Bullet Through Your Face (reformatted)

by Edward Lee

  “You gots that right, Chief.”

  But when the Chief thought about his half-hearted statement fer a speck, he realized it weren’t true at all. Kee-rist, I wish someone’d kidnap my wife ‘cos she ain’t nothin’ but a 260-pound Trailer Cow who eats more than a road crew, snores louder than a fuckin’gorilla, and ain’t let me fuck her in problee five years, not that I’d wanna fuck her fat sloppy self. Shee-it, come ta thank of it . . . I thank I’d rather fuck the gorilla . . . But all stray ruminations aside—and certainly none, of course, that he could relate to his deputy—the Chief raised his big ol’ hand and rapped loud on the door but as he done so, the door swung open, provin’ that it was ajar.

  “Doc?” the Chief called out into the doorway. “Doc Willis? It’s the poe-leece!”

  But no reply were forthcoming.

  “Guess we better go in, huh?” Hays speculated.

  “Guess so.”

  And that’s just what they did, all right, and the inside’a Doc Willis’ digs were right nice. All fancy carpet’n fine wood panelin’, not to mention a shitload of antique furniture which all looked mighty pricey.

  Big country kitchen too, all fixed up with the most ‘spensive appliances like a big six-burner range, four differnt sizes’a T-fal skillets, a dishwarsher, a Cuisernart, one’a them fancy citified ‘frigerators with a ice-maker even. The Chief were fairly impressed, he was, and thought that with a kitchen like this he could fix hisself some viddles, yes sir.

  “Hey, Chief. Take a looky here.”

  Kinion moseyed on over and saw what Hays meant. “Why, if that ain’t the weirdest thing . . .”

  What Hays had noticed were a good half dozen 2-liter Coke bottles upended in the big stainless-steel sink.

  “Cain’t make jack crap outa that, boss,” the deputy postulated. Six little white bottle caps sat in a line beside the sink rim. “Empty Coke bottles, all turnt upside down. Looks ta me like someone purposerly emptied ‘em.”

  “Yeah, son, shore does but why in tarnations would someone do that?”

  “A cabaleristic purpose unbeknowst ta us, I’d say, Chief—”

  Kinion stalled for a frown.

  “—or I guess the guy either don’t like Coke or he needed the bottles fer somethin’ else.” Seemed a damn shame ta waste all that Coke just fer the bottles, but that weren’t exactly what was paramount on the Chief’s mind just then. Findin’ Doc Willis was.

  Cabalistic empty Coke bottles aside, they searched the rest of the lower-level. Nice house, shore, but no Doc Willis nowhere at all on the first floor. Every window downstairs, however, had been shattered from the outside in, and this fact struck both the Chief and Micah Hays as plenty strange.

  “I kin see some fella bustin’ a winder ta git into the place,” the Chief observed. “But—”

  “What sense is there’n bustin’ all the winders?” Hays finished.

  This was aggravatin’ and then some. “Doc Willis! Where the hail are ya?” the Chief’s voice echoed up the fancy windin’staircase.

  But again, no response.

  “Come on, Hays, lets up’n check the rester the house.”

  They tromped up in their shiny police boots, passin’ ‘spensive lookin’ pitchers hangin’ along the way. Upstairs were dark’n quiet jess like downstairs. Hays’n Kinion peeked in a coupla rooms but still was not able to locate Doc Willis.

  “Hey, Hays? You thankin’ what I’se thankin’?”

  “What’s that, Chief?”

  “That maybe the Doc’s wife weren’t the only one kidnapped?”

  Micah Hays frowned. “Why’d anyone wanna kidnap Doc Willis?”

  “Why’d anyone wanna kidnap his wife?” the Chief countered.

  “Well, ‘cos, fer one, kidnappin’ is often a sexually motervated crime, and the few times I seen Jeanne Willis I pulled wood so fast I plumb near busted my pants.”

  “Hays!” the Chief objected to his deputy’s unending insertion of dirty references into everthang to come out his mouth. “Stick to the point!”

  “But that is my point, Chief. You asked why’d someone wanna kidnap Jeanne Willis and that there is my answer. Some pree-vert might’a snatched her fer, you know, hobknobbin’ of the sort without consent. Where as it’s a tad unlikely that anyone would wanna kidnap Doc Willis hisself because, well, most kidnappers problee wouldn’t wanna fuck him, and secondly, the prosperect makes even less sense since most kidnappings also involve ransom, and we all’s know the Doc’s richer’n shit.”

  “Well, yeah,” the Chief bumbled.

  “And futhersmore, Chief, don’t you thank it’s really strange now, about the winders? Ever last one of ‘em, broke from the inside out’n not just the downstairs winders but the ones up here too? I guess you hadn’t yet hadda chance to notice that, huh, Chief?”

  What the . . . No, the Chief hadn’t noticed, and Hays were right. All these upstairs windows were shattered too, from the outside in, bits of glass all over the floor. “Of course I noticed it, Hays. I didn’t say nothin’ yet ‘cos I wanted to see if you did. Which brings me to my next question. How in—”

  “—holy hail could somebody bust all the upstairs winders from the outside in unless they walked a ladder ‘round the whole fuckin’ place?”

  “And why?”

  “Thems some dandy questions, Chief, and I reckon we won’t find no answers ‘least till we search the rest of the joint.”

  Several spare bedrooms and a den, all well-kempt and nicely appointed, and all devoid of Doc Willis. “Chrast, this place is big,” the Chief complained once they got to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. “I need ta take me a breather, son.”

  Hays poked around while Kinion set aspell on the big four-poster bed. “Jiminee, Chief, a fella could have hisself a whole lotta fuckin’ on a bed that big—” Then a chuckle. “—and I ‘spect ol’ Doc Willis had hisself just that with that big brick shit-house wife’a his. Don’t care how old the ol’fella is—a wife with a rack’a tits and set’s curves like Jeanne Willis could put a hard one on a Kansas City faggot.”

  “Stop that disrespectful talk, Hays!” the Chief took exception, still huffin’ and puffin’ from the laborious search’a the house. “Talkin’‘bout a man’s wife like that—shee-it, Hays! What if the Doc overheard ya!”

  Hay flipped a hand in disregard, mulling around the dresser. “Aw, shee-it, Chief, he cain’t overhear nothin’ ‘cos he ain’t here.” Then Hays slid open a dresser drawer, his face lighting up. “Ooo-eee, Chief! Take a looky! Pitchers!”

  “Daggit, Hays, don’t’choo be rummagin’‘round in there! Ya got no right to be invadin’ the Willis’ priversy!”

  But the brash constable had already removed the stack’a pitchers—er, pictures, that is—and held ‘em up. Vacation snapshots of Doc and Mrs. Willis at Cancun. The first was a long shot of Mrs. Willis in a skimpy red bikini by a swimmin’pool. “Holy moly, Chief, would’ja gander that body! Fuck, I could jerk me off a big dicksnot just lookin’ at it!”

  “Watch yer dirty mouth, boy! That’s a man’s wife yer talkin’ ‘bout!” But the Chief, even in his protest, hadda admit, Jeanne Willis was one walkin’beautiful hunka-hunka woman. He tried not to look at the photo but failed fer the most part. Yes sir, there she was, all fine womanly lines’n curves, smooth white skin goin’ tan, and a class rack’a hooters all wrapped up in that there l’il bikini. Indeedy, this photergraphic image’a Mrs. Willis seemed ta grin right out at the Chief from the pitcher, a right seducterive kinda grin, and big noonblue eyes’n cute short coiffered hair. Morosely, the Chief thought, Why cain’t my wife look like that . . .

  “Shit, boss, I’d haul them l’il bottoms right off her behind and use ‘em fer dental floss,” Hays articulated. “I means, just lookit at there berkeenee, just like what the splittails wear’n Calerforna, yes sir!” After which, the deputy flipped through some more pitchers and then fairly whooped: “Hot damn, boss! Is that a glimpse of a valley in Heaven’re what!”

  Ho b
oy! the Chief couldn’t help but think spyin’ this next pitcher. Here was a frontal from the chest up in that high Cancun sunlight, wherever the fuck Cancun was (he figgered it was problee in Maryland). That same foxy grin’n twinkle in the eye, that purdy face alls wet from the ocean, and best of all them big firm hooters satchled up in the red bikini top, filled out quite well, yes sir. The wet fabric made no secret’a the half-collar-sized nipples underneath, and they’se was stickin’ out more’n a tad.

  Hays cut his ever-familiar grin. “Is that a rack’a chest fruit or what, boss. I say fuuuuuhuuuuck me! Ask me thems the best kind’a rib melons, not too big, not too small, just like the tomaters at Grimaldi’s Market, you know, the big ‘uns he sells fer a little extra.” Hays gave his crotch an acknowledgin’squeeze. “Hey, Chief, would ya like haul that Calerforna berkeenee top off and just lay yer pole ‘ween that meat? Bet’cha would, huh? Just squeeze them there two tits together’n give her a good ol’ fashoin tittie-fuck, huh? Then pull a good long spooge right inta her chin—”

  “Daggit, Hays, put them pitchers up!” the Chief shouted now but a’corse deep down at the core’a hisself, he couldn’t deny the delecturbility of the image, and for the second time today, he felt an inklin’ of a boner comin’ on.

  “Bet that puts some kick in yer joint, huh, Chief?”

  Oh, yes, but the Chief, even in this luxurious distraction, could admit no such thing. He had a responserbility, as Chief’a Police. “Put them pitchers back, boy, or I’ll put my foot upside yer head! Ya got no right to be goin’ through folks personal belongin’s!”

  “Well, hail, Chief, you’se the one who said we should search the house—”

  “That’s right, Hays, search the house ta see if we could find Doc Willis and ya shore’s hail not gonna find him in the fuckin’ dresser drawer!”

  Hays gave the pitcher a last look and his crotch a last rub, then he replaced the vacation photos’n closed the drawer.

  “Now check the rest’a the room!” Kinion ordered. “I gotta tell you everthang? Check the bathroom!”

  Hays turned to do so, and as he did, the Chief, still a mite worked up over that pitcher’a Jeanne Willis in her bikini top, gave his own crotch a rub when Hays weren’t lookin’.

  “You just give yerself a crotch-rub, Chief?” Hays queried with his back turned.

  “No! Shut up! Check the bathroom like I tolt ya!”

  Hays shuffled over to the bathroom, looked in, shrugged. “Well, I’m checkin’ it, Chief. So what about it?”

  “What’s in it!”

  “Well, a sink, a toilet, a bathtub, a mirror. But ya know what’s not in there, Chief?”

  “What!”

  “Doc Willis.”

  “Don’t git smart, boy!”

  “Oh, wait’cha just one sec, Chief. Look whats we got here.”

  Hays disappeared momentarily into the bathroom, then re-emerged, holdin’ up a pair of corn-blue frilly panties. “Looky there, Chief. They gots themselfs a laundry hamper in there’n I just dug me out a pair’a Mrs. Willis’ purdy panties—”

  “Damn it, Hays! Put that back! Only a pree-vert digs around in a lady’s dirty laundry—”

  Hays showed his standard shit-eatin’grin, then lifted them soiled panties to his nose and took a long, deep sniff. “Yow! Now that there’s a right ripe hash mark, boss. Ooo-eee! This gal’s got some flavor for shore!” Then Hays offered the bunched panties to the Chief. “Go on, Chief, I won’t tell no one. Hard-workin’ man like you deserves a treat. Take yerself a sniff’a that—”

  “Hays! Put it back!”

  “Aw, come on, boss. Ain’t nothin’ like the smell of a gal’s crack to get a fella’s blood goin’.”

  Chief Kinion’s voice rocketed about the room. “Put it back and go check the closet, or by God I’ll—”

  “Relax, Chief, all right already.” Hays gave the panties back from whence they came, then did as ordered. He opened the closet door and looked in.

  “What’s in it!”

  “Clothes, coat hangers, shoes,” Hays replied.

  “Fine! Go check the other closet!”

  Once again, Hays did as ordered, peeked into the second closet. “I’m checkin’ this one too, Chief. Wanna know what’s in it?”

  “Yes!”

  “Clothes, coat hangers, shoes, and—well—Doc Willis. He’s in there too.”

  “Uh . . . what?” the Chief asked, hopin’ he hadn’t heard it right.

  “Doc Willis hisself, Chief.” Hays pointed. “Layin’ right here in the closet lookin’ ‘bout as dead as a pile’a rocks, yes sir.”

  Chief Kinion’s face drew up into squeezed lines. “Yer jokin’, right, Hays? Doc Willis ain’t really in that closet, is he? And dead, you say?

  Hays fully faced the Chief’n shrugged. “Well, Chief, I can say that Doc Willis is layin’in this here closet, but I cain’t say fer absolute fact that he’s dead, on account I ain’t a doctor myself, and I ain’t got no stetherscope’re EKG machine on me. But I thank I can say that he’s problee dead ‘cos, see, his throat’s cut right through his aderm’s apple, and I’ll’se tell ya something else, Chief. Not only is Doc Willis layin’ here in the closet, there’s a red-hairt gal in a Army uniform standin’ right behind ya holdin’ a gun.”

  This was ridiculous, just more’a Hays’fuckin’‘round. The Chief was too old for shennanergins such as this, and he shorely felt that a man’a his position was deservin’ of far more respect than havin’ his leg yanked by his deputy. Maybe if I fired his wise ass, he’d get the message that police work is serious business. Fer Chast’s sake! Doc Willis with his throat cut in the fuckin’ closet and a gal in a Army uniform standin’ behind me with a gun? “Hays, I’ve had enough’a yer foolin’ around. How’d you like me ta—”

  But the Chief, before he could complete the fair warning, heard a click. He snapped his gaze around from where he sat on the bed, and what he saw was this:

  A gal in a Army uniform standin’right behind him holdin’a gun.

  “Freeze,” the woman said in low, stern tone, “or I’ll blow your head off.”

  The Chief peed his pants.

  III

  It took awhile ta straighten things out. Fer one, Doc Willis was indeed layin’ there dead in the closet, his throat cut clean through; secondly, there was indeed an Army gal with her gun drawn, and thirdly, it seemed that this Army gal with her gun drawn suspectered that Hays and Chief Kinion might have somethin’ to do with the Doc Willis layin’ there dead in the closet.

  “Chief Kinion, I apologize for startling you to the extent that you . . . urinated in your trousers,” the woman said, and put her Colt .45 back in her black Army-issue holster. She was dressed smartly in summer Army khakis, wore a pair of neat brass pins on her collar along with twin silver bars indicatin’ the rank of captain.

  “I, uh, well, it weren’t startlement, Miss,” the Chief excused, keepin’ the front of his pants covered with a pink terry-cloth towel from the Willis’ bathroom. “See, I gots me some bladder problems is all.”

  “Really, Chief?” Hays asked. “You never said nothin’ ‘bout that ta me. I—”

  “Shut up, Hays . . . Anyway, Miss, I’m shore you can see that my deputy and I ain’t got nothin’ ta do with Doc Willis’ murder. We’se was just—”

  “I understand, Chief,” the gal said, and, well, she were right fine lookin’: shiny red hair almost to her shoulders, nice figger undersneath that tan, tailored Army tunic, and a kind of cool, very businesslike tone to her voice which was somethin’ the Chief immediately found ta be very attracterive. “Pardon my initial response,” she went on to further her explanation. “I heard voices in here so I came in with my gun drawn as a logical precaution.”

  “A’course, a’course.”

  “Oh, and forgive my lack of manners, Chief. I’ve neglected to introduce myself. I’m Captain Dana Majora—”

  But then Hays stepped in to quite oddly interrupt. “Well tells me this, Captain Minora—”<
br />
  “That’s Majora, PFC.” She turned her purdy eyes—jade-green eyes—to the Chief, and the Chief quite liked the way that whenever she were gonna say somethin’ of import, she would always address him directly, makin’ a clear acknowledgerment of his authority. And though he couldn’t quite say fer shore, he thought that ever so often, on such occasions, that the fine, upstandin’ and downright cuteenough-like-ta-make-the-Chief-cream-the-trapdoor-in-his-jockies Captain Majora shot him a coupla looks that might indercate a tad of attraction on her part too.

  “So now ya kin see,” the Chief augmented, “that me’n my deputy is here solely in response to the call we received from Doc Willis hisself ‘bout his suspicion that his wife’d been kidnapped—”

  “Chief, you ain’t gots ta ‘splain yerself ta her,” Hays suddenly burst in. “If anythang, she’s the one who needs ta do some ‘splainin’.”

  Chief Kinion glared up. “Hays, what’choo harpin’ about now, boy?”

  “This gal here’s obveruslee in the military poe-leece, and, accordin’ to a piece’a paper called the Constertution’a the United States, the military is always ta be controlled by a civilian government, which means they ain’t got not law enforcement powers whatso’s ever in civilian jurisdictions like what we’se all standin’in the middle of right now. So’s how ‘bout you start ‘splainin’, Miss. And ya kin start by authentercatin’yer identity by showin’me yer proper military I.D card.”

  The Chief couldn’t believe his deputy’s sudden outburst of ill manners. “Hays, that ain’t no way to speak to a lady so pipe down!”

  But the woman didn’t hezzertate to reply, quite to the contrary, “Chief, your deputy’s observations are duly astute, and here, PFC, is my U.S. Army identification card.” She passed Hays the white plastic card for his perusal. Hays examined it, shrugged, then gave it back. “Hmmm, looks all right, I guess . . .”

  After which she continued, “However, I’m not a military policewoman, I’m a field operative with INSCOM.”