Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  The doors swung wider. I said, “Freeze!”

  The guy on the other side of the door said, “Shit!” an’ swung it shut.

  I yelled, “Hold it!” an’ aimed a little to the right of where the bad guy would be. I heard someone fumblin’ with the door latch again an’ I fired. Heard a yelp, then footsteps runnin’ away. Then nothin’ fer a while. Finally someone yelled, “Back out till Harry gets here with the rifle!” An’ a door slammed.

  During the quiet that followed, I dug the little mirror outta my backpack an’ shoved it through the hole I’d just drilled in the trailer door, stayin’ back from what I figured was the line of fire. Nobody in sight. I swung the door open slowly, keepin’ the mirror through the hole, an’ checked for bad guys along the driver’s side of the truck. None visible.

  I pulled the little mirror outta the bullet hole and held it down to check under the truck for ambushers. No legs or feet in sight. So I dropped to the building floor an’ had a better look around.

  The truck was parked in a dim-lit warehouse stacked halfway to the ceiling with rows of pallets loaded with liquor boxes. To the right, on the passenger’s side of the truck, was a row of overhead doors, all closed tight. Probably dock doors where the semis could back up to load or unload freight. To the left and behind the truck, it looked like the rows of pallets ended in blank brick walls. There was no sounds of whisperin’ or heavy breathin’.

  I kept my Sig ready an’ started toward the cab, watchin’ for hijackers between the rows of pallets. The little mirror showed me the cab was empty. I opened the driver’s door an’ took a quick look inside. The key was in the ignition. Sonny’s phone was on the passenger’s side of the seat, half-hid by a order of French fries spillin’ out of a McDonald’s bag. I found some napkins in the bottom of the bag an’ used ’em to clean off the phone, which I shut and an’ shoved in my pocket ’fore I backed out an’ closed up the cab.

  The truck was just inside a big overhead door—what I’d heard activatin’ earlier. Windows high up in it was reinforced with chicken wire an’ painted over. So I couldn’t see out or easily break the glass for a look. An’ there weren’t any holes to poke my little mirror through.

  Next to the big door was a human-sized door with a dead-bolt lock above the handle. No key. I made my way to the door an’ tried to open it. No luck. They musta locked it from the outside. There was a switch next to the overhead door, but I resisted the urge to hit it. I took out my cell an’ redialed Underhill.

  He answered, “Yo.”

  “Dan, what’s your twenty?”

  “We’re just pullin’ up outside the gate. What’s happening?”

  “One of ’em’s goin’ for a rifle.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Inside the warehouse.”

  A reinforced panel in the overhead door suddenly shattered, and the M-80 CRACK of a rifle caused Underhill to shout, “God, dammit!”

  I ran back to the semi and climbed into the cab. When I turned the key, the engine started right up. I jumped out an’ hit the overhead door switch.

  Nothin’ happened.

  My turn to swear.

  “Vergil, what’s going on?” Underhill sounded as close to upset as I’d ever heard.

  “You see a truck come tearin’ out the warehouse, don’t shoot,” I said. “It’ll be me!”

  I dropped the phone on the seat and put the semi in gear, blessin’ my ma for makin’ me learn how to drive one. The truck started forward, an’ I shifted up slowly, so when the bumper hit I’d still be in a gear low enough to take the stress of rammin’ the door. The bumper made contact. The door groaned, then screeched as the truck applied pressure a door wasn’t designed to handle. Another bullet tore glass away from the wire reinforcing the building’s windows and punched a spidery hole in the semi’s windshield. The rifle-crack slammed my ears.

  An’ then the door surrendered, pulling out of its tracks and bucklin’ over the semi’s hood. It draped itself onto the cab as the door frame shattered an’ the anchor bolts pulled free.

  The truck speeded up through the doorway, an’ I tried to remember the layout of the yard outside. Gravel and asphalt, mostly. Now dotted with cars and pickups. The men who was hunkered down behind ’em, facin’ off against the barricade of cop cars along the fence, scrambled for cover as a new threat charged ’em from behind.

  I aimed the truck at the man with the long gun. Saw the windshield shatter long—it seemed—’fore the rifle cracked again. I didn’t hear the bug hit the radiator, but I heard him scream. And I saw him bounce off and roll away. And lie still. And I felt little bumps as the truck tires ground his rifle into scrap.

  I hit the horn as I jerked the semi toward the still-closed perimeter gate. The sound made me feel like the captain of a ocean liner. The gate disintegrated as the big truck hit. It took me two blocks to bring it to a stop.

  I grabbed my cell phone. “Get in there ’fore they burn the evidence!”

  a recap for the state police

  By the time I got turned around an’ back to the scene, most of the action was over. The state cops had swarmed in an’ rounded up the bad guys an’ was searchin’ the premises fer anyone tryna hide till the law cleared out. There was four guys in custody, not countin’ the one I’d run down with the truck. He was still lyin’ where he’d landed ’cause the state boys was afraid to move ’im ’fore the EMTs arrived. The others was cuffed an’ seat-belted into the backs of four separate State Police cruisers.

  I walked over to the guy I’d disabled an’ was relieved to find him still breathin’. Someone I knew. Harry Wilcox. Lower Fork Distillery’s uncooperative manager. Sergeant Underhill was squatted down next to him, tryna keep ’im calm an’ still. When Wilcox spotted me, he passed out.

  “Nice going, Vergil,” Underhill said.

  “What’d I do?”

  “With our luck, scared him to death.”

  Far as I knew, Wilcox’d never clapped eyes on me before. So he didn’t have any reason to be ’specially scared of me. His passin’ out hadda be a odd coincidence or some kinda clue. I shrugged. “Anybody heard from Sonny?”

  “Don’t change the subject…Sonny?”

  “Guy they…” I hooked my thumb in the direction of the captured hijackers. “…Hijacked the truck from.”

  “Oh, him,” Underhill said. “He called from a bar to report a sheriff had been hijacked. Dispatcher thought he’d been drinkin’, but the bartender came on an’ convinced him the complaint was legit. We sent a trooper to bring him along.”

  At that point, the ambulance arrived, an’ the paramedics swarmed out to take possession of Wilcox. Underhill wandered off to supervise the clean-up.

  I made a beeline for the evidence van an’ axed one of the techs if they’d found a cell phone on any of the prisoners.

  “All of ’em. Why?”

  “The one who drove the truck here was talkin’ on his to his boss, an’ referencin’ his boss. ’Fore we question any of ’em we oughta know who drove the truck here, who was he talkin’ to, an’ who was he talkin’ about.”

  The tech just nodded an’ said, “We’ll get on it, Sheriff.”

  Just about then, a state cruiser pulled in with Sonny hangin’ out the passenger side window.

  “Sheriff!” he yelled when he spotted me. “Am I glad to see you!”

  The car stopped. Sonny piled out an’ come at me on a run. “I was afraid…” he said.

  I said, “Seems like they didn’t hurt you none.”

  “They scared me half to death but they just put me out an’ drove off. It took me forever to walk somewhere there was a phone. Did you get ’em?”

  “Mebbe. You’ll have to see if you recognize any of ’em.”

  “D’you have my phone?”

  I’d forgot I’d put it in my pocket. Strange he was more worried about his phone than his truck. I resisted the urge to hand it back to him. “’Fraid we’re gonna have to hold it fer evidence.”

  I c
ouldn’t tell what he thought a that. He said, “What about my truck?”

  “You can probably have it back when they’re done processin’ it.”

  “What about the cargo?”

  “Might be some broken bottles but it’s mostly all there.”

  He nodded. “Now what?”

  “This ain’t really my circus, so we’ll have to wait an’ ask the ringmaster.”

  Underhill. Who frowned when he spotted Sonny. “Thought you were going to keep your nose clean.”

  Sonny opened his mouth to protest; I cut in. “He was just doin’ his job—How ’bout we see if he can ID anybody?”

  Sonny looked scared. “They was wearing masks.”

  “Were they wearing clothes?” Underhill axed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well let’s see if you recognize any of their clothes.”

  We done a circuit of the yard, an’ Sonny looked in the windows of all the cruisers that was holdin’ prisoners. Sort of. He didn’t seem keen on lookin’ real close. When he was done, he shook his head. Vigorously, as my ma woulda said. I figured all the prisoners who was lookin’—an’ they was all lookin’—could see he was sayin’ no.

  If Underhill was disappointed, he didn’t show it. But I figured he’d noticed what I had—Sonny reacted to the guy in the third cruiser like he would if he’d come across a cottonmouth. Underhill signaled one of the troopers to come closer, an’ told him to take Sonny to the cop shop to give a statement. Soon as they was out of earshot, Underhill said, “Maybe you ought to see if you recognize any of them.”

  I didn’t have to tell him I hadn’t seen the hijackers. They didn’t know that, though, an’ I was sure Underhill knew they didn’t know it. I done the circuit the same way Sonny had, only I took the time to study each one, an’ say “Howdy,” an’ listen carefully as he demanded to see his lawyer.

  I was surprised that I did recognize three of the hijackers—the clowns Skip an’ I’d arrested. The bad guy in the third car was the one Skip had christened “Ace.”

  “You fellas are slow learners,” I told him. “You just made bail.”

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  I just shook my head like he was hopeless, an’ backed away an’ closed the car door. Slowly. So he could tell he hadn’t got my goat.

  “Well?” Underhill said after he’d sent the bad guys to be fingerprinted and photographed.

  I told him where I recognized the three guys from.

  “Four guys. The one you didn’t recognize is the guy your deputy arrested a while back.”

  “I’d like to know who bailed ’em out.”

  “Same guy bailed out your barbecued trucker.”

  “Billie Bonds?”

  “Ah hunh.”

  “They better hope they get long sentences.”

  “Why is that, Vergil?”

  “She’s the only one ever made Rye break a sweat.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know the story, but I’ll bet she’ll take her loss outta their hides.”

  “One can only hope.”

  • • •

  ’Fore we got back to the State cop shop, I’d called to ask my sister to keep a eye on Skip an’ ask Rye to mind the office.

  Underhill made a phone call, an’ when he got off, he said, “You’re in luck, Vergil. Wilcox is going to make it. And he put enough holes in things to convince the dumbest jury in the state that you ran him down out of self defense.”

  “What about Sonny’s truck?”

  “He should be able to claim it in a day or two.”

  I handed him Sonny’s phone an’ told him where Sonny lost it an’ how I’d got it.

  “You think Sonny may be in on this? You told us he was clean.”

  “An’ he prob’ly is. But it can’t hurt to check it out.”

  “I’ll get someone on it. Meanwhile, let’s see what our hijackers have to say.”

  “Not till we know whose numbers is in their call logs.”

  “Why?”

  I told him what I’d told the tech—’bout the call I’d overheard right after the hijackin’.

  “Well, they haven’t come back with the call lists yet,” Underhill said, “so why don’t we go get coffee an’ compare notes?”

  Which is what we did. At the cafe across from the station, the waitress served us steak an’ eggs with our coffee an’ left us the pot.

  “Well, I ain’t too bright,” I said when we were alone.

  “How’s that, Vergil?”

  “I dropped the ball on the Loomis case—which I’m pretty sure is related to this one. I got sidetracked an’ failed to do a thorough canvass after his truck went missin’. Somebody might a seen Loomis stealin’ it from Truck’s or seen the somebody hangin’ around who sabotaged the brakes. Now I’m thinkin’ that someone might be one of these turkeys.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Even you can’t think of everything.”

  We tucked into our food for a while. Then Underhill pushed his plate away an’ topped off his coffee. “Maybe you should lay this out for me.”

  “Lower Fork Distillery was one of the places Loomis delivered to, so I checked it out. Didn’t seem like they was really distillin’ anything ’less they was usin’ a replicator.”

  “That what put them on your radar?”

  “That an’ how uncooperative the manager was when I tried to get a interview.”

  “And?”

  “An’ several people pointed out how Cheap-Ass Likkers seemed to be sellin’ retail at wholesale prices. That an’ they never got hijacked till I started askin’ made me think there hadda be a connection.”

  “So we have to find the connection?”

  “I’m still waitin’ to find out who owns both concerns.”

  “Maybe I can expedite that.”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  “Meanwhile, let’s go interview Ace.”

  “You read my mind.”

  • • •

  It was after 9 a.m. by the time we left the cafe. Sonny’s truck was parked in the State Police lot, decorated like a parade float with yellow crime scene tape. Inside the station, Trooper Yates was on the desk. When he spotted me, he said, “We’re having cards made up for you, Sheriff. ‘Deters Demolition.’”

  “Make fun all you want. I made the bust.”

  “We got those call lists yet?” Underhill asked.

  Yates handed him a pile of papers. “Your prisoners are screaming their heads off for their lawyer. All of them want to call the same one.”

  “Who’s that?” I cut in.

  “Austin Glenlake.”

  “His name on the call lists?”

  Yates shrugged. Underhill said, “Let’s go in my office and see if we can find out.”

  • • •

  There was five call lists with the name of the man the phone belonged to penciled in on the top of each. The lists was divided into contact numbers, dialed calls, received calls an’ missed calls, with the time an’ date fer each number called. Some of the called an’ received numbers had names listed with ’em, some didn’t. One of the numbers was on all the lists an’ it looked familiar. Just to be sure, I phoned Rye an’ axed him to look it up in the Loomis file.

  “That’s the number fer his lawyer,” Rye told me when he got back to me.

  What I’d thought. “Thanks, Rye.”

  “You comin’ back to work any time soon?”

  “You tired of bein’ actin’ sheriff?”

  “Nah. Well… a guy come in just now askin’ where he could find you. If I was a bettin’ man I’d wager he was fixin’ to serve you with papers.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. But you don’t have to tell the feller that.” I hung up an’ told Underhill, “That number’s Austin Glenlake’s throwaway phone.”

  “The jerk lawyer you arrested for bribery?”

  “The same. An’ since Loomis an’ the hijackers all got him on speed dial, I’m thinkin’ he might have some e
xplainin’ to do.”

  felonies an’ misdemeanors

  “’Fore we tackle Ace or Glenlake,” I told Underhill, “mebbe we oughta see if Wilcox is awake. He might could straighten out this mare’s nest.”

  “Good thinking, Vergil. I’ll drive.”

  • • •

  We nodded to the trooper on guard outside the door, an’ went in to find Wilcox hooked up to a EKG machine an’ handcuffed to the safety rail on the side of his hospital bed. His nose was broke and both his eyes was blackened. He had a bandage coverin’ the top half of his head, a cast on his good arm, an’ both legs in traction.

  Underhill led us into the room, an’ when Wilcox spotted him, he turned his head towards the wall—didn’t even muster enough oomph to axe fer his lawyer.

  Underhill walked around the bed, so Wilcox was facin’ him, an’ Wilcox turned his head back towards me. Took him a second or two to recognize who was he lookin’ at, after which he said, “Aw shit!”

  I said, “You wanna tell me what I ever done to you?”

  Wilcox glanced back at Underhill, who shrugged.

  Wilcox sighed. “What kind of deal can I get if I tell you?”

  “’Pends on what you tell me,” I said. “Why don’t you start with how come you know me when we never met before?”

  “Somebody showed me your picture.”

  Underhill said, “Who?”

  “Not ’til we got a deal.”

  “Your boss pay you to try’n kill a peace officer?” I axed.

  “I didn’t think…” Wilcox jerked his good wrist, snapping the cuff against the metal bed rail. “I better talk to my lawyer.”

  “That would be who?” Underhill said.

  ’Fore Wilcox could answer, I said, “Austin Glenlake.”

  Underhill didn’t turn a hair. Wilcox’s eyes widened like a kid’s at a Freddy Krueger film.