A Killing Secret

by Robert E. Dunn

  * * * *

  An orange-red sun bloomed in the east—giving new life to bleary eyes. Our crime scene was populated with a couple of dozen people by then. The coroner’s van was there and waiting with open doors to take in the remains. To one side, Sheriff Benson, Chuck to his friends, was glad-handing with Riley Yates. Riley was one of the sheriff’s friends. Almost everyone in the county was. Riley was also a reporter. In that role, he didn’t seem so happy with the sheriff. I’ve heard that conversation before. Being friends didn’t mean the sheriff was unprofessional about his job.

  With the rising light, I was able to get into my own investigation routine. I retrieved a pencil and pad out of my truck and set to sketching. Photos catch the objective reality of the scene. But I find that, sometimes, the truth of things isn’t so objective. It was an old habit that got stronger when I met my husband. Nelson Solomon had been a Marine, and after that a successful artist. When he died, he left me richer in many ways—not the least of which was a better eye for the small parts of a big picture.

  I stood by the oak I had leaned the rake against and put the main shapes into the sketch. There was the tape perimeter, three trees, and the push bumper on a cruiser around which the tape was looped. Around the outer edges were tall grasses and weeds. They were all brown and friable from the drought. In the center was a black circle of ash and char. In the middle of that, like a bull’s eye in hell, was the burned man’s body.

  I worked quickly. People were waiting for me to release them to their jobs. Using the side of the soft lead, I made broad shades to fill in the burn circle. With my thumb, I smeared the lines out—smoothing and feathering them from black to grey to almost not there. After that, I used the point and a light touch to draw in the bones.

  It wasn’t until I had the bones in and compared my sketch to the reality that I noticed what was missing. In the ash were the clear furrows where the rake tines had been pulled. There was something else. Sticks and bits of bark—unconsumed by the fire—were raked out and evenly spread. The bones were scattered widely and—in some cases—covered by ash. They had been given particular attention.

  I glanced over and took a look at Fireman Dando—who was standing beside the pumper truck talking with his squad mates. In the rising light, I noticed, for the first time, the close crop of his hair and the corded muscle that I had taken earlier for frail thinness. His thin skin showed the sinew, and the tattoos on his arms highlighted each sharp angle. Even from where I was, it was easy to see the body art was not of the highest quality. It was the kind of old and faded ink you see on retired vets.

  To justify my continued staring, I kept sketching the layout of the larger scene. I added Dando at his truck and resolved to hit him with a few pointed questions.

  While I drew my notes, a truck barreled up the dirt track. It was an old Dodge, lifted with knobby tires and pipes run out to stacks poking over the top of the cab. The engine snarled. When it passed the fire pumper, but before getting to the spaced out cop cars, the truck slid to a grinding halt. Dust billowed up from the skid and breezed in from the draft. Dangling from the back of the hitch were two huge hex nuts on a chain—truck nuts. Classy.

  The driver bounded from the cab before the truck even finished its dieseling death. “You got no right,” he shouted. “This is private property. You got no right to be here.” He was a big man, wide and strong-looking. His long stride ate up the ground.

  Dando bolted forward and tried to slow him down. I saw the two of them exchange quiet, stressed words to no effect. The angry man pushed the fireman aside and kept right on coming.

  At the same time the deputies, the sheriff, and I paced in to converge with him.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on,” he shouted as soon as he picked the sheriff out.

  Sheriff Benson met him with upheld hands and a stoic face. “Settle down now, Johnson.”

  “Settle down my ass.” Johnson shot back instantly. “You’re on my property. I want to see a warrant.”

  Johnson towered above the sheriff. He must have been six-five without the additional inch of heel under his lacer boots. Not just tall; the man was broad. His shoulders, thick with muscle, were as wide as an ax handle was long. He had a faded red beard shot through with grey. It dangled to his chest and was the most striking thing about the impressive man, until I got close enough to see his eyes. They were blue—the color of deep and ancient ice. Johnson looked like Odin stripped from the old, Norse stories. And he was an angry god.

  “We don’t need a warrant for this,” the sheriff said. He was making an effort to sound reasonable. “It’s a crime scene.”

  “Who says?”

  “The body someone tried to burn on a brush pile,” I said.

  “It still don’t give you the right—”

  “It gives us every right, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Mr. Johnson?” he looked at Sheriff Benson with an incredulous expression. “Where the hell are you getting cops these days, Chuck?” To me he said, “Keep your dyke mouth closed a minute. I’m talking to the boss.”

  The sheriff got a look on his face that I always took as license. It wasn’t exactly permission for the kind of anger that’s defined my career in the department—so much as it was an acceptance of inevitability. He took a small step back—the kind that said whatever happened was not his responsibility. “Hurricane,” he said, putting a little extra emphasis on the nickname. “This is Johnson Rath. All around pain in the ass.”

  “Chuck Benson, all around king of the great society,” Johnson spit back.

  “I’m a Republican, Johnson. You know that.”

  “You’re a pissant.” Johnson pointed a thick finger at the sheriff. “And a traitor.” He jabbed the digit into the sheriff’s chest. It was what I was waiting for. Any contact with a police officer in the performance of his duty can be construed as assault. The laws are pretty broad and always work in favor of the officer. Johnson’s finger made contact just to the heart side of center. The force of it shoved the sheriff back on his heels.

  I reached with both hands. With my right, I grabbed Johnson’s finger and twisted. I opened my left hand and slapped it, palm up, into his elbow and pushed up.

  He was surprised, but strong. His arm bent around, following the force of my hold. His head turned. His cold gaze set on my eyes. From there, it was like a terrible arm wrestling contest. Johnson didn’t fight, he simply resisted. The more force I applied, the more he tensed against it. Other than that, he showed no sign that I was bothering him at all.

  If I had grabbed his wrist rather than his finger, I’m not sure I could have held him. As it was, the finger was a perfect grip and gave me painful leverage.

  Johnson spit without taking his gaze from my eyes. “You sure you want this, little girl?” he asked.

  “Talk and insults the best you got?” I asked back. I wasn’t feeling as sure as I had a moment before though.

  “Think you can hold me? How long?”

  “At least until your finger breaks, asshole.”

  He nodded over his shoulder, almost smiling.

  In my hands, I felt him shift and tense. I applied more pressure.

  His almost-smile broke into a knowing smirk.

  The finger I was holding twisted against my efforts. To keep my hold I had to push harder and force the digit backwards.

  Johnson’s glacier-blue eyes were locked with mine when I felt the bone break. Nothing changed in his expression. I was startled that it had gone that far. The snap caused me to let go.

  He took the opportunity to turn in and bring his other hand high and fisted at my face. I blocked with my upper arm and shoulder, still the knuckles slipped past and caught me above the ear. I went with it, lowering my head and bending at the waist. I came around pulling my telescoping baton. It was too late.

  Johnson was already crumbling to his kn
ees as a bright gouge of blood opened on his temple.

  The sheriff held his revolver casually by his thigh. The barrel of the brushed nickel .357 was streaked with blood. “Subtlety is wasted on a man like Johnson.” He showed me the gun and the blood on it. “Sometimes the old ways are the best.” He turned to the deputies standing gape-mouthed. “Cuff him, Calvin. Take him in to cool off a bit.”

  When they were taking him to a car, the sheriff turned to me and said, “Your temper is going to get you into trouble one day.”

  “My temper? You’re the one who pistol-whipped him.”

  “I couldn’t let him land that haymaker.”

  “Well, thanks for that. Who is that guy?”

  “I can tell you that,” Riley Yates said. I hadn’t seen him approach.

  “Yeah,” Sheriff Benson nodded. “Riley can tell you better than I can. And without calling the man a goddamned sack of shit.”

  The sheriff was a good man, but kind of rough with his language. I always took it as a compliment that he restrained himself for ladies, but he let it fly around me. Charles Benson had never made me believe that I was anything less than any other cop in his eyes. It was something I always appreciated.

  “What’s the story?” I asked Riley. I nodded at the sheriff’s back as he went back to his car. He wiped his pistol on his pants leg before he holstered the weapon.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard that one,” Riley said. He pointed to the burned circle behind the tape. “Quid pro quo?”

  “You know I can’t tell you anything more than the sheriff would.”

  “You owe me a little more.”

  I hit him with a look. No one likes to be pushed, especially by a friend. Besides, he was right. I owed him. Riley used information I gave him several months back to write a story exposing a group of CIA and private mercenaries who were trafficking arms and women to pay for nation-building by Kurdish separatists. His writing probably made it impossible for the government to retaliate.

  “I know I do,” I answered. “But. . .”

  “Don’t sweat it Hurricane. I don’t expect anything that you can’t share. Maybe you can share a little differently than your boss?”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “And don’t call me Hurricane.”

  “I think you’re way past fighting that.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if every woman named Katrina has to deal with that hurricane every day.”

  “It sticks to you because it fits so well.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I needed a change of subject. “Tell me about this Johnson thing.”

  Riley nodded. It looked to be in part agreement, and in part a physical effort to shake loose the memories. “That was a long time ago. It was 1978 or ’79.”

  “Sock hops and soda pop.”

  “Not that long ago. But we still played records with needles, and it was a big deal when gas soared over a buck a gallon.”

  “Quaint.”

  “The past always is if you didn’t live through it. There was a lot going on. One of those things was the rise of the religious, end-of-the-world, white power, gun nuts, militia guys.”

  “Like Waco and Ruby Ridge?”

  “Nothing like those. Both situations were tragedies that could have been handled with patience and communication. Just because you want to be left alone doesn’t mean you’re a danger to anyone else. These guys were different—are different.”

  “These guys?”

  “The New American Covenant–The Word and the Sword. That entire mouthful was what they called themselves. They wanted a separate nation right in the middle of this one. One with their own rules, of course.”

  “Old Testament rules, I’m guessing.”

  “Old Testament—without the messy Jewish connection. All Aryan and racially pure. They had a big compound across the line in Arkansas. But they liked to come into Missouri to raise money. Robbery. Extortion. Drugs.”

  “And Johnson Rath was one of them?”

  “Johnson was the biggest, baddest, and angriest of them all. He was a founding member of the Ozarks Nightriders. He’s still connected to them but has a whole host of new friends. None of them very nice. ”

  “So what happened between him and the sheriff?”

  “Chuck was a brand new sheriff. He’d barely won the election and he lost the next one. He probably wouldn’t have even been there if he didn’t feel he needed the exposure. It was over in Rockaway Beach. The town still had the resort thing going on, fishing lodges, go carts, arcades. It was Saturday night on a Memorial Day weekend. Hundreds of people filled the streets. Every dock had a band or a juke box going. Nights like that are gone now. Part of the reason was Johnson Rath.

  Riley paused. I couldn’t tell if he was remembering or wishing.

  “Anyway, like I said, Chuck was working the sidewalk crowds, shaking hands, making sure everyone knew his name. Johnson Rath was in the middle of the street where things were thickest. Drinking—probably drunk. He was the kind of man who never had to look for trouble because he brought it with him wherever he went. A kid named Earl Turner walked right into that trouble.”

  “They had a history?”

  Riley shook his head, a firm negative. The thought and memory came after. He looked around like the past would sneak up if he wasn’t careful.

  “It was a sad and shameful night.”

  “You were there?”

  “It was a big deal. Summer was in the air. A decade was ending. Things seemed bright. It was a good time to celebrate. A lot of us who lived around here were there. A lot of names you would know. Your Uncle Orson was there for part of it. The end.”

  “What happened?”

  “The streets were crowded. People had beer and hard liquor in plastic cups and no one cared. It was like Mardi Gras down in New Orleans—except for one thing. All the faces you saw were white. It was something you didn’t think about until you had to.”

  “Earl Turner?”

  Riley nodded, then let his gaze lock with mine. “The one black man in the crowd. He was walking with a white girl when they bumped into Johnson.” Riley broke eye contact with me, then turned to stare at the sheriff standing over by his car. Sheriff Benson was cleaning his gun with a rag. He looked like he was whistling. “It was like something out of a movie. Like a silent bomb went off in the middle of the crowd. All at the same time, everyone knew to back away. Johnson stood alone with Turner.”

  “I imagine Earl had to know he was in trouble. Hate has a way of burning its cues into your head.”

  “They fought?”

  “No. Turner was a skinny, twenty-year-old kid. Johnson was a man with the muscles of a bull. It was ugly and brutal. It wasn’t a fight. It was a massacre. There was no stopping Johnson. Not that anyone tried. I saw it from a balcony. I even took a picture that was never put into any paper.”

  “The sheriff?”

  “Sheriff Chuck Benson pushed his way through the bodies. I’m sure he thought that he was coming to break up a drunken fight. What he found was Johnson standing over Turner. The kid was trying to scream. All the wind and pain were locked in his lungs. He was on the asphalt with Johnson’s foot on his ribs. His arm was in Johnson’s hands. Johnson was twisting it—not like you did with his finger.

  “Johnson had the arm twisted out of the shoulder socket. No joint should bend like that. His muscles and tendons had to be stretched past breaking. If Johnson had put any more pressure on the arm, skin would have ripped. That arm was about to come off when Chuck ran in.

  “It changed everything for him.”

  “How?” I looked over at the sheriff. His weapon was clean and put away. He looked to be doing a crossword puzzle.

  “Until that moment, Johnson and Chuck were friends.”

  Meet the Author

  Robert Dunn is the author of the Katrina Willi
ams series, the acclaimed crime novel, Dead Man’s Badge, as well as the supernatural thrillers The Red Highway and The Harrowing. He can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/RobertEDunnAuthor on Twitter at @WritingDead or on Instagram as @redunnauthor.

  BODY OF PROOF

  Katrina Williams left the Army ten years ago disillusioned and damaged. Now a sheriff’s detective at home in the Missouri Ozarks, Katrina is living her life one case at a time—between mandated therapy sessions—until she learns that she’s a suspect in a military investigation with ties to her painful past.

  The disappearance of a local girl is far from the routine distraction, however. Brutally murdered, the girl’s corpse is found by a bottlegger whose information leads Katrina into a tangled web of teenagers, moonshiners, motorcycle clubs, and a fellow veteran battling illness and his own personal demons. Unraveling each thread will take time Katrina might not have as the Army investigator turns his searchlight on the devastating incident that ended her military career. Now Katrina will need to dig deep for the truth—before she’s found buried . . .

  DREDGING UP THE TRUTH

  Still recovering from tragedy and grieving a devastating loss, Iraq war veteran and sheriff’s detective Katrina Williams copes the only way she knows how—by immersing herself in work. A body’s just been pulled from the lake with a fish haul, but what seems like a straightforward murder case over the poaching of paddlefish for domestic caviar quickly becomes murkier than the depths of the lake.

  Soon a second body is found—an illegal Peruvian refugee woman linked to a charismatic tent revival preacher. But as Katrina tries to investigate the enigmatic evangelist, she is blocked by antagonistic FBI agents and Army CID personnel. When more young female refugees disappear, she must partner with deputy Billy Blevins, who stirs mixed feelings in her, to connect the lake murder to the refugees. Katrina is no stranger to darkness, but cold-blooded conspirators plan to make sure she’ll never again see the light of day . . .