Blood Appeal

by Lyle O'Connor

  “Nothing yet. She was brownish skinned with shoulder length black hair. Hispanic would be my guess.”

  “For your article, make sure you don’t go out on a limb with your speculations. You’ll lose credibility. You also can’t tell the whole truth. Society prefers a whitewashed version. You’ll see it, from your editor when he or she cuts into your story and changes what they consider to be offensive. In the big cities, they often de-emphasize the victim being a young child unless it fits their agenda. That’s why you’ll need to follow-up with an emotionally charged human interest story. Focus on the victim and you’ll win your audience.”

  Jay leaned slightly forward and onto his right elbow as he cradled his jaw between his thumb and index finger. His eyes glazed over as he looked inside the envelope at the stack of pictures. He was silent. Slowly he stroked his jaw. He was formulating the story he’d write. I called to the waiter, “Check, please.”

  Jay snapped out of his trance, “I was going to get that, Walter.”

  “Let me buy this time Jay, and let me mention one more thing.”

  “Yeah sure, you have already given me new ideas for the story.”

  “This scenario is potentially dangerous. It wasn’t the perfect murder— not by a long shot. With her being discovered quickly, there’ll be forensic evidence to be processed, and that takes time. Putting emphasis on the murder might put you in the killer’s crosshairs. You’ve made yourself the central collection point for what becomes public knowledge in Barry County. The killer might think you’re the only one pushing the story. If you don’t tread lightly, you might find yourself stepping on his toes. I’d bet a buck the killer is a trusted member of your community and not some drifter. If I’m right, he won’t appreciate you keeping the story alive. He might try and shut you up. Only serial killers like the limelight. Front page revelations make enemies.”

  Jay nodded. “Thanks, maybe we can get together again?”

  “I’d like that, Jay. I see strengths in you that are uncommon among young reporters. I believe you’ll get the story told if for no other reason than for the little girl’s sake.”

  “You got it, Walter.”

  As I drove back to my cabin, I questioned why someone dumped the body at Cletus’ place? Table Rock Lake was a massive body of water and a far better place to hide a body. If the killer just wanted to dump the girl’s body, there were a lot of side roads with short bridges that would’ve been more conducive for a quick dump. The killer chose to pack the body through the brush, possibly in the dark, for a hundred yards or more from the roadway. From experience, I could say the killer had to be comfortable with a dead body slung over his shoulder and the risk of being seen during the exposure. It was a lot of extra effort to go through to dump the body. There had to be an ulterior motive as to why they chose Cletus’s place.

  Cletus was an undesirable sort for any community and not above suspicion in this matter. Landers had caught him in a couple pictures he’d snapped the day he responded to his shack. He had a grungy John Deere ball cap cocked back on his head. Straggly white hair hung out the back of the cap almost to his shoulders in places. His blue bib coveralls had missed one or two washings. What impressed me the most was the amount of saggy, wrinkled skin that was exposed where his coveralls didn’t cover. He didn’t smile for the pictures. He spared us that ugly display. I had my doubts this good ol’ boy had the physical ability to carry out what had been alleged. If he was responsible, he wasn’t alone. Landers said his friends referred to him as, “Chicken Charlie,” rather than Cletus. I didn’t ask.

  Until a better lead developed, he would remain a person of interest for the Sheriff’s Department. Having a person under wraps was essential to the stability of the community. It reassured locals that the County Mounties were on top of the case and translated into a false sense of safety and security. However, I saw Cletus as a pawn, and determined law enforcement leaned toward the same idea. Cletus might have been a miserable wretch, but not necessarily the product of a low IQ. It would have been incredibly stupid on his part to leave the body close by his house and then call dispatch. It didn’t make sense. Why not let it rot amongst the brambles? According to Delford, the girl’s body hadn’t been there long. In my playbook, the killer wanted fingers pointed at ol’ Cletus. The likelihood of an out-of-towner setting Cletus up as a fall guy was zilch. Unless forensic evidence proved otherwise, I leaned toward a frame-up.

  While I mulled over the questions, law enforcement was busy rounding up drifters and passersby for a friendly chat. It was their priority. I had no doubt I’d be on the list. I wasn’t only new to the community, but I had an obscure history. If the law dogs sniffed around enough, they might discover my hidden identity.

  With a sketchy plan to hit the trail in the morning, I wanted to turn in early. Maybe Landers had gathered a fresh lead to share and further investigate.

  I pulled my Avenger onto the resort’s gravel parking pad and killed the engine. Next to my car sat Duke Dixon’s ‘69 Ford pickup with its woodland camouflage paint job. It was too late to escape; I’d been seen. I wasn’t a fan of forced intermingling, especially with the likes of Dixon.

  The only person I knew that was impressed by Duke was Duke. I found myself constantly battling the urge to thump him. He was a pompous blowhard who shot his mouth off to scare women and sound tough to frail men, but never delivered on his threats. Having had the inclination to straighten out his personality defects had become a complicated matter. Duke had been Joyce’s boyfriend throughout high school, and he’d married her best friend. Secondly, she concerned herself with my safety. She was afraid I’d be severely beaten by Duke. It was a learning environment that helped me understand the practical nature of being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  Duke Dixon was a quick study. In the local community, he held the prestigious position as Chairman of the Vigilance Committee, a quasiparamilitary law enforcement outfit for the good of all humanity in Barry County, or so he said. That fact alone should have paved the way for our relationship as friends. He was my kind of people, but I couldn’t stomach listening to his pompous and lengthy delusions of grandeur. Duke was a local boy, born and reared in the hills of Shell Knob. He was a truck driver by trade, an avid outdoorsman, gun range owner, Second Amendment activist, and survival skills instructor. What I saw was all talk and no action. His big mouth and bigger ego ensured he and I would never be friends.

  Seeing people amassed on the front porch, I put my attitude in check, and with a smile on my face, I made my way to the goat rope. Joyce, Duke, and his wife Minnie, sat in a semi-circle holding pint sized mason jars filled with sun-made ice tea. Duke stood and stepped forward to greet me. He extended his hand and said, “How in-the-heck are you doin’ there, Stud.”

  “Stud…is not my name…Ace.”

  However appropriate; my response was perhaps interpreted as less than congenial. It was no secret to Duke that I didn’t care for his brand of friendliness. I’d straightened him out before when he’d addressed me as Stud, but I surmised he was a slow learner and in need of further instruction. In the spirit of cordiality, and since Minnie and Joyce were present, I’d let it go—again.

  Duke was three or four inches taller than me and carried two-hundred-fifty-pounds on a muscular frame. His behavior was more than a friendly gesture when he stood to shake my hand; it was his cocky attempt to intimidate. I noted his sly smile as it crept up the right side of his cheek and rose slightly higher when he spoke. He’d learned to use his size to the best of his ability. As he shook hands, he turned his right side in my direction and tightened his grip. It was always a handsqueezing competition whenever we met.

  I leaned toward Joyce as my hand swept across her lower back and nudged her closer. Our lips opened simultaneously as we kissed. I held the kiss longer than Joyce had expected. When we separated, her neck and cheeks revealed a light blush. Duke’s face was red too, a deep, full-bodied red that filled his face. Turning toward Minnie I
waved and gave her a down-home greeting that I’d picked up since I’d arrived. “Hey girl,” I said with a wink. She immediately looked away, but I saw the smile. Her head drooped as she cast her eyes toward the tongue-n-groove floor of the porch. I caught a glimpse of Duke’s eyes as he focused on her response. Duke’s vibes toward Minnie were a mystery. I didn’t care for the behavior, but I’d grown so used to his presence and tolerant of his bluster.

  Minnie might have been a likable sort of person if she had a discernible personality. Joyce had warned me in advance of my first meeting with Minnie that she was introverted. Joyce’s description was a gross understatement. Minnie wasn’t shy; she was timid. I suspected her behavior had been learned and not a natural shyness exhibited by reclusive people. I likened her behavior to that of a severely mistreated and abused animal. We referred to those animals displaying timid traits as having had their spirit broke. Minnie had one of those type spirits—broken. I didn’t know her personal history, but the signs were evident and etched into her face like ancient hieroglyphics.

  It was possible those closest to Minnie couldn’t see her condition. She was married yet all alone and lonely. How could those in her circle of family and friends overlook such a travesty? Joyce was of the opinion no one wanted to get involved. It wasn’t anyone else’s business. I disagreed. I was the type of guy that took care of that sort of business. No one stood up to Duke when he bad mouthed Minnie and tore apart her self-esteem. As the man-of-the-house, Duke saw his verbal assaults as his right to rule his kingdom, but shared none of the power, authority or respect with his Duchess. Minnie had been relegated to the position of a servant and treated poorly. Duke’s behavior bothered me to the point my heart went out to Minnie. I had to play it smart and not react to my gut instinct.

  Joyce wanted to clue me in on how she saw her lifelong friendship with Minnie. They had attended school together from the first grade through high school. “We were best friends most of our childhood.” There was something in Joyce’s choice of words that caught my attention. “Most,” was possibly a Freudian slip. I had to challenge her.

  “Not all your childhood?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘Most’ of your childhood. I was questioning what happened to your friendship?”

  “Um—uh,” her eyebrows squished together as she stuttered. Her puzzled facial expression spoke volumes. “Minnie was pregnant our senior year. She quit school to be a stay-at-home mom, I guess.”

  “Why would you have to guess? You were best of friends.”

  Joyce’s puzzled look morphed into a blank stare. She searched for an answer she should’ve known. Perhaps this was the first time in a long time she’d taken into consideration why they were no longer best friends. A few moments had passed before she let out a sigh that blew a dozen strands of hair from her face that had fallen forward. “The baby’s daddy was Duke. I didn’t see her much after that.”

  “Ahh, the plot thickens.”

  “It’s all water under the bridge, now.”

  “Let me get this straight. Duke, your high school sweetheart, got your best friend pregnant. Let me guess, it was while you two were still together?”

  “It was a long time ago and doesn’t matter.”

  It was a simple answer to a complex issue—too simple. I waited while she mulled over her thoughts. Her foot tapped the floor lightly under her chair as she sat in front of the window overlooking Table Rock Lake. She drifted into an awkward silence, lost in time and space. I was left hanging while she traveled a long way back on memory lane. I let the questioning rest, but unexpectedly, she continued her answer. “All Shell Knob was aware I was back from Toronto. Minnie called and asked to get together. That’s when I noticed the change. The Minnie I called my friend was gone.” She paused as her countenance saddened. It was a look that made me want to save her from the pain, but I was powerless to help. She continued, “Maybe it was the loss of her son that destroyed the girl I remembered. I don’t know.”

  Composed, I intuitively shot from the hip. “The loss of a child is a devastating experience. The level of pain is unexplainable, and the effects can be insurmountable.”

  Joyce stood and walked to where I was standing. Her eyes grew heavy with an ocean of tears. She wrapped both arms around my neck and hung her head to one side of my chest as the tears flowed freely. “I didn’t think you would understand.”

  Joyce had no way of knowing my understanding was from the head and not the heart. “Give her leeway. She needs someone she can confide in, and Duke’s never going to be that person. She needs someone she can call her friend. She needs you.” I didn’t like being disingenuous and superficial, but it was the only way I’d learned to communicate feelings. In the recess of my mind I doubted Minnie could be repaired. Joyce’s efforts would go down in flames, but she had to try.

  Joyce whispered, “I’d like you to get along better with Duke. It’s the only way I can help Minnie.” I disliked Duke, and the longer I was around him, the less I cared to be around him. To top it off I wasn’t big on commitments, but I conceded to her request. “I’ll cut him some slack—more than he deserves.”

  Shortly after Joyce returned to Shell Knob, Duke had frequently visited her or found an excuse to stop at the resort. More often than not it was without Minnie in tow. Joyce didn’t consider his behavior particularly odd, but she had confessed there were times when he visited her alone that made her uncomfortable. She didn’t give me the details, and it was just as well because he’d racked up a lot of dislikes with me.

  Duke didn’t live next door to the resort which gave me a good reason to be thankful. Amidst his boisterous crowing, he’d mentioned many times that he owned a parcel of land in Dixon Holler where his house and gun range sat. The Holler that was named after Duke’s family was located off Highway M north of Rock Creek’s East Fork. To visit Joyce, Duke traveled around Turkey Mountain and crossed a lengthy bridge over Table Rock Lake to arrive at the resort. As the crow flies, I estimated the distance at four miles between the two places. In road miles, it was twelve

  Duke was cordial having invited Joyce and me to burn gunpowder on his shooting range, but I hesitated to go. My inclination to shoot him would likely result in charges. I was also acutely aware of Joyce’s aversion to guns. My immediate concern was if I accepted his invitation I’d get stuck alone with him for an entire day. Without a guarantee for his safety, I refused to set the stage for a tragedy.

  As Duke sat down, he asked, “Tell us whatcha been doin’ all the dang day, Stud?”

  “Sheesh,” I sighed. Was this the ordinary way people communicated down south? His irksome behavior I saw as meddling in my affairs.

  Joyce had made Duke aware of my journalistic history. When opportunity knocked, I laid it on thick and let the testosterone flow freely. Politely I responded, “I met with a local newspaper reporter, Jay Landers, do you know him?”

  Joyce’s eyes squinted, and her eyebrows pulled tight but didn’t answer. Joyce had introduced Jay and me. The question hadn’t been posed to her. Minnie continued her lifeless stare at the porch decking near her feet while Duke answered, “No.”

  Unrealized by Duke, he’d given me an open door to raise havoc. “Landers asked my opinion and advice on how to cover the story on the murdered girl.”

  “That’s wonderful, Walter,” Joyce said. An air of excitement resonated from her loudly proclaimed statement. On the other hand, Duke didn’t look happy at all.

  Conflicts with Duke were not easily avoided. Of course, I hadn’t tried either. Salt and a wounded ego didn’t fare well together. “I’ve decided to involve myself with Landers coverage of the crime and lend him my expertise. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if we can solve the crime?” It wasn’t exactly a true rendition of how our conversation went down, but it was close enough. I was sure Duke saw it as competition since I’d made myself a person of importance in his view.

  From his reaction, and the lack of anyone else apparently catching on to
what I was doing, I tossed another slap in his face. “I think I’ll take a part-time job with the local newspaper and stay right here, this town would make a great permanent residence.” I didn’t specify if I would be staying at Joyce’s, but from the frown growing on Duke’s face I surmised he’d interpreted what I’d said in the worst possible way. His like for me was about as superficial as mine for him, and I wasn’t making it any better. He was a man with a plan, and I stood in his way. Although Joyce said he hadn’t made a play for her and dismissed the notion as silly, I saw him as grooming her for the future, but first he had to get rid of me.

  Minnie’s face scrunched at the mention of the killing. I took it as a genuine surprise. Likely, she wasn’t privy to the murder and probably the only person in Shell knob that didn’t know. That revealed a lot about Minnie. Duke clearly had cut her off from the world.

  Duke’s reaction was not nearly so sincere. “I ain’t heard nothin’ ‘bout no dead girl.” His pasty white face contrasted sharply with his short cropped, coal-black beard that obscured his overall facial expression from being easily read. However, he wasn’t able to hide the windows to his soul—his sinister deep-set eyes. There I focused my attention, and they told a different story. Duke had picked up on me as much as I had on him, but our actions significantly differed. He avoided eye contact and guarded his words carefully. I wanted to engage him in both. Either the girl’s murder or the mention of me staying on his home turf had put him on edge. In the recesses of my mind, the word guilty screamed at me. I was wary of the prompt. It might’ve been nothing more than my disdain coupled with wishful thinking.

  “Hon, would you like a glass of tea?” Joyce asked.

  I’ve never been much of an ice tea drinker, but down in Dixieland, it fit like a hand in a glove. I gave her the thumbs-up sign and said, “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Duke had no problem controlling his eyes when it came to avoiding eye contact, but he lacked discipline when it came to a woman’s anatomy. His eyes were glued to Joyce as she stood and turned to enter the house.