The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  A drilling rig sat across the open field less than a hundred feet away, the workmen leaning against the platform’s steel support structure and corrugated galvanized siding. They were drinking coffee from tin cups, the type that screwed on top of a working man’s thermos and smoking cigarettes even though the side of the structure was posted with warning signs that stated smoking was strictly forbidden.

  The cold air felt bent and heavy and smelled of diesel exhaust, sulfur, and molded corn. An industrial generator the size of a semitrailer hammered out a continuous thrum that was felt as much as it was heard. Virgil and Murton had seen it all before; war, bodies, murderous pumps who never should have been born, theft, arson, torture, drug trade, and lowlifes of every stripe. They’d fought together in the desert, almost gotten each other killed, and had, on more than one occasion saved each other’s lives. None of that prepared them for what they saw when they stepped out of Virgil’s truck. The entirety of the scene reminded Virgil of something he couldn’t quite pin down.

  The demolition of the co-op and the setup of the drilling platform had been halted by the discovery of the body, or what was left of it, anyway. All together, between the cops, paramedics, guardsmen, drillers, equipment operators, and fire-rescue personnel there were about fifty people standing around listening to one well-dressed man shouting his displeasure over the shutdown...something about unnecessary cost overruns cutting into his profit margins. When he saw Virgil and Murton approach, his wrath turned on them.

  “Who the hell are you, now?”

  He wore a dark gray business suit that was the exact color of the sky, like he might have checked the morning weather report before he decided on his wardrobe for the day. His glossy black shoes were covered with a thin layer of dust. They were pointed at the toes, a statement that left him slightly behind or just in front of the fashion curve. Virgil didn’t know. He didn’t care either.

  He held his badge out. “Virgil Jones.” He tipped his head to the left. “My partner, Murton Wheeler. We’re special investigators with the state’s Major Crimes Unit and we’re the ones you’ll be speaking with from here on out. And by speaking, I mean just that. How about you dial it back a little?”

  He turned his back on the man before he could answer, his attention now on the uniformed sheriff, his eyes just brushing the name tag on the way up. “Sheriff Benjamin Holden? Virgil Jones. The governor sends his regards and wants you to know we are at your disposal.” They shook hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Some of it might be true,” Holden said. “Call me Ben, would you? The only thing I hate more than this job is the title that goes with it.”

  “Yeah, call him Ben,” the gray suited man said. “As in, been holdin’ his dick.”

  Murton turned his head and said, “Be quiet.”

  “Quiet my ass. I’ve got millions of dollars circling the drain because of a farming accident and this flat-footed buffoon—”

  Murton got right in his face, his voice no more than a whisper. “I said shut up. My partner and I are going to be here for a while. How long you’re here is entirely up to me. Now you can stand here and act like the gentleman you’re dressed up to be, or I can put you in handcuffs and you can wait in the back of one of those squad cars over there. The back seats are molded out of a single piece of hard plastic. That means they’re puke-proof. I heard they have to hose them out three or four times during the night shift around here.”

  The man turned his head away and lifted his chin in profile.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Murton said. “Nice shoes.” He winked at Virgil then looked at Holden. “Show us what you’ve got?”

  “Follow me,” Holden said as he walked away from the gathering. He was watching Murton out of the corner of his eye. “What’d you say to him? I didn’t think he was ever going to shut up.”

  Murton shrugged. “I delineated his morning schedule for him.”

  The sheriff gave him a skeptical look, opened his mouth to say something, then let it go. He looked at Virgil. “Listen, I’m glad you guys are here. I really do mean that. And I don’t want to sound disrespectful when I ask, but do you think we could cut the guard loose? When I called the state for help I didn’t know they were going to send me GI Joe and the third battalion.”

  “The troopers are officially on strike.”

  “Yeah, I heard. But even if they weren’t, how many of them would have shown up?”

  The sheriff had a point. Usually only two or three uniformed troopers were on patrol in any given county, their duties focused primarily on interstate traffic control. “Who’s in charge?”

  Holden looked over Virgil’s shoulder. “The one talking to the suit. Oh great, he’s headed our way now. He thinks he’s General Patton, by the way.”

  Virgil turned and saw the soldier approaching. He wore a standard desert-colored field uniform with silver double bars pinned to his collar and front and center on his helmet. The name tag sewn into his breast pocket read ‘Decker.’ He stopped no less than two feet from Virgil and stood at ease, his hands behind his back, his elbows jutting out at perfect angles.

  “Sir, this is a restricted area under the command and control of the Indiana National Guard. Please state your name and the nature of your business here.”

  Virgil took off his hat and stuck it in the side pocket of his Carhartt jacket, letting his hair fall across his ears and forehead. He wore it long for a cop and it was streaked with gray at the temples. His eyes were the color of green steel and often looked charged with static electricity. He had an angular face, one that had become taut and lean with the workouts he’d become accustomed to since getting free of the drugs. He’d replaced the pull of the chemicals with his own endorphins, lifting weights every other day and running five miles at least three times a week. In his prime, and now the best shape of his life.

  “I get the impression that the fellow you were just speaking with has already told you who we are. But maybe not. In any event, you’re half right, Captain. This is a restricted area. Tell your men to pack it up and ship out.”

  Decker took a half step forward. “Sir, you haven’t answered my question.”

  Virgil smiled at him. “Relax, Decker. This isn’t a field-op and we’re not in the sandbox. And it wasn’t a question…it was request. In fact it was two. I’ll answer because that’s the kind of guy I am. My name is Jones. Detective Virgil Jones. This is my partner, Murton Wheeler. We’re special investigators with the state’s Major Crimes Unit. That means we’re here to investigate a crime. It also means you and your men are no longer needed here unless you believe that a fugitive or fugitives are in the immediate area. Do you believe that to be the case, Captain?”

  “You don’t look like a cop. You look like a roadie, or something.”

  Virgil pulled the edge of his jacket back and revealed his badge…and the .45 clipped to his belt. He thought he heard Murton say, ‘Oh boy.’ “How I look is my business. Answer the question.”

  “Sir, no sir. My men and myself have been in position since 0600 hours. The area is secure.”

  “Well done then. Drive carefully, soldier.” He turned away.

  Decker reached out and grabbed Virgil’s elbow and held him in place. The remaining guardsmen began to fan out, forming a half circle around their commander, their weapons now at port arms. “Sir, until and unless ordered otherwise by my commanding officer, my unit is to remain in place.”

  Virgil looked at Decker’s hand on his elbow, then right in his eyes. “Take your hand off of me right now. I won’t ask you again.” When Decker didn’t reply or remove his hand, Virgil took the hat out of his pocket and put it back on. As he did, his forearm and bicep began to crush the captain’s fingers in the crook of his elbow. When Decker finally did try to remove his hand it was too late. Virgil squeezed tighter until he heard a crunching sound and Decker made a noise that might have been a word except for the lack of consonants.

  Murton was speaking to some
one on the phone.

  When the soldiers saw what was happening with their commander they began to move in closer, tightening the circle. Virgil relaxed his arm and Decker yanked his hand away like he’d just pulled it from a pot of boiling water. When he tried to bend his fingers, he winced in pain.

  “Put some ice on that when you get back,” Murton said to Decker. “Maybe get an x-ray. I thought I heard something crack.” Then he held out his phone. “It’s for you.”

  Decker took the phone with his other hand, his men now at his back, their index fingers pressed straight and flat just above the trigger guards of their rifles. He put the phone to his ear, stated his name and rank, then listened, his face reddening by the second. A few moments later he said, “Understood,” and tossed the phone to Murton.

  He looked Virgil square in the face. “Sir, I apologize. My men and I are at your disposal.”

  “No, you’re not. Like I said, drive carefully.”

  As they turned to leave Virgil’s phone rang.

  “Tell me I haven’t made a mistake,” Cora said. “Please just tell me that one thing.”

  “Have you ever made one before?” Virgil asked.

  “Plenty. I’m hoping this isn’t one of them.”

  “They were in the way.”

  “They’re a presence, one that the governor is counting on.”

  “Sort of like me and Murt, if I understand our job descriptions.”

  “I won’t argue that. Do you know who Captain John Decker works for when he’s not on guard duty?”

  “No, and I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do, you just don’t realize it yet. He’s a bean counter for the state. He’s low level…no doubt about it, but his office falls under the purview of Kreg Gordon, the Chair of the house subcommittee. You know…one of the guys who have the governor by the balls.”

  This time it was Virgil who winced…but only a little. “I’ll leave the politics to you, Cora. Just let us do our thing here, okay? Cora?”

  The line was already dead.

  Virgil told Murton and the sheriff to give him a minute. He jogged over to the troop carrier. “Hey, Captain Decker, hold up a minute.”

  Decker had his foot on the running board of the transporter ready to climb in. He turned but didn’t speak. Virgil saw him flexing the fingers of his hand. They weren’t broken, but they’d be sore for a while.

  “Did you do any time over there?”

  Decker’s eyes went flat and Virgil knew. “So did I. Murton too. We were part of the first wave of ground troops in Iraq one.”

  “I did two tours in the ‘Stan,’” Decker said. “They wouldn’t take me for a third.”

  “Why not?”

  He took his foot off the running board, bent over and pulled his other pant leg up revealing an artificial limb. “RPG took out our chopper. We’d just taken off from the field hospital for another run. I don’t think we were more than fifteen feet in the air. The only thing left of the pilots and the door gunners were their tags. Don’t ask me how, but I was blown clear. The hell of it is, other than the ringing in my ears I didn’t have a scratch on me. Except when the main rotor hit the dirt it came apart and a piece went through my leg just above the knee. The docs said it was the cleanest cut they’d ever seen. It didn’t really hurt all that much. I think I must have been in shock or something.”

  Virgil looked away for a moment. “You know, for a guy with a peg wheel you’re pretty quick to make judgments about how other people look.”

  “I probably could have handled myself a little differently back there.”

  Virgil thought Decker had to make a conscious effort to leave the word ‘asshole’ off the end of his sentence. “So how can I get a hold of you if I need to?” he said.

  “Call your boss, asshole.”

  Virgil turned away so Decker couldn’t see his smile. “I’ll do that. Take Murt’s advice and get an X-ray. The state will cover the bill.”

  11

  After the guardsmen left, Holden again asked that they follow him. He moved with the awkward gait of a man whose knees had gone bad some time ago. He was skinny and wore an oversize all black uniform that gave him the appearance of a walking bag of sticks. His gun belt was cinched so tight it caused his pants to ride higher than normal revealing white athletic socks that sagged around his ankles. They walked in a line without saying anything, Virgil at the tail end. Murton and Holden drifted ahead as he looked around the field.

  The file report he’d read hadn’t done the scene justice. What was once the central hub of a thriving farming community had been reduced to a pile of rubble. He’d never seen the co-op in person, but there’d been photos in the file. The building had been demolished and was now nothing more than a heap of dusty red cinderblocks, shingles, copper tubing, electrical wiring and broken furniture. Half of it was gone, all ready hauled away by the dump trucks. The excavator and dozers had taken care of the structure in short order, probably without ever scratching the paint off their blades and buckets. Three of the ten silos remained standing, the work stopped when the body had been discovered.

  The silos, Virgil thought, with their tubes jutting out at odd angles looked a little like giant upside-down bongs.

  He turned a full circle and took it all in…the cops, the business man with the pointy-toed shoes, the workers, the drillers, the guardsmen, the demolition equipment, the drill rigging, the generator and single-wide trailers converted to field offices. It reminded him of how Ramadi and Mosul and Baghdad looked after they’d torn through with their single-minded objective that, in the end, only made things worse.

  Armageddon, Virgil thought. That’s what it reminded him of.

  Maybe Delroy was right. Maybe he should just stay behind the bar. Take a private case once in a while…chase down bail skips, cheating spouses and corporate embezzlers. Why not simply raise his family and let the lowlifes settle their own score?

  Then he saw the body and even though it was one of the worst he’d ever seen, he knew he was right where he belonged.

  God help me, he thought. I love this shit.

  Decker…pissed, and trying not to show it. So pissed, in fact, he was having trouble thinking straight. He sat in the passenger side of the troop transporter, a five-ton flatbed with a hard-topped front and a black canvas tarpaulin hovering over the men in back. The truck didn’t look much like a troop transporter. It looked more like something a mid-level Mexican landscaping crew might use. The only thing that even remotely hinted at a military element was the dull green paint job and the men in the rear of the truck.

  His driver, a black sergeant named Tom Ford worked the truck, grinding away at the gears as they made their way out of the co-op and on to the highway. Ford kept his head still, but let his eyes slide over to Decker every few seconds. Decker caught it. “What?”

  Ford was short, his legs barely long enough to reach the pedals of the truck, but he was square and solid, built like a boulder. In his uniform, he looked like a black and green fireplug. “Shit ain’t right.”

  Decker flexed the fingers of his hand. Tried to redirect him. “Ordered out is ordered out. Eyes on the road, soldier.”

  Ford wouldn’t let it go. “That’s not what I meant. That hot-shot cop…putting his hands on you like that? That’s not right. Not right at all.”

  “Just drive, will you?”

  “All’s I’m saying is every one of those boys in back are talking about how that cop got over on you. Then each one of them is going to say something to someone else and the next thing you know ain’t no one gonna respect—”

  “Tommy, I said drive.”

  Ford hit the clutch…he had to slide the left side of his ass forward to move the pedal far enough to shift, and even that was barely enough. He went from third to fourth, slid his ass back and the truck lurched forward. They could hear the groans of the men in back. “I am driving, case you didn’t notice. But that cop, man…”

  Decker held his rifle on his lap, t
he muzzle pointed at the floorboard. When he turned in his seat, the muzzle just naturally turned with him and ended up pointed at Ford’s groin. “Tommy, I swear to god, you better shut up and drive.”

  Ford shut up and drove.

  “Name’s Charlie Esser,” Holden said, his back to the body. “We was friends.” They were standing close to the body, but not hovering over it. The county medical examiner was still working. “I’ve done plenty of farming accidents over the years, but nothing like this. Figured maybe the state could help us out. We’re just not equipped for this, this…” He shook his head, his voice trailing away.

  Murton cleared his throat. “Where, uh…”

  “Is the rest of him?” Holder said. “I can’t hardly stand to think on it.”

  The medical examiner snapped off his gloves and dropped them in a sack. He was bald, with hound dog jowls, the skin under his eyes so puffy they looked like they’d been stuffed with grapes. His skin was the color of parchment paper and his eyebrows were almost non-existent…like you had to imagine they were there.

  “Don’t study on it too much, Ben. He was dead before he went through the auger. At least he was spared that much. But like I suspected, this wasn’t an accident. It’ll be in my report when I’m done with the post, but he was murdered. I’m sure of it now. He’s got a compression fracture of the skull on the back of his head. Probably a baseball bat or something like it. That’s what put him down. But he was still breathing. Not sure how long, but his airway’s packed with silage. I just popped a lung, right there at the bottom of his right side and you can see the particles plain as day. Looked like he might have been kicked around some too. Got a couple of busted ribs.”

  “You’re saying he was buried alive?” Murton said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Tell your crime scene people to call me when I can take him. I’m headed over to Sunnydale. They’ve got what looks like a femur in one of the hog pens.” He shook his head and his jowls wiggled back and forth.