Sinking Suspicions

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  A woman appeared in a pink housecoat, holding a small brown dog under her arm. Lance could see her shrug her shoulders and point into the small park that held no more than a half dozen dilapidated trailers.

  Lance got out of the car, clipped his badge to the front left side of his belt, and wedged his firearm between his jeans and the small of his back. At the rear of the trailer park, Lance could see a bluff on the far side of a dry creek bed. It wouldn't be easy for anyone to escape in that direction. The only escape routes would be over the stockade fence on either side of the park, or out the front entrance.

  “The manager says she doesn't know anyone by the name of Skinner,” Charlie said as he returned to the vehicle, “but she says there's a dark-skinned fellow who spends a lot of time at that last trailer on the right. Says the renter's name is Cynthia Tanner.”

  Lance nodded. Tanner was a Cherokee name and Buck Skinner was also a full-blood Cherokee. Lance guessed that in some circles a Cherokee could pass as “dark skinned.”

  The two men walked the short distance to the Tanner residence. An old beat-up Ford truck peeked out of a carport attached to one end of the trailer. A rusted lawn mower sat in the middle of the yard surrounded by tall grass, as if it had stopped working and no one ever bothered to move it. Lance walked to the rear of the truck and made a mental note of the combination of letters and numbers on the plate.

  While Lance waited near the truck, Charlie climbed up three wooden steps and knocked, rattling the glass of the storm door. Nothing. Charlie knocked again, harder. Still no answer.

  Lance surveyed the area, sweeping every inch with his eyes, including the truck. He stopped when he got to the driver's door and nodded to Charlie.

  “Looks like blood on the vehicle.”

  Charlie looked at Lance and then back through the glass door at the doorknob.

  “Yeah, I think we've got the same thing here and the main door is ajar. Looks like probable cause to me.” He drew his weapon, pulled open the storm door, and pushed the heavy door open with his foot. Lance followed him in.

  “Cynthia?” Charlie called out. “Cynthia Tanner?”

  The small trailer creaked as the two men walked across the threshold. Other than that, the place was deadly quiet.

  Lance waited in the small kitchen area while Charlie walked down the short and narrow hallway, calling out the woman's name again. Charlie leaned over the bed and cursed, and then called out to Lance, “Well, if this is our perp, he isn't going to be killing again anytime soon.”

  Lance let out a long sigh. Surely this couldn't be the end of a Cherokee warrior like Buck Skinner.

  Charlie pulled a cell phone out of his pocket with his left hand and dialed with the click of one button.

  “I need an ambulance at the Vista Trails Trailer Park, stat. Last trailer on the right. Gunshot victim. Barely alive.”

  As Charlie called it in, Lance tried to force himself into the small bedroom behind Charlie.

  “Is he still alive?” Lance asked.

  “Not really, but the medics get paid to determine that. Not me.” Charlie replaced his phone.

  Lance looked at the huge “dark-skinned” man lying face down on the bed as Charlie lifted the dead man's head enough to expose an exit wound in the middle of his forehead.

  “I guess we can rule out suicide,” Lance said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Do you think this is your missing man?”

  “Negative. I've met Buck Skinner and this isn't him. Buck is close to eighty years old. This man can't be a day over forty.” Then, a horrible thought crossed his mind. If the dead man wasn't Buck Skinner, it was possible this poor guy had died at the hands of one very angry old Cherokee. Surely not, he thought to himself, and then said, “Charlie, do you see a weapon?”

  As both men looked around and under the bed for a gun, the truck outside roared to life and gravel sprayed the side of the trailer. Lance ran back into the living room and looked out the window just as the truck spun around Charlie's cruiser and left rubber on the pavement of Creek Street.

  “Secure the scene!” yelled Charlie, as he ran out the door to his police car. In seconds, the blaring siren and flashing lights of Charlie's cruiser careened down the street behind the fleeing truck. Lance could hear the ambulance coming in the distance.

  Lance returned to the victim and checked for a pulse. The man was definitely dead. When the ambulance pulled up outside the trailer, Lance met the medical personnel at the door and flashed his badge.

  “I hope one of you boys is the medical examiner,” he said. “Otherwise, it was a wasted trip.”

  One of the paramedics rushed past Lance, spent a few seconds in the bedroom, and then returned. “We'll give him a call.”

  While the paramedics stood outside, Lance returned to the dead man and quickly fished a billfold out of his back pocket. What he saw gave him a start. The name on the Oklahoma driver's license read “Benjamin Skinner.”

  Charlie almost crashed into another vehicle as he turned north off of Creek Street onto Main in pursuit of the Ford truck, veering onto the shoulder of the road and then fishtailing back onto the highway. The truck was getting away. He slammed the accelerator to the floor and climbed the hill leading northeast out of town. The runner was headed for Arkansas or Missouri.

  Charlie picked up his radio and gave the information to dispatch to contact both state agencies. Just as he replaced the transmitter, Charlie topped the hill and saw the truck clip the front of an eighteen-wheeler, causing the semi to jackknife and spill its entire load of live chickens across both lanes of the highway. Charlie screeched to a stop and watched feathers fill the air as the old Ford disappeared around a curve in the distance.

  The fleeing driver jerked the steering wheel from one side to the other, causing the truck to slide wildly across the highway. The truck careened around the semi and almost ran headlong into an oncoming car. The driver watched in the rearview mirror in horror as the semi jackknifed, and then looked up too late to see the sharp curve rising out of nowhere. The driver punched the brakes hard, causing the wheels to lock and the tires to screech against the asphalt just before the truck left the road, bounced across a steep ditch, and plowed through a barbed wire fence. The driver's head hit the windshield as a cottonwood tree that must have been at least a hundred years old stood firm against the crashing blow.

  After losing consciousness for just a moment, adrenaline kicked in and supplied enough awareness and strength for the driver to force open the passenger-side window to escape. The fall from the truck onto the ground hurt, but the cold water from the creek brought everything back into focus—the heart-thumping fear, the sight of blood, and the reality of death. Panic pushed the driver, hobbling, disoriented, into the cover of the woods.

  While Lance waited for either Charlie to return or the medical examiner to arrive, he carefully nosed around the crime scene. He didn't want to disturb any evidence, but he thought there might be something there that would tie the victim back to Buck Skinner. After all, his search for Sadie's neighbor was the reason he'd ended up here in the first place.

  He found two letters that had fallen on the floor near the bed. Using his pen, he turned them so he could read the return address. One was from Hawai‘i. Lance looked at the dark-skinned man again and realized maybe he wasn't Indian at all. Could he be Hawaiian? The other letter had a foreign address on it. He pulled his small spiral-bound notepad from his shirt pocket and copied the return addresses. He couldn't risk getting his fingerprints on the envelope, so he would have to wait for the lab to arrive before he could learn the contents of either letter.

  Seeing the Hawai‘i address made him think about Sadie. She wasn't going to believe the strange turn of events that had taken place in the search for her neighbor.

  Lance's thoughts returned to the victim. He was relieved to know that Ben Skinner, the murderer who had “gutted a man like a chicken” and then escaped through the back door of the chicken processing plant ea
rlier that day, was not the Buck Skinner he was looking for. Instead, the chicken plant murderer, who had become a victim himself, had most likely been the thorn in Buck's side, the thief who had stolen Buck's social security number and used his name as well. Stealing Buck Skinner's identity had been a big mistake on the murdered man's part, and Lance hoped that mistake hadn't been the reason this big guy had a bullet hole in his head.

  Lance knew Buck Skinner was capable of killing, just like he and all the other veterans who had served in combat, and he surmised that under the right circumstances, everyone had it in them to kill. Lance thought about the truck Charlie was chasing. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Maggie.

  “Maggie, can you look up a vehicle license plate for me?”

  “Well, it's about time. I've been trying to get hold of you all morning.” Maggie sounded as if she had had one too many cups of coffee. “Figured you were out of cell phone range, but—”

  Lance cut her off. “I've been a little tied up, Maggie. I need you to look this up for me.” He rattled off the combination of letters and numbers as he remembered them from the truck's license plate and waited.

  After a few moments, Maggie returned to the phone. “I guess you found your man.”

  “Not sure. What'd you come up with?”

  “Benjamin Skinner, of course.”

  “Of course.” Lance said in disgust. “Address?”

  The address matched that of the Vista Trails Trailer Park.

  “That's all I've got on Benjamin Skinner. Have you talked to Sadie?”

  Lance's phone beeped in his ear. “Hold on, Maggie. I've got Charlie trying to get through.” Lance switched lines on his phone, but all he could hear was a lot of static and the sound of Charlie talking on his radio to someone else. “Charlie, did you get him?”

  Charlie came on the line. “No, lost him in a hail of chicken feathers, but just got word from a state trooper that they've found the truck wrapped around a tree. Suspect's disappeared. Search is under way. I'm on my way back to you now. ETA fifteen minutes.”

  Charlie had already disconnected when Lance switched back to the other line. “Maggie, are you still there?”

  “Yeah, Chief, I'm here. If you need anything else, just holler. Have you talked to Sadie?”

  “No, we seem to be playing phone tag.” Lance could hear someone driving up out front. “I've got to go, Maggie. I'll get back with you as soon as I get rid of this dead body.” Lance slammed the phone shut and crammed it in his pocket.

  Chapter 9

  Cynthia Tanner stood in front of the meat counter, trying to choose what to prepare with her morel mushrooms. For weeks she'd been craving the delectable treats that grew in the woods close to the creek not far from her home. She considered them a gift from the Creator to the Cherokee people, and she'd loved them ever since she'd first tasted them as a child.

  The mushroom crop had been plentiful for only a few weeks in April, immediately after a week of cool showers had passed through the county, so she'd picked as many as she possibly could and stored them for future use. After she thoroughly shook them in a paper sack to remove the dirt and debris, and dunked them in a cool bowl of water, she'd threaded each mushroom on a piece of heavy thread, using a sewing needle to pierce through the stem just as her Cherokee grandmother had taught her. Then she'd hung them to dry for almost a month before placing them in airtight plastic bags and stacking them above the refrigerator, where she thought they'd be good for at least six months. If there were any left after that, she would carve out a spot in the freezer for them.

  Cynthia grinned inside when she thought about her sister, who had never acquired a taste for morels yet had spent most of the day helping Cynthia with the harvest, all the time complaining about shuffling through dead oak leaves for what she referred to as “icky fungus.” Cynthia had always tried her best to instill in her sister some of the lessons she'd learned from her grandmother. Someday she might be thankful for a meal provided by the earth, she'd told her.

  Refocusing on the meat cooler, Cynthia finally made her choice. It would be chicken again, not only because it came from the local processing plant, but because it cost a lot less than beef or pork. She would bring the mushrooms back to life with bacon grease in a saucepan, brown the chicken in the skillet, and pour the mushrooms on top. It would be delicious.

  After choosing the cheapest package of chicken legs available, she dropped it next to two bags of potato chips on top of the other items in her grocery cart, and headed for the beer section in the refrigerated aisle with guarded anticipation. Did she have enough to pay for all this food?

  Benny had called from the Northwest Arkansas Airport to let her know he was almost home. He'd been visiting family in Hawai‘i, and she knew he would be famished after the long plane ride. She'd never fixed mushrooms for Benny before, but she knew he'd like them.

  Guiding her cart down the beer aisle, she picked up a six-pack of Benny's favorite—Pabst Blue Ribbon—and pushed her cart toward the checkout lane. Coming to a halt in the middle of the aisle, she counted the number of items she had. No express lane for her today.

  She waited patiently behind a young mother who balanced a toddler on one hip as she placed items on the conveyor belt for the cashier. The other child, a preschool boy, ran around the entire group of checkout lanes, stopping each time he circled to pull on the toddler's shoe and provoke an ear-splitting shriek.

  Cynthia tried to focus. She studied her grocery cart and made another attempt to mentally add the cost of the contents. She thought she had enough balance left on her food stamp debit card for the groceries, but she would have to pay cash for the beer. The cashier would never let her slide on the beer, even though she'd seen her do it for others. Cynthia heard a siren and watched through the grocery store's large plate-glass window as a truck flew by, followed shortly thereafter by a police car.

  A jolt of adrenaline shot through her. The truck looked just like Benny's truck. She tried to think. It couldn't be. He hadn't had time to get from the Arkansas airport to Sycamore Springs. Then another thought entered her mind. Unless he had lied about where he was when he called. Suddenly, her face felt hot. There were other things that had taken place while Benny was gone, personal things she'd prefer he didn't find out about.

  She'd made no promises to Benny before he left two weeks ago. She was still a single woman, one that a lot of men still found attractive, including Tomas Hernandez. She might not look like the fashion model on the front of the magazine in the nearby rack, but nobody did. She looked down at her clothes, cotton pants and tee shirt, plain but clean. She pulled in her stomach momentarily, trying to hide the muffin-top bulge that showed through her knit top. She pushed her straight hair away from her face with the back of her hand, wishing she had the money to get a real haircut at a beauty salon. The last time she'd trimmed her hair with the sewing scissors her sister had laughed nonstop for a week before finally helping her clean up the uneven edges.

  At the age of thirty, Cynthia felt her youth slipping away and rationalized that no one could blame her for having a little fling while Benny was gone. And, no one had to know. Especially Benny.

  Benny had a terrible temper, but that certainly wasn't anything new to her. She had grown up in a household full of hotheads. She knew how to duck and block a punch, something she'd learned early on from her mother.

  She had met Benny in a bar south of town almost a year ago, where she'd seen his rage on full display, with plenty of strength and machismo. She thought he was gorgeous—a big man with coffee-colored skin and thick black hair. The attraction was mutual.

  He never talked much about his past or his family, or if he had either. She knew he mailed most of his money to a foreign address in envelopes displaying long words that she couldn't understand or pronounce. She never asked questions and he never offered any information. If he had a wife and family somewhere else, she figured the less she knew about it, the better.

  He'd lost no t
ime making himself at home at her place, where they'd fostered an on-again off-again relationship. On, when he was working and sober; off, when he shoved her against the wall and blackened her eyes.

  “Are you ready?” The cashier's voice pierced her thoughts.

  Cynthia moved her cart forward and lifted her items onto the conveyor belt with shaking hands. A glass bottle of picante sauce slipped from her grip and crashed onto the concrete floor, sending tomatoes, onions, and peppers in all directions and onto her white sneakers. “Oh, no. I'm so sorry.” Tears spilled off her face as the realization flooded her body. She was afraid of Benny.

  The cashier picked up the receiver of the phone that hung on the wall near her register and spoke into it. Her words echoed across the grocery store. “Clean up at front register, please. Clean up at front register.”

  “Can you hurry?” Cynthia blurted. “I've got to go.”

  The cashier made a face, hung up the phone, and started flinging Cynthia's groceries into paper sacks. “You got money for the beer?” she asked.

  “Forget the beer,” she said. “I don't really want it anyway.”

  The cashier finished deducting the groceries from Cynthia's food stamp card, and Cynthia quickly rolled the cart to her car, where she loaded the sacks into the backseat and tore out of the parking lot.

  When Cynthia reached the entry to the trailer park and saw the ambulance sitting by her trailer, she gasped and slammed on the brakes. She swallowed, drove forward, and parked behind the EMS vehicle. A man she'd never seen before walked out of her trailer and stood on the top step. When she got out of the car, she could see his badge on his belt.

  “What's going on?” She directed her question first to the paramedic who was leaning against his vehicle.

  He shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward the man who quickly descended the steps.

  “Lance Smith,” the man said, as he offered his identification for verification. “Are you Cynthia Tanner?”