detective was more attentive, but he didn’t take many notes. It seemed silly that he came to a muddy river bank in a dark grey suit. Dressing like that may be expected, but it wasn’t very practical for hanging around dead bodies and murder scenes.
Tom called John down to
the dock to talk to the detective and point out what he’d found and where. John indicated where the tire tracks and footprints had been. Then he invited them to the apartment, and the two officers followed John up the hill.
Thank goodness! Gracie and crew were ready to leave. It was almost dinnertime and Irene needed to get back to a bathroom. The detective and Tom followed them home to examine the murder wall. After all, John had been a homicide detective and deserved some respect. Now that the authorities knew all he said was true, they had to have the information right away.
Chapter 8
John stood back as Tom and the detective studied his murder wall. The display demonstrated that he remembered how to do things “by the book.” After so many years of leading investigations, he knew what was needed. “Impressive. But you know we can’t use this as evidence.” The detective tapped his pen to his notebook, now filled with information.
“Yes, I know.” And if you’d listened, that wouldn’t be a problem. “But now you know where the killer dropped the body, what time and day the body was dumped, and that the killer probably wears a size 10 boot.” John almost strutted. It felt damn good to know he was on a case again.
Twenty years of experience should never be discounted. He was old, not dead.
He continued, “You also know he was driving a late model white F150 truck with a trailer hitch. And he hauled an old boat trailer with an aluminum fishing boat.”
“True.” The detective covered a smile. You can bet he was pleased to have the information. “Thank you, John. Since it rained, we would have missed all of this.”
Damn skippy, they needed him this time. He missed the challenge and was tired of solving TV murders. This was a real case where he could help. He pointed to a diagram of the intersection where he’d seen the truck and tapped one of the corners with a pencil.
“The lady who lives here lied to me. Mira Fetzer saw the truck and trailer.”
“Okay, John. We will follow up on all of this. Can I take these pictures for reference?” The detective stepped closer to the wall.
“I made two sets. Here ya go.” John handed them an envelope of duplicate prints.
“When we get this guy or gal in court, we might need you to testify about what happened at the intersection. If we need anything else, we’ll call.” The detective nodded to the ladies and left.
Tom headed to the door, too.
“That’s it?” John blocked his way. “I want in on this, Tom. I can help. Not because I was knocked down, but because I’m a good detective. I know the area and the people of Skeeterville better than you, certainly better than him.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder.
“I don’t have much say in this.” Tom shrugged his shoulders. “The state took over. They will be in touch with me to get information about the area.”
John didn’t move. They were not going to write him off without a reason.
“Tell you what, I will let you know when I hear something, if it won’t compromise the investigation.” Tom pulled at his collar, clearly uncomfortable.
Right, the same thing he’d hear in any press release. Tom, of all people, should realize he could help solve this crime. Well, apparently not today.
He stepped back and opened the door. Rustling in the hall told him that others were aware of the police presence in the building. When he walked Tom to the door, whispering followed. He turned to find a throng of questioning looks.
“I will tell you all about this at dinner,” he announced.
Since they had already been gathering for the evening meal, the crowd grumbled and rustled their way toward the dining room. As disappointed as he was, he would stay out of the way and not interfere with Tom or the state police.
By the time he got back to the apartment, Gracie, Wally, and Irene had grouped around the murder wall. He swore them to secrecy. “I mean it, Irene. This isn’t a game.”
Behind her big glasses, Irene’s eyes widened. “I know that, but what can I say? People will ask questions.”
“Okay, you can tell them I was knocked over by a fishing boat trailer. Because it was in the evening, the police wonder if it’s the same boat that put the body in the river,” John said.
He’d asked everyone about the boat trailer. By morning everyone would know they’d found a body in the river, so he wasn’t sharing information that wouldn’t soon be general knowledge.
“Just don’t give details. Like the color of the man’s hair, or shirt. Or, the details on this wall. Or, that we have all this in my apartment. I don’t want nib noses in here.” Plus, he didn’t want to jeopardize the investigation.
Irene reluctantly agreed. “But it won’t be easy.” She took Wally’s arm and pulled him toward the dining room.
In gentle contrast, John hooked Gracie’s arm in his on their way to the dining room. Her hand gripped softly around his arm. He smiled. It took an amazing woman to get him to stop drinking, and then to get him to stop pouting on the couch when he didn’t get his way. He was lucky she wanted to put up with such a grouchy old cop.
Dinner was peppered with a barrage of questions. Why were the police here? What happened? And on and on. During his homicide career he’d handled a torrent of questions regarding crimes. He’d tiptoed around the press and nosey neighbors. So, when he stood to address his fellow residents, he was ready. He told them that a man’s body was found, that he’d been knocked over by a white truck hauling a fishing boat, and if anyone knew anything to let him know.
John answered a few follow up questions then settled into his chair to eat. Chatter buzzed through the room. It felt good to be on a case again, only, he wasn’t on the case. In fact, they didn’t want him near the case, and that sucked. He had to accept he was retired and not going to be helping in the most interesting case he’d seen in years.
Chapter 9
Gracie scrutinized the group. They had hung on John’s every word. What a guy. Back in the apartment, he slumped onto the couch. Tictac flicked her tail but walked across the room to stand near Gracie.
“What’s wrong?” She sat beside him and the cat joined her on the couch. This was quite a difference from the man in charge at dinner.
“They wrote me off. I won’t hear anything they wouldn’t tell the media. I’m too old to do any damn good.” He grabbed the remote and flipped channels.
Here we go again. How could she motivate a good man who quit?
“I suppose you’re right. We should stay out of it, even if you do know more about this area than they do.” She sighed. “I was curious about how you’d proceed, but if you want to quit, I guess that’s it.” She moved to her chair with her knitting, glancing up occasionally.
Tictac stayed on the far end of the couch. John eyed the cat and she stared back. No hissing. Progress. John didn’t move for a long time. Maybe he had given up. She sighed again, louder.
“Okay, Gracie. Since you insist, I’ll look into this further.” He sat straighter and templed his fingers.
“That’s wonderful. So, what’s next?” She beamed at him, trying to look enthused about whatever came next. Whatever it was, she would support him, even if it made her throw up.
“I imagine they will learn his identity by morning if he’s in the system. He wasn’t too decomposed to get fingerprints. They’ll be able to get dental records in a few days to confirm prints or to I.D. him.”
That’s gross. But she nodded and smiled. John rose and paced while he talked. Much better than pouting on the couch. Tictac shot back to her cave.
“After they reveal his identity, we can really get to work. Meanwhile, all we have is the truck and fishing boat to think about.” He pulled his chin. “Nearly everyone around here has an old aluminum fishing boat, and a white F150 is about as generic as you can get with a truck.”
He sat at the kitchen table studying the wall of information until he yawned and his head nodded with the effort to stay awake. She examined the scarf she had knitted. Oh heck, another evening’s work to r
ip out. Time for both of them to get to bed. She rousted him enough to head him toward his room. Tictac took a swipe at his shoe when he passed, but without claws.
By the time she was dressed in the morning, John was ready to go hunting for fishing boats and trucks. Tea in her trusty travel mug, she buckled herself into the Chrysler again. Since he had stopped drinking, he was waking earlier, something else new to adapt to. She may have created a monster, but he was her monster.
Two hours later, her tea was gone and they had driven every road on the map. “I’m hungry, can we go home now?” Gracie put a hand over her rumbling tummy.
“Look! There’s Tom.” John drove behind him into the gas station, beeping to get his attention. The Deputy came to the window and leaned in.
“Any news, Tom?” John asked.
“Actually, yes. The man used to live here before he was divorced. You might remember him as Jigsaw Pouzel. Real name Russell.”
Gracie sucked in a breath. She remembered. She remembered he beat his wife until she had to crawl for help. Whoever did it, she wasn’t sorry he was gone. God forgive her for her terrible thoughts.
“They’re questioning his ex-wife now.” Tom patted the side of the car. “See you soon.” He waved and left.
“Patty Pouzel isn’t a killer.” Gracie crossed her arms. “She’s a sweet little thing. That snake in the grass beat her senseless. I’ve been to her house several times for ladies group from the church. She lives next to the pull-off picnic stop.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“No, I didn’t mean now. . .” Gracie’s stomach growled, but it was too late, they were on their way. Her watch read eight-fifteen, her stomach read one hour past her usual breakfast time.
Police vehicles lined the Pouzel driveway. They slowed to a crawl. Through the front window, they saw the detective’s back. She recognized the suit.
Gracie could imagine him standing over poor Patty, who was no bigger than a minute. John pulled into the little road side stop beyond the house where a thick hedge blocked their view to the Pouzel house. John quietly slipped out and peered through the hedge. Gracie stayed in the car but leaned out the window.
