by C. J. Box
Poppa’s was more of an everything store, with various additions sprouting this way and that on the building, sprawling uncontrolled on the lot. What started out as a general store had morphed into more. One area rented VHS movies, another had foodstuff and kitchenware. Another had generally everything you’d need and a lot you didn’t, usually things Poppa bought on the cheap out of derailed rail-car sales. One week he might have a sale on those Chia Pets and the next he might have a whole pallet of parrot food cheap. You never knew what he’d have. But us troopers were interested in the small side room with mismatched tables and chairs where he served breakfast and lunch. Poppa’s place was probably the most protected establishment in all of Clement County.
Trooper Shawn Morman waited until we had finished with the lunch plate special of chicken-fried steak and sweet tea before educating me further about the hierarchy of criminals in Clement County. Pushing back in his chair, Shawn started unwrapping a fresh cigar as he explained, “Trooper Stokes, don’t underestimate the Creeches. They are dangerous. Every one of them.”
I nodded and was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
“Most dangerous group you’ll find in this here county,” Shawn declared. “I know what you saw—a midget. Whatever’s the right way to call ’em—midgets, small people, little folk. Dwarfs. I don’t know what the correct phrase would be, but I can tell you this, they’re dangerous. They’re the baddest outlaws in all of Clement County.”
“Are they all . . .” I began, and trailed off.
“That small?” Shawn asked as he put the cigar cellophane wrapper on his discarded plate. “Not all of the women, but every man carrying the Creech name is small. In fact, old Londell is a bit on the tall side for a Creech.”
“And they’re Clement County’s worst criminals?” This time I wasn’t able to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
He pointed his unlit cigar at me from across the table. “That most definitely is part of their DNA, as sure as their short stature. Each and every one is a born crook. The Creeches do anything crooked to make a buck.” He paused to light the cigar before continuing. “Hell, I think they do some stuff just to do when they’re bored. Or out of meanness. But most anything illegal, the Creeches have a hand in—dope, stealing, chopping cars. You name it, they do it. And Londell runs all of it.”
“So he’s the king of the outlaws?” I asked. He could still see the doubt on my face.
“He is that,” Shawn said in an even voice. “Londell runs the whole show.” He paused to fire up his cigar and take a long pull. “Boy, I know at the academy they taught you that with that campaign hat, that badge and gun, you boys are ten feet tall and bulletproof.”
Damn straight, I thought. I felt myself sit up straighter.
“Well, don’t let your notion of things blind you to facts,” Morman said. “Watch yourself when you run across a Creech. Don’t let their size fool you. They’re dangerous.”
* * *
Being a trooper is a great job for a young twentysomething full of piss and vinegar. You get paid to drive fast and fuss and fight. And in a big old rough place like Clement County you did all three on a regular basis. You learned fast. I kept my eyes and ears open and tried to pick up from the experiences of older troopers. I quickly learned that listening and talking to folks could calm down most situations, but I also learned when the time for talking was done. Sometimes you just had to fight. You hit fast. You hit hard. And you damn sure hit first.
Still not completely sure that Trooper Morman was shooting me straight about the Creeches, I made a point to learn a bit about the clan. At first there was nothing. I just would spot a Creech around town. Mostly it would be Londell driving his long Caddy, his head tilted back so he could look through the windshield. Usually he had heavy metal music blaring so loud you could hear him coming a mile away. He favored AC/DC and Def Leppard. Sometimes he would have passengers, usually a full-sized blonde or brunette hanging all over him like he was a movie star. The car was spotless, and I wondered how he kept it so clean and ding-free on our rutted roads and with all the trucks flinging coal from their open beds.
Then I’d listen to old-timers talk. Every so often the Creech name would come up in conversations around town. Citizens and crooks alike just said the same thing. You don’t mess with them. They’re bad news. Other cops who talked about the Creeches echoed what Trooper Morman had claimed—the Creeches did anything dishonest to make a dollar. They were great con artists. The biggest con had been pulled off by the Creeches’ late mother. There are plenty of charities that come and help the poor in the hills of Appalachia. Well, apparently Mother Creech convinced one such group that her kids needed a special house, and the group built a large rambling brick house at the head of the holler on Whitehouse Road. All of the Creeches resided up and down that road, but Londell and his brothers lived in their mother’s house halfway up the mountain. Though none had scammed as well as Mother Creech, the rest who could would get on the draw for food stamps or disability. Other Creeches’ criminality was less finesse and more pure blunt action. Some Creeches stole. Others fenced said stolen stuff. And they were big into marijuana. Rumor was most marijuana fields were owned, if not tended, by a Creech. Still, the first Creech I arrested did nothing to cement my belief that they were a hardcore group of bandits.
I was on my own working the midnight shift, which is a misnomer, since we actually went eleven to seven, an hour before the witching hour. I was working on my second cup of coffee, sitting on a logging road turnabout just outside of town. From my spot I could stay hidden, but I could also see the ragged two-lane highway down below, and I could pick out likely speeders for good felony stops if I wanted to get into something. I had just settled in with not much traffic on the road when my radio crackled to life.
“Unit 322?” dispatch called out. I keyed the mic, letting them know I was awake and listening. “We have a call of a child riding down Main Street on a bicycle. In the middle of the street.”
There was a pause and I was about to key up a 10-4 when the dispatcher continued a little slower. “Three twenty-two, be advised, caller says the child is riding a black Huffy.”
“Ten-four,” I said as I fired up my Crown Vic, which really sounded like a death rattle; as rookies we got the oldest, most raggedy cars the Kentucky State Police could find.
“Further,” dispatch continued.
I was beginning to think dispatch was enjoying this.
“The operator of said Huffy is wearing a black bowler.”
I looked at the radio. Even though my mind told my mouth not to, I keyed up the mic anyway and said, “Dispatch, please repeat.”
“Three twenty-two, caller advised the operator of the Huffy is wearing a bowler hat.” Pause. “Nothing else.”
That time I did hear laughter in the background. I was betting the night sergeant and other dispatchers sitting at post two counties away were yucking it up at my expense. I noted that the time was well after midnight, and I was wondering who in their right mind would let a kid out on a school night. And I didn’t even think about the clothes. I kicked the car into high and headed toward town. Did I mention before that we young road troopers loved to go fast every chance we got?
The town’s main drag wasn’t much, and the stoplights went to flashing yellows after ten. The storefronts were closed, though some light leaked out onto the sidewalks. We didn’t have much of a downtown, but we did have sidewalks on what we had. It didn’t take me long to find the bike in question. Indeed it was a Huffy and indeed the rider was naked except for a small black bowler. I turned on my lights and hit the siren just one chirp. Without looking back, the bicycle’s operator raised his arm, making the signal for a right turn, and pulled to the curb, where he promptly fell over.
It wasn’t a pretty sight awash in my headlights. All limbs and naked torso matted with dark hair. And the bowler had fallen off to reveal a bad case of male-pattern baldness.
Sliding out of my cr
uiser door, I yelled out, “Sir, are you okay?”
The nudist got himself free of the bike without catching any needed parts in the spokes or chain and stood wobbly at attention, hands stiffly at his sides. My eyes caught a glimpse of something glowing just under the bike’s spinning front tire.
“Trooper,” the nudist said. All deep bass voice as steady as his legs weren’t. The pungent odor of marijuana rolled off him.
Making a leap of logic, I asked, “Mr. Creech, where are you headed?”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there at attention, rocking slightly back and forth. As I got closer, his eyes blinked, trying to focus on me. He had a heavy five o’clock shadow.
Squatting, I reached underneath the still-spinning front wheel and picked up the dying doobie. The joint was as big and fat as a good Havana cigar. Cheech and Chong would have been proud.
“This yours, Mr. Creech?”
“I don’t mind sharing,” he answered, breaking out into laughter.
As I stood there looking at this naked stoned midget, I couldn’t take Shawn’s words seriously. I couldn’t believe this guy was a member of a hardcore criminal clan. He never gave me a bit of trouble. Just climbed in the back of my cruiser and fell asleep. I tossed the bike and bowler into the trunk of my cruiser. The doobie went into an evidence envelope.
When I booked him into the jail, I learned I had arrested Hobart Creech, Londell’s younger brother. Hobart had spent the last few years in New York City, presumably working (or being a criminal) before moving back home. While I was filling out the citation, the jail staff tried to find a jumpsuit that would fit Hobart, but none were small enough. In the end one of the jailers went to her car and gave him a pair of her kid’s pants and a Power Rangers T-shirt to wear.
That small arrest turned into something big in my learning about how the Creeches handled things. While I was finishing up my shift, Hobart Creech and another inmate named Eddie Tremayne got sideways with each other in the drunk tank. It seems that while Hobart was mellow while stoned, Eddie was a mean drunk. He sucker-punched Hobart and proceeded to stomp the downed Creech into unconsciousness. The next morning the jail staff asked what had happened, and Hobart Creech refused to say a word. A few days after that, both Tremayne’s house and his truck burned to the ground while he was in jail, trying to make bail. By then he knew he had made a major mistake. In fact, he refused to make bail when he could, thinking jail would protect him. Eventually, though, Tremayne had to leave. Now, we know Ed Tremayne walked out of the county jail. From there no one knows where he went. Rumors were that he wound up at the bottom of some well or coal mine, but for all we knew, he hopped a Greyhound bus out of Clement County.
But that still didn’t convince me that the Creeches were the baddest outlaws in Clement County. The next time I encountered the Creeches I became a true believer.
* * *
Talk all around town and most all of Clement County was the burglary of Poppa’s place. Someone had cut the electricity to the building before knocking down the side door. After that they just backed a truck up to it and waltzed out with everything they wanted. Every cop on every shift wanted the hides of those thieves. Now, the reason the cops were fired up was because whoever broke in took Poppa Roche’s big stove and griddle, and Poppa wasn’t sure if and when he could replace them. No stove, no lunch plate specials. Which meant there were a lot of hungry, angry cops.
Though it seemed like the burglary was the work of a professional crook, the randomness of what they stole had us all scratching our heads. The thieves took the time to tote out the restaurant-sized stove and grill, but they didn’t touch any of the guns in sporting goods. The same thing for the rings and earrings in jewelry display cases. Yet they did take twenty rolls of plastic that farmers and landscapers use to protect plants. They then waltzed down aisles picking this and that, with a particular interest in chips and Twinkies.
Besides the kitchen appliances, the biggest and most bizarre item stolen was one of the most controversial products ever featured for sale at Poppa’s. Like I said, Poppa would bid on shipments from damaged or derailed box cars, sometimes sight unseen. Before the burglary Poppa’s was already the talk of Clement County for cases of products stacked knee-high all over the store. More conservative church groups were offended that every other aisle at Poppa’s displayed bottles of something called The Love Doctor’s Personal Lubricant.
I am not a prude, but I did think Poppa was never going to sell all of the Love Doctor’s product, even if every person in Clement County bought two of the economy-sized bottles. The Love Doctor lube wasn’t flying off the shelves until the burglars came along and loaded up as many cases as they could carry off. Did I mention that each one was the economy-sized half-gallon plastic pump bottle?
Nope. I’m not joking. I didn’t think they packaged that stuff in such large containers.
Some of the people around town thought the break-in was the result of some bored teenagers’ prank that got out of hand. Another theory was that some overzealous members of the Holiness Congregation had taken it upon themselves to rid Clement County of the horribleness that Poppa was peddling. But everyone was betting that if the cops caught the thieves, there would be plenty of mountain justice handed out before the thieves made it to jail. Not so much for the burglary, but for disrupting the public servants’ favorite eating routine. You don’t mess with cops and their meals.
About a week after the burglary at Poppa’s, well past midnight, I was once again perched upon my favorite hiding point above the state two-lane. Like a hunter in a duck blind, I was watching the highway, waiting for a speeder, able to see a long ways in either direction. Calls and disturbances on midnight shift rolled in ebbs and flows in Clement County. Weekends you were going call to call from drunk and disorderly to domestic disputes to just general stupidness. Wednesday nights were usually pretty calm. You might get a call now and then, but mostly after 1 a.m. it was quiet, so you either worked at staying awake or tried to stir something up. Even though there was only myself and Jack O’Bannon, another rookie trooper, working the whole county, I wanted to get into something, so I was hawk-eyeing the highway. I was in the middle of eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my wife made for my dinner when Jack O’Bannon radioed dispatch that he was pulling a car over for speeding.
I started my cruiser, thinking if the car rabbited on Jack we might get in a good chase. Young cops love chasing people. I was no different; whether it was a car chase or running someone down on foot, I ate that stuff up. Instead Jack almost immediately radioed dispatch that the driver had pulled to a stop. Jack called in the car tag. Listening, I thought it was odd that the car was from a county almost all the way across the state from us. Jack called back and said he had made contact with the driver and all was fine. Settling back in, I was about to open my little cup of applesauce when Jack keyed up the radio.
“Unit 322, you in service?” Jack asked. Looking down, I noticed that Jack had called me on our car-to-car radio channel, which didn’t reach outside the county. We used that when we didn’t want our talk overheard back at post. Rattling off a mile marker on a road outside of town, he asked, “Can you meet me at my location?”
Shoving the applesauce in my lunch pail, I answered, “Ten-four.”
Though it wasn’t chasing someone, I did get to drive really fast to get to Jack’s location. I found Jack’s cruiser sitting on the side of the road. In front of his car was a Ford Mustang. What surprised me was a man was sitting on the grass at the rear of Jack O’Bannon’s Crown Victoria. Getting out of the car, I walked up, and as I got closer, the bigger this guy got. Jack’s easily six-foot-six in his stocking feet, and I would bet this guy was just as big. But his arms were pumped up like Popeye’s, and his arms barely made it behind his back to meet the cuffs. I saw the full-sleeve tats and the pale pallor of a man not used to sunlight.
“What’s going on, Jack?” I asked as he intercepted me outside earshot. A small breeze was blo
wing, and I got a distinctly weird smell wafting off of Jack’s prisoner. Something chemical. And something else I couldn’t quite put my nose on.
Leaning in conspiratorially, he said, “I stopped this guy doing almost a hundred. I mean, he was screaming, but once I lit him up he just pulled over like a kitten.”
I nodded. I got it. An easy stop.
“When I asked him where he was going in a hurry, he said, ‘I want to get out of this crazy county.’”
I shrugged. Jack was excited, but I didn’t see why. “Okay.”
“Just listen to what he has to say.”
I made a noncommittal grunt, already regretting that I had left my applesauce for this.
“Trust me, Bo. This is great. You’ll see.” Leading me over to the guy on the ground, Jack nudged him with his foot. The man looked up with hangdog eyes. “Tell my partner what you told me.”
The guy shook his head, droplets of water flinging off the ends. “Man, if you’re going to take me to jail and violate me, just do it. I don’t want to be made fun of.” I tipped my flashlight and shined it on the man. He was completely wet. Hair. Clothes. Shoes. Not just wet. He was soaked through, and here we were in a drought.
“Ronnie,” Jack said before I could ask about how Ronnie got wet. “Tell the story. We might can help you.”
I shot Jack a look. He just smiled.
Ronnie cleared his throat. “Okay.” Long sigh and another head shake. “I’m out of the joint just two weeks. I owe a guy a favor from when we were locked up together.” He glanced at me and Jack. “Don’t ask, I’m not going to tell you the guy’s name. No way. I’m not going to snitch that way.”
As I stood there, the chemical smell was getting stronger, and the other smell was too. It was a weird one. Like someone had tried to replicate a natural odor and didn’t get it right.
“Ronnie, get to the story,” Jack said, directing the guy back on point.