Skin the Cat

by R Sean McGuirk

  Arms raised over high over his head for the kill shot, I pulled my right knee to my chest and kicked hard, my heel sinking deep into his groin. Air exploded from his lungs, his eyes went wide, and the bat rolled limply out of his grip and bounced onto the floor. He didn’t move. Stunned. Standing there like he might be waiting in line to pay for something he didn’t want to purchase. I brought my knee to my chest again, pushing my ass into the mattress for maximum leverage, and kicked with all my might. My heel smashed into his balls and kept going, finding his intestines this time, the impact nearly lifting him off his feet. His body snapped open like a sail and the light in his eyes flickered. A wheezing whistle seeped from his mouth as he deflated like a torn pool toy, arms withering down, head tilting over a boneless neck, and slowly rolling over the edge of the bed like a jellyfish, hitting the floor without a sound.

  I sat up feeling bandana still strapped to my face, not feeling good about the way this all went down. Something nudged my foot and I jumped. The cat slithered, coiled and purred in loops around my ankle. I felt for my phone, thinking of the photo I’d just taken. There would be more questions than answers but it would help. As I limped out of the trailer, the feline sat in the doorway and watched me go.

  Sometime in the wee hours of sleep, when the pale-blue promise of morning soaks up the remainder of twilight, Emily’s face came to me smiling, her fingers stroking the hair over my ear like she used to, her honeyed breath so close I could almost taste it on my tongue. She said my name soundlessly. I opened my eyes and she was gone. Abandoned in an infinite field of loneliness, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I caught a whiff of the outdoors, the breeze seeping into my open bedroom window. The first scent of acrid leaves hinted at summer sinking to low tide as early autumn flowed in to replace it. As with all things olfactory, my mind began to spin, thoughts racing. School would be starting soon. Back to school supplies. New shoes and outfits. Just around the corner. The idea infused me with an escalating sense of urgency. Paramount to anything else for Lilly and Brant was ongoing financial security. And to achieve that I needed ongoing job security. I pondered the investigation, and briefly imagined a worst-possible scenario. What if this squid Billy Harmony took off? What if this case liquidly seeped through my fingers? What if I failed to prove my viability as a detective? So went the hope of any future paychecks. For every right reason, it was crucial to get the jump on a search warrant for the Harmony trailer. The guy wasn’t trying to chase off an intruder. He wanted to kill me dead. Said he would find my family next. Nobody acts like unless they have something to hide. Or someone. There had to be more evidence sitting there. I steered my car and headed straight for the precinct.

  The elevator doors slid open in the second floor, greeting me with that momentary predawn lull before shift change, that fleeting peaceful calm most precincts hit like a speed-bump before rushing headlong into the next relentless day. Taking the long way in, I swiped my I.D. on an interior security door of intake and entered. The women’s holding cell sat empty. The next security door over, the men’s pen gave off the rounded stench of sour booze and dank urine. Five men were keeled over in various positions on wall-mounted cots, sleeping off last night’s blackout. One other stood whispering hotly at the wall, arguing at it with wild hand gestures and crazed eyes, teeth gone, his face shrunken into the skull, a real meth-man never coming home. I grasped the iron bars wondering how I got it before they did, my thoughts swerving into my secret meditations, the candle flame, God inside of that and me digging in deeper each time. I shook off the trance, and headed back into the administrative office, the real weight of this case, making money and my sense of job security rising up faster than the sun. Armed with a three-ounce Styrofoam coffee just outside the kitchenette, and turning down another hallway, I heard a file drawer click shut, and a pencil scratching on paper. I peered over a partition to find Debbie’s lamp radiating warmly in a corner cubicle. “No way,” I grunted. “Detective, you’re in early. Milk the cows already?”

  The pencil stopped scribbling and a slow chuckling rising from behind the fabric wall. “For your information, I have horses.” Debbie’s tired voice reduced to a heavy string of southern-fried vowel sounds. “We don’t milk those, city slicker. But you can try. Now that would be a sight.” A hand appeared over the horizon, waving me over. I wandered in and slid into the seat beside her. Square jaw, eyes sagging, the buzz-cut thicker than yesterday and smelling chemically strawberry. She shoved her papers away and gave a deep sigh. “Damn.”

  “Burning the midnight oil?”

  She looked at me. “I’ve been here all night boss. Is the sun up?”

  “No,” I said scanning her desk. “Why all night?”

  She leaned back with a smile-frown. “This Ricky Stopher case? This is my case. The one to prove I have what it takes.”

  “Scared?”

  She rolled her eyes away. “No boss, not at all.” She stood and swiveled her head, scanning for other souls but found none, and sat again, whispering now. “This case? The one that proves I deserve to be in here instead of a life spent out there as a dirty beat-cop chasing high-school vandals? This case? A career maker or breaker? Us getting farther away from our killer, each hour slipping away? No boss, I’m not remotely concerned.” She was wringing her hands together, her eyes burning a bit too bright with worry.

  I placed my hand on hers and squeezed until she stopped. “Debbie, do you trust me?” Her eyes came back to mine, lifting one eyebrow, puzzled and not answering me. I didn’t let go. “Do you trust me?”

  A bit sheepish, she gave a quick over the shoulder check. “Yeah boss.”

  “With some off-the-record shit?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean regarding what…” I stammered, chasing the thought. “Well, I mean how I turned up some information yesterday.”

  She cocked her head with mild concern. “How far off the record?”

  “I leaned in and whispered, a faint grin rising as I spoke. “I mean off the record like if you go feeling obligated to go talking to anyone in the department about it, I won’t be working here anymore.” I paused. “That kind of off the record.”

  She pulled her hands from mine, staring at me warily, eyes so deep set it was hard to tell if they were brown or just black. She said nothing. “Look,” I sighed. “How bad do you not want to be a dirty beat-cop chasing high-school vandals for life?”

  I sat back and let the silence flow in, and waited. She stared at her desk and finally spoke without looking up. “Are you going to get in trouble for this?”

  “That depends.” I said.

  “On what?”

  “You.”

  “It depends on me?” She grunted.

  “Yeah.” I cocked my head. “It depends how well you can practice silence.” “Okay then,” She shook her head with a sigh like this was a bad idea. “What ya’ got?”

  I tossed the photo on the desk. “I printed that out last night from my phone.”

  “Ricky and company,” she said leaning in. “But who are those two?”

  “I was hoping you could help me with that.”

  “The old guy looks familiar but I can’t place him.” She glanced at me, eye going wide. “Where did you get this?”

  I shrugged. “Let’s keep the specifics for a later time.”

  The elevator doors dinged open and shuffling footsteps approached. Debbie went stiff. I took the photo and stuffed it into my sports coat. Chief Wadsworth popped his head in. “Well if it ain’t our in-house Bonnie and Clyde,” the Chief smiled, remarkably awake with pressed khakis, a freshly starched plaid shirt and his badge eternally pinned over his heart. “What’d you kids rustle up?” He sat down in a spare seat and scooted up, sticking a toothpick in the side of his mouth and giving it a slow chew.

  Since Debbie was still stiff with whatever the hell I’d done yesterday, I let in first. “T
o recap,” I cleared my throat. “The service manager at Bogey’s Bikes, translated our crime scene evidence to belong to a 2006 Yamaha sport bike.” I hesitated thinking how to say the rest without setting myself up. “After cross referencing titles and registrations, that exact model appears to be owned by one Mr. Barry Harmony residing at 3307 Pitch Pines Way.”

  “That’s the father, right?” the Chief asked. “His son is Froggy? The one affiliated with our vic? What’s it?”

  “Tadpole they call him,” I nodded. “Word is he lives there with his father.” I went for it. “When can we get a search warrant?”

  “Whoa’ boy,” Wadsworth leaned back, pulling out the toothpick, eyes narrowing. “This ain’t Chicago, we don’t hand out warrants like raffle tickets.” He offered me a vague smile. “Here in the Kentucky mountains we still believe in certain personal freedoms. Particularly if they are, say, constitutional.”

  “But sir,” I assumed a lower tone. “Unless Debbie turned anything up, it’s all we have. And though it’s circumstantial, we know this kid is our killer. There has to be evidence over there. What are the odds we can grab a warrant?”

  The old man moaned a bit, scratching the creases in his forehead, and glanced at Debbie. “Well?”

  “Billy Harmony looks good for it Chief.”

  Wadsworth closed his eyes with mild strain. “Not that Debbie,” he sighed. “I’m asking you specifically, the hospitals you visited, find anything?”

  Debbie face reddened with slight embarrassment, and she swiveled around in her chair, the girth of her thighs expanding against the armrests as she crossed her cowboy boots. A real truck of a woman. Just like my sister Molly. She flipped through her file. “The only two hits we got came out of Trayfort Memorial ER. One was a municipal worker who slipped off the back of garbage truck. The other guy showed up missing four front teeth, apparently took a taste of a tire iron during a dispute at a local dive. Each one is corroborated by witnesses, documentation and in the latter, security footage.”

  “Any dead bodies turn up?” the Chief croaked.

  “Three natural causes, one drowning, and one infant at childbirth. A morbidly obese woman died in her house and they are still trying to figure how to remove the body without having to saw down one of the walls. The other surrounding counties came up empty.” Debbie slapped the file down. “No one treated a mangled motorcyclist.”

  “Great,” the chief said unenthusiastically as he came to his feet. “Shade, may I see you privately in my office.”

  I swallowed hard, fearing someone had seen my vehicle at Pitch Pine Acres. I wondered if I’d screwed myself over before I even got the chance to start. I’d been reported. Down the hall and into his office, he took a seat and his eyes darkened as he studied me. I sucked in a deep breath. What the hell had I been thinking doing that yesterday? The Chief suddenly out into a big smile. “I thought it’d take another week before the paper work rolled in. You’re official.”

  My knees went weak. Joy and relief swept over me at once. My prayers for Brant and Lilly and me to have our own place had just been answered. It didn’t matter what. An apartment. Anything. As long as I could escape my sister-in-law Vanessa and her strange behavior. The Chief handed me the service firearm, and a plastic I.D. card on an adjustable cord. “This is a 40-caliber Smith and Wesson. Keep it with you at all times for the duration of the contract. That mean’s on and off duty. Always wear your I.D. during all official investigation and case work. Oh, and have Debbie give me the paperwork on that Barry Harmony motorcycle registration. I’ll look into a search warrant right away.”

  “Sir, I don’t what to say,” my eyes dropped to the floor. “Except for thank you.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and turned somber. “Shade I have to give you the skinny on this deal, okay?”

  I looked at him. “Okay.”

  “This job, it’s only temporary for now,” he studied the window for a second and continued. “This is small town America. Story Mount is very political, actually, hotly political like many small towns. People talk. Everyone knows each other and people talk. It can make politics real messy.”

  I had no idea where this was going. “Okay,” I nodded.

  “Well,” he took a deep slow breath. “We are in an election year. Marty Breznik wants to keep being Story Mount’s mayor. He likes it. A lot. Some call him Mayor for Life. But with new blood, and younger rivals moving in? The drugs and the drug addicts appearing all over our streets? Topped off with this latest murder? It doesn’t play well with voters. His job security is threatened. So now you know the big reason we brought you in. You get it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Shade, unless you catch our killer, there is no job security here for you. It’s as simple as that. And don’t tell her, but any hope of Debbie getting a promotion to detective also hangs in the balance. Mayor Breznik is moody and is known for personal grudges. If you are interested in something steady, you’ll want to wrap this case up. The sooner the better.”

  I nodded. “We have politics back in Chicago to Chief. I understand.” Floating on a cloud, knowing my kids would be okay for now, I made for the door still wearing a grin but Wadsworth stopped me short. “Hey Shade.”

  I turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Congratulations.”

  Down in the pathology lab just at daybreak with Stan Gadford looking on, Debbie and I combed over case evidence again, scrutinizing every square inch we had on Ricky Stopher and the crime scene. We found nothing beyond what we already knew, and spent several hours making calls and trying to set interviews with anybody remotely linked to the trio in our case. By 11am, the Chief called us with news the search warrant had been issued by the honorable Judge Egan R. Sparrow who was familiar with the Harmonys and who didn’t want to be bothered during a golf game luncheon starting shortly.

  Within thirty minutes, Debbie and I surrounded the trailer with four additional officers, Search warrant in hand, and pretending like this was the first time I’d ever stepped on the wobbly metal front steps, I announced our presence and banged my fist on the door and it swung open with no resistance. We all spilled in, cleared every room and stood together, arms falling to our sides, slack-jawed. Everything was gone. The trailer was nothing more than one big empty shoebox. Faint bleach vapors hung in the air. The ratty carpeting, the furniture, the cabinetry, the kitchen appliances, even had been stripped down to the wood paneling. No hint of a Confederate flag or a trapped cat remained. It was the freshest professional clean-out I’d ever seen in my career. A real team had been here. Somebody with deep resources. Just a day or two ago people were living here. Now there was no trace left behind. Debbie ran her hand along the bare walls, studying the vacant rectangular space, and stopped in her tracks staring at me.

  “No one has lived here for a very long time, Shade.”

  18

  Seeing only Inward

  The circle formed in a human chain of grasped hands, heads lowered and finishing with a squeeze, “Just for today.” Tenacity Truth Church was becoming a home away from home, my weekly ‘Sober as a Blue Bird’ group felt good and right. And so I wondered at times if I should be committed to an insane asylum. Did I really need to live as a member of some community-based organization to survive my alcoholism? But then again wasn’t this just another form of church? What was so crazy about having a Higher Power. A skeptical detective investigates the facts, searching for the pragmatic. Which led me last week to asks with my hand raised, “Excuse me guys, what keeps this from being a cult?” The question followed by laughter. My face giving off the red heat of embarrassment. An old-timer responding, the words coming forward with gentle care, the answers in the form of questions.

  “Where’s the locked doors?” he smiled. “The armed guards? The membership fees to be paid? If you want to leave, go ahead.” He pointed at the exit. “But just let me ask, how well were you do
ing when you were in charge?”

  I tried not to take the answer as an insult or a personal attack, recalling that my therapist Kathleen implored me to attend AA, no matter how I felt about it. Like right now for example. She said if the low cost of working the steps could keep me from killing myself and ruining my children, then what was the big deal? I had to agree. In deeper sobriety, I was making sober acquaintances. I’d started meditating. My hardcore alcoholic reflex had now been diminished to the casual use of nicotine gum, and daily prayer. Not a horrible trade for dying in bottles of Vodka. At the end of the meeting Melanie walked up to me. “I know where you were going with that,” she gave me a relaxed smile, coffee dark eyes at ease, golden skin really showing the white of her teeth.

  “I wasn’t implying we belong to a cult,” my voice was defensive. “But man, having to live as part of a fellowship to maintain sanity speaks volumes on the human condition. We drunks are pretty vulnerable, wouldn’t you say?”

  She suppressed her laughter by cupping her hand over her mouth, eyes going big, thick strands of acorn-colored falling about her neck. “Oh my.” She pulled her hand down. “I was only going to say I can relate. That I felt that way too, at one point. Like, AA? Really?’

  I tilted my head down, the heat of awkwardness glowing on my face. I’d come on too strong. Ready to fight about my version of recovery. Or my version of something. Or nothing. Or anything. I kicked at the carpet. She was only trying to tell me that feeling this way was okay. I winced at myself. “I’m still shaking off the tightness of my move from Chicago.” I offered her an embarrassed smile. “I’m still trying to find my place in the alcoholic’s world of not drinking. Please forgive me.” I kicked at the carpet again. “I’m sorry.”