“What’s that got to do with—”
Doc held up his hands. “There were no signs of perimortem violence on your remains, no projectile wounds or knife marks. Of course, he may have been suffocated or strangled—the hyoid bone was missing—but I’m inclined to go with natural causes—disease or infection. He was old, arthritic, and had bad teeth.”
“How old?”
“About 500 years.”
“No shit!”
“Even if I could make a case for homicide, the killer has escaped your clutches.”
I shook my head. “That makes it easier fer me, but it’s still against the law to dump human remains in ditches.”
“Not to mention disturbing Indian burials.”
“How’m I gonna catch the S.O.B. that done it ’fore he dumps again?”
“An interesting problem.”
“An’ you still haven’t told me what’s your point with your assistant here.” I hitched my thumb at what was left of Oliver.
“Let’s suppose for a moment that he is your John Doe.”
I nodded.
Doc handed me a cardboard box. “Pick him up and put him in the box.”
I did.
“Now,” Doc said. “Dump the box out on the table.”
I did that, too.
Doc pointed to the pile of bones on the table. “Look familiar?” Looked like a pile of giant pick-up sticks. It also looked just like—
“How John Doe looked in the ditch!”
“Bingo.”
“Well, it ain’t no surprise he was dumped. He sure didn’t climb in the ditch by hisself.”
“Humphf.” Doc looked annoyed.
“What did all your experts find out?”
“It’s all in the report.” Seemed like Doc was a tad bent outta shape.
“Which is where?”
“In the box with the remains. In my evidence locker.”
• • •
I locked John Doe in the trunk of my cruiser an’ went back inside to watch Doc examine what was left of the truck thief. The heat had kinda curled him up around the steerin’ wheel, an’ he still had it in a death grip. When they’d finally got the fire struck, D.W. an’ me had just took the wheel off the steerin’ column. Doc’s interns worked the body bag around the corpse an’ loaded the whole mess in the meat wagon fer Doc to sort out.
“Lucky he was wearing his seat belt,” Doc said as his assistant unzipped the body bag.
We was all wearin’ safety glasses, blue plastic gowns, an’ purple nitrile gloves.
“How’s that, Doc?” I asked. “’Pears to me a hard-headed feller like this might a survived goin’ head-first through the windshield.”
“That’s debatable. As it is, since the truck ended upside down and fire burns upward, he’s not as badly damaged as he could be.”
“Small comfort.”
Doc just snorted and started separatin’ Mr. Truck Thief from his consolation prize. Most of the skin come off his hands an’ stayed with the steerin’ wheel.
“You can take this to the state crime lab,” Doc told me as he handed it to me. “Maybe they can get fingerprints.”
I put it in a plastic bag an’ set it aside fer later.
Then I watched while Doc finished up the slice’n’ dice an’ set me up with a cooler full of samples to take with me.
Later, as I was drivin’ away, I felt like I just come from a bad pig roast, with the main course burnt on the outside an’ undercooked inside. Sure made me want to arrest the chef.
a likker heist
Doc said he’d fax me the autopsy report soon as he had the toxicology results. “Preliminary cause of death is blunt force trauma from the crash….”
After droppin’ the steerin’ wheel and other evidence at the crime lab, I headed back to town to try’n find out who our truck thief was. ’Fore I got half a mile my cell phone rang.
I turned it on, an’ D.W.’s voice asked, “Homer, could you mebbe swing by here? Sump’in you oughta see.”
I sighed an’ said, “Ten-four.”
• • •
I found him on a creeper, under a truck, where he was disconnectin’ a differential. He scooted out an’ got up, wipin’ his hands on a shop rag. He musta been on a tight schedule ’cause he didn’t offer me coffee. He led the way to where he’d stowed the burnt-out remains of the semi tractor in a padlocked chain-link cage. D.W. fished out a ring of keys and opened the lock.
“Han’ me that trouble light,” he said, pointin’. “An’ get us a couple creepers.”
The light, with its cord neatly coiled, was hung on the wall next to the cage. I took it down an’ plugged it in, then handed the business end to D.W. I set the creepers on the floor next to the wreck. We got down on ’em an’ rolled under the cab. D.W. shined the light at the underneath side of the chassis. The paint an’ undercoating had burned off, an’ the frame an’ ferrous metal parts had already started rustin’.
“What’re we lookin’ at?” I asked.
“See if you kin find it.”
When I did, I whistled. “Somebody cut the brake line.”
• • •
Martha radioed ’fore I got a mile down the road.
“Homer, Wilma called again. Wants to know what you’re doin’ about the rats. What rats?”
I told her about Wilma an’ Mary Lincoln. “Martha, you know anybody’s got rat-dog pups fer sale?”
“You tried Owen?”
“Good idea. If Wilma calls back, tell her she’s on my list.”
• • •
I got a Quarter Pounder an’ coffee at McDonald’s drive--through an’ had lunch at my desk. After lockin’ John Doe’s remains in the closet that doubles fer a evidence locker, I spread out all the stuff I had on the truck, truck driver, an’ truck thief. It didn’t come to much. I figgered the next question—after who our truck thief was—was who’d want to kill him. Cuttin’ the brake line mighta been some new anti-theft strategy, but it’d have to’ve been cooked up by a idiot. So mebbe the truck thief had a accomplice who wanted to do him in.
All my useless speculatin’ was brought to a halt by a call from Sergeant Underhill. “Got a report on the fingerprints you brought in this morning,” he told me.
“That was quick.”
“Our lab rats love you, Deters. They get bored with the usual DUIs and shootings. You always give them a challenge.”
“That’s nice. I guess. What’d they find?”
“Your crispy critter was Samuel Loomis, a.k.a. Henry Ames. Guess you won’t be going to court this afternoon.”
“Don’t s’pose they figgered out who done him in.”
“Car Wrecks.”
“Wish it was that simple—I could close both his cases—but somebody cut his brake line.”
“Do tell. Glad he’s your problem.”
Underhill hung up an’ I went back to work. I was outta leads an’ about outta ideas when Sergeant Underhill called back.
“We got a situation just east of Okra,” he said. “We need you to be on the lookout for a dirty white International tractor with Kentucky plates and a plain white trailer. Got hijacked at the oasis. Two suspects wearing ski masks, armed with sawed-off shotguns. No other description.” He gave me the license number of the semi and hung up.
Hopin’ to head the hijackers off, I put on my body armor an’ hat and headed for the highway.
Just before I got to the on/off ramps by the truck stop, I come across a dirty white tractor—no trailer—nosed into a access road to one of Mars Boone’s hay fields. The tractor had a Florida plate an’ a flat tire on the front but otherwise it fit the description of the missing rig.
I pulled onto the shoulder an’ put on my safety lights. I was careful not to screw up any evidence, as I checked the truck to make sure there weren’t anybody or any bodies inside. Then I called the state boys and told ’em I’d found their missin’ vehicle.
I didn’t have much time to think on how the truck come to be
there ’fore Dan Underhill arrived with three state troopers an’ a evidence van. One of the troopers—the greenest one—pointed to the Florida plate an’ said, “That’s not the one we’re looking for.”
Underhill come up behind him an’ cuffed him on the head. “Son, you leave the thinkin’ to the suits. And while you’re doin’ that, call up and see if that plate’s been reported stolen yet. If it has, find out where and when.”
The troopers set up a perimeter like they was processin’ a murder scene. An’ Underhill paced like a caged wolf while the evidence team swarmed over the tractor.
“What’s got your tail in a ringer?” I asked him. “You gotta get a couple hijackings a week.”
“Yeah. But these’re different.”
“How’s that?”
“Most of the hijackings we get are crimes of opportunity—some jackass leaves his truck runnin’ while he goes in to take a leak and comes back to find it gone. These guys’re so slick they could sneak sunrise past a rooster. They only go after the good stuff—mostly liquor and cigarettes. They plan ahead—pick their ambush where there’s no witnesses, and hit the driver fast and hard. With big guns, so there’s no argument. Then they make the rigs they steal disappear. This is the first one that’s ever turned up.”
“Sure it’s the same crew?”
“Yeah. After the first dozen heists, some of the distributors started shipping their goods in unmarked trailers and varying their routes. Doesn’t seem to have helped much. It’s like these hijackers have radar.”
“Or a inside man.”
“Naw. At least nine companies’ve been hit. Delivering to fifty or so locations. They’d have to have a gang of inside men.”
“Why ain’t I been appraised of this situation?”
Underhill give me a look. “You’ve been a bit distracted lately. If you spent as much time reading our bulletins as you do the wanted posters over at the post office, you’d probably have this solved already.”
I could feel myself gettin’ hot. Guess me an’ Nina bein’ a item wasn’t a secret no more. “Point taken.”
“How’d you know to look here?” Underhill axed.
“Just a hunch. If I’d’a stole a vehicle worth more’n a house, I’d wanna get it off the highway ’til I could change the plates an’ mebbe slap on a new coat of paint or a couple distractin’ decals. An’ this ain’t too far from where the hijack occurred.”
“That reminds me,” Underhill said. “I got a little more on your crispy critter.” I waited. Underhill went on. “He was arrested once for driving a stolen vehicle, a truck that’d been hijacked a month earlier—same MO as these.”
“When was this?”
“Good five years back. Charges were dropped because Loomis had a passable bill of sale and registration. But it’s quite a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. Mebbe I should take another look at the truck he wrecked. Might be he didn’t have any trouble financin’ it ’cause he didn’t.”
Underhill nodded. “It’s a theory.”
“Think I could get copies of your reports on these hijackin’s?”
Underhill shrugged. “Another pair of eyes can’t hurt.”
“If it wouldn’t be breakin’ no State Police code of silence.”
“Who’s gonna tell?”
BLM
First thing next mornin’—after I fed an’ watered the jackass an’ dropped Skip at school—I went by the state cop shop and collected their reports on Sam Loomis, a.k.a. Henry Ames, an’ the likker truck hijackin’s. I took ’em back to my office an’ spread ’em out on my desk, read through everythin’ twice. It didn’t give me no better idea who was behind any of the crimes.
I still had the shippin’ papers fer the horses—which was eatin’ their heads off over at Mars Boone’s.
The U.S. Bureau of Land Management was shippin’ ’em from Nebraska to Grover, just over our state line. So I called the contact number on the bill of lading an’ asked to talk to the local BLM man in charge. The guy who finally come on the line—after three transfers an’ twenty minutes of canned messages—said his name was William Smith.
“You any relation to that actor in Men in Black?”
“Certainly not!”
Made me wonder was he a bigot or just full of hisself. I said, “Well, no matter.”
He axed who was he talkin’ to.
“Sheriff Homer Deters, Boone County.”
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“Well, fer openers, you can tell me about the feller you hired to deliver them mustangs I got in protective custody.”
“I don’t know—”
“Sam Loomis?”
“Never heard of him.”
“You prob’ly knew him as Henry Ames.”
“Isn’t he the one who died in the accident?”
“That’s him. How’d you hear about it?”
“Someone must’ve called me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
I waited to see if he’d volunteer any more. He didn’t. I said, “You know Ames well?”
“To the best of my knowledge, I never met him.”
“How’d you come to hire him?”
“The office in Nebraska would’ve hired him. I don’t know anything about it.” I waited. Finally, he said, “Will there be anything else, Sheriff?” He sounded annoyed.
“When’re you gonna come pick up your horses?”
“What horses?”
“The mustangs Loomis/Ames was haulin’.”
“I was informed they were destroyed in the crash.”
“Who’s been lyin’ to you?”
“The State Police reported that the truck was totaled.”
“Yeah, but the horses wasn’t in it.”
“I have a preliminary report from the insurance adjuster. He was out at the site, and he assured me he saw carcasses. As far as we’re concerned that’s the end of it.”
I sighed. It’d be easier to unload the horses myself than to try’n argue with a man who’d made up his mind. Facts wasn’t gonna confuse him. I said, “You wanna send me a official letter to that effect. So’s I can legally dispose of these horses I got that ain’t yours?”
“Will a fax do?”
“Guess it’ll hafta.” I give him the City Hall fax number an’ told him to send it to the attention of Sheriff Deters. I hung up wonderin’ who I could sucker into takin’ them nags, and who was gonna pay fer their upkeep in the meantime.
• • •
Usually, in a murder investigation, I would interview everybody the victim knowed, payin’ special attention to his enemies an’ rivals. Problem was, I didn’t know who Loomis knowed—didn’t even know who he really was ’cause his latest ID was phony, an’ his previous license was suspended. Still, I done the minimum in that department—called the PD that was local to his old address an’ axed would they make some inquiries. They would. I left it with them and went on to the next thing.
Besides the BLM shippin’ papers, I had Loomis’s log, phony driver’s license, an’ insurance card—probably phony, too. He’d also been carryin’ four credit cards, $38.76 in cash, an’ a Illinois lottery ticket.
After I’d checked out the idiot insurance adjuster, I could follow up on some of Loomis’s credit card purchases. I called the first credit card company on the phone and explained the situation. A nice lady give me Loomis’s real address—a P.O. box in southern Indiana—an’ promised to fax me a record of his purchases. Two of the other three card companies promised to do likewise.
What with all the goin’s-on lately, I was startin’ to have trouble keepin’ things straight. So I wrote down each item on a Post-it, an stuck ’em all on my filin’ cabinet, with the Loomis/Ames case at the top. It didn’t help much with solvin’ any of ’em, but at least I wasn’t likely to forget one. An’ it made my office a little more colorful.
&
nbsp; I was on my way to pick up my faxes an’ a copy of the fingerprint report, when I got one more phone call—from my landlady.
“Homer,” she said, “that mountain canary you adopted has been singin’ like a choir member the last hour an’ a half.”
Dammit! I’d completely fergot the jackass.
insurance adjuster
West Wheelin’ ain’t all that big, an’ everybody knows everybody’s business, so it wasn’t hard to locate the insurance man Mr. Smith’d mentioned. He was stayin’ at Motel 6.
The manager pointed out which room he was in, an’ I went an’ knocked on the door.
The man who opened it was a nervous, Don Knotts kinda guy. He looked at my badge and turned a shade white.
“You always this nervous?” I asked. “Or did you just rob a bank?”
He pulled hisself together an’ said, “I haven’t done anything illegal.” The guy was so nervous I couldn’t tell was he lyin’ or not.
In general though, folks lie to the police. So I said, “Then you won’t mind if I come in an’ look around.”
He almost fell for it. I could see his mouth formin’ the word, “no,” ’fore he realized what he was sayin’. Then he stood hisself up taller in the doorway an’ changed his “no” to a “Yes. Hell, yes! I would mind. You want to come in, get a warrant.”
I had to admire that, but I had a crime—a couple crimes—to investigate. I said, “Fair enough. But we gotta talk. Guess you’ll have to come back to town with me.”
That set him back a bit. He hemmed an’ hawed but finally stepped back from the door an’ waved me inside.
I took a quick look around an’ set down on the only chair.
The insurance feller started to take offense. “What’s this—”
“You tell the Bureau of Land Management their horses burnt up?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s my job.”
“Well, investigating insurance claims is my job. The truck those horses were in was totaled. What’s the problem?”
“Them horses ain’t dead.”
Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling Page 4