The Klumps Mysteries: Season One (Episodes 1 through 7)

by DL Cook

  “We have video of a woman. Nothing of Duey,” Don said.

  “Yes. Her name is Charlene Atkinson. Mr. McCaliker sent her to check if Swinton was dead, after he poisoned him.”

  Don shook his head. “This doesn't make sense to me. Here's—”

  The prosecutor cut him off. “We can work with all that,” Leslie entered the room. “If Mr. McCaliker wants to sign the confession, that is his right.”

  On his advocate's nod, Duey signed and dated the document.

  “Something doesn't feel right about this,” Libby said.

  “I agree,” Don nodded. “Duey's a lowlife scumbag and murderer, and we caught him in the warehouse, but...”

  “It's a win, Don. I agree that the confession lacks some detail, but we'll put him away for life,” Leslie said. “It's a victory that this department needs, quite frankly.”

  “Oh, that's right. You're up for reelection.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “Really?”

  “If you weren't such a good friend I'd be offended by that,” Leslie put her hand on Don's shoulder.

  Libby glared at her. Don moved out of her reach. “But are we not supposed to examine the confession? Any old crazy can come in and confess to something. Doesn't mean we should charge him. We have to investigate. It says so in chapter 8,” he patted his manual (freshly reprinted, the first two having been lost in Arthur's cleaning).

  “And so you will. You'll have plenty of time to interview Duey McCaliker after he's been transported to the pen.”

  “If he gets there in one piece,” Don said.

  “And why wouldn't he?” Leslie replied. “I'm starting to think the two of you have a predisposition not to accept good news. Instead of being all dour about it you should be celebrating. How about I take you both for a drink?”

  “Thanks, but we have stuff to do at home,” Libby pulled Don toward her.

  “Suit yourselves.” Leslie smiled. “I guess I'll find someone else to celebrate with. It's a win, guys. A win.” She spotted Lucus working at his desk and traipsed in his direction.

  Don and Libby went home. Libby yammered about doggies while Don wondered if perhaps Duey's confession was some sort of elaborate big city legal defense.

  Meanwhile at a certain dwelling in Methton, a woman struggled against her restraints on the mildewed carpet. Her wide, bloodshot eyes stared at the grinning man standing over her. Her gag didn't quite muffle her screams.

  Episode Five

  “Counting the Bodies”

  A sleepy Judge Ernest Hand slammed the gavel, making Duey McCaliker's confession official. A circle of cops whisked the convicted killer out of the courtroom to the waiting line of police cruisers. When Cinthia and Kurt got to their car, the con was already in the back seat. A jacket shrouded Duey's head. Cinthia didn't understand it, but Commissioner Don Mettler-Klump had his reasons. She didn't see him that morning, which was odd given the publicity surrounding the case.

  The convoy pulled out of the courthouse lot amid the flash of reporters' cameras. All five of them were there, taking pictures and thrusting their recorders at the cars.

  “Another crap job,” Kurt said from the passenger side ten minutes later. He tapped his fingers on the roof through the open window.

  “What are you talking about?” Cinthia replied. “This is the most important job of all. We're transporting the prisoner to the state pen.” She glanced at the mirror. Duey sat motionless behind the jacket that covered his head and most of his body.

  “Was my day off. That idiot makes us come to work...better be overtime in this.”

  “Like you do anything anyway,” Cinthia elbowed Kurt.

  “Don't see why they need so many of us to bring one scumbag to prison,” Kurt fiddled with the radio dial. “And he gave us ear plugs last night. For what? We can't even listen to music in our cars anymore? Fuck that.”

  “Don has his reasons,” Cinthia replied. “What the—” She slammed the brakes. Kurt hit his head on the dashboard and slumped over.

  The cruiser in front of them was swept off the road by a large construction truck. The hood crumpled as their car barreled into it. Cinthia had her seat belt on, so she was okay. Kurt was bleeding but still had a pulse. The rear view mirror showed another truck. Not an accident, then.

  She unbuckled herself and turned to check on the prisoner. He had a gun! She reached for hers, banging her elbow on the steering wheel. As she cursed Duey asked if she was okay. He'd pulled the jacket off of his head and freed himself from the restraints. “Defensive position, deputy,” he said.

  It wasn't Duey. It was Don. His eyes went wide and he fired through the side window. Cinthia's ears rang. Through the after image of the muzzle flash she saw Don screaming at her, spittle flying everywhere. But she heard nothing. She watched him get out, her body frozen in her seat.

  He pulled her from the vehicle and dragged her toward the side of the road. Her body didn't comply until Don slapped her. They ran toward the thicket, Don firing behind them. He pushed her into the tall grass and reloaded. On the road, masked gunmen used her cruiser for cover. One dragged another toward the truck on the right, behind her squad car. Don screamed into his radio and fired another couple of rounds. Flashes to Cinthia's left drew her attention to Libby, who had joined them. Cinthia reloaded, realizing that she too was shooting at the masked men.

  Lucus Chalmers wrinkled his nose and rolled down the window. “Have you been eating tamales again?”

  “It's not me, I swear,” Tom said. “I only smell like wet towel.”

  “Sorry you guys,” Duey said from the back. “I'm a bit nervous.”

  The fresh air assuaged Lucus' nausea. He rubbed his temple and slowed to make the curve. Don had insisted that they take this out of the way road through the hills. It would take an extra hour, provided there weren't any fallen trees. The route was so meandering and inefficient Lucus was sure Marcy planned it. Don disabused him of the notion, calling it a precaution. He also insisted that Lucus and Tom wear plain clothes. He had a hunch someone would try to rescue or kill Duey.

  The winding road and the constant up and down motion of the car didn't help his hangover. He regretted drinking so much with the DA. More so, he regretted waking up naked in her bed. Lucus swallowed down the eruption from his gut.

  “Are you okay? You look kind of green,” Tom paused his video game and adjusted his hunter's cap. “I'll ask my mom to wash my clothes again.”

  “I'm fine,” Lucus lied. “Just tell her for next time that wet clothes shouldn't be left in the washer for several days before being put in the dryer.”

  “I don't know,” Tom said, “she has a special method.” He grinned like a psycho. That was his social expression. “So anyway, did you hear about...” Tom launched into the latest conspiracy theory he saw on YouTube.

  Lucus was in no mood to hear about how the moon was a gigantic spaceship operated by shape shifting reptoids. “Not now T—”

  The radio blared with Don's voice, amid pops and shouts. “We're under attack. I repeat, we're under attack. Four men, automatic weapons...get around the trucks, don't let them escape.”

  Lucus' first impulse was to make a one eighty and gun it back to town. But that would lead Duey right to his rescuers. He kept on their course, with Tom asking every few seconds whether their colleagues would be okay.

  “Whoo!” Don shouted. Libby wasn't sure if her husband tried to act tough in front of the troops or if he still had an adrenaline high. “Did you see? I got one right in the chest. He never saw it coming!”

  Libby nodded. Her hands continued to shake, two hours after the attack. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and leaned on the ambulance for support. Don got the message and hugged her. His heart galloped against her shoulder. It would be a while before he came down.

  Lucus called earlier, informing them that Duey was delivered to the prison without incident. He and Tom were on their way back. Libby smiled as she recall
ed hearing Tom in the background asking if they could stop for burritos.

  “I can't believe they all got away,” Don murmured. As soon as that was apparent he had put out an APB on four guys wearing ski masks. The officers failed to reach a consensus as to the colors, but Libby didn't think it mattered. “The guy I shot must've been wearing a vest,” Don resumed his story. His tone was a mix of disappointment and relief. “We're gonna go interview Duey again. I don't think these guys were here to rescue him.”

  Libby nodded.

  “But first we're gonna stop by the hospital,” Don continued, “to visit the troops.” Five members of the force suffered injuries in the attack, all relatively minor. Some were trampled by their colleagues, others had bullet grazes from friendly fire. Libby was thankful that no one died. A dozen feet away Kurt, unconscious throughout the incident, related his heroic deeds to the tow truck drivers that had come to collect the broken vehicles. Cinthia stood next to him, her arms crossed in front of her chest, a frown on her face. Libby decided she'd make her cupcakes.

  Before they left, Don got Kurt's attention. “Kirk, fine job today. I want you and Vanessa,” he pointed at Cinthia, “to head on over to Duey McCaliker's trailer. See what you can find there.”

  “We've just been in a firefight, boss. You think maybe we can take a breather for a while?”

  Don considered the request. “Rest after you get there. Just secure the scene asap.”

  Libby guessed Kurt didn't like that. But he said, “you got it, boss.”

  “He's a good guy,” Don said when they got in their car. “I like him.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Ingrid fumed.

  Her son stared back at her impassively. “What I thought was best.”

  “If the cops weren't suspicious before, they will be now.”

  Four heavily tattooed men cowered under her glare, but her son was defiant. “Give us the room,” he motioned for them to get lost. They were happy to comply. “You're one to talk, mom.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Let's see here. They found the warehouse. They're investigating the death of that cop. I heard they're digging up that councilman you fiddled around with. Before you know it they'll be bringing Wally in for questioning.”

  “How dare you,” Ingrid screamed and smacked his face. “All of this was for you. I had to get my boy out of prison. You have no love for your mama?”

  “Not when you've gone careless.” Travis held his cheek.

  “I'm getting old,” Ingrid softened, then remembered what they were talking about. “But you, stupid boy. You have no excuse for this morning.”

  “Duey's gonna crack. I had to try to get rid of him.”

  “How can he crack if they weren't going to question him anymore? They have his confession. They don't need any more than that.”

  “But wouldn't they think he had help? Installing all that stuff...”

  “No! Have you met any of them? They're idiots. And if they did suspect anything, they'd go talk to Duey's loser friends. Who know nothing about any of this.” She shook her head and muttered, “my stupid boy.” After a pause she said, “and besides, we have Charlene Atkinson. Never underestimate the power of sentimentality. If by chance they did ask him questions, he wouldn't say anything. He knows we'd kill his love. But you had to go and—”

  Travis interrupted her. “Um, about that,” he scratched the back of his head.

  “What did you do?”

  “It was an accident. She tried to escape. I'll spare you the details.”

  Ingrid frowned at him. “I gave you a play thing. But you had to go and mess around with our insurance.”

  “We couldn't keep her forever.”

  “And we wouldn't. When I say I have a plan, I mean it. I was going to wait for the fires to die down and then Duey would have an accident in prison. Now we have to accelerate things.” Ingrid sighed. “Where's the body?”

  “Which one?”

  “Charlene.” Shame, that one. She was a useful girl.

  “I took care of it.”

  “Oh did you now?”

  “Yeah. We left it at Duey's house.”

  Ingrid's hand stung from the slap. She hoped Travis' face hurt more. “You idiot.”

  “What now?” Travis' eyes teared.

  “They will look through his stuff. They're dumb cops, but they'll at least do that. And then they'll find the body.”

  “So?”

  “Just like his father,” she said to an invisible audience and shook her head. “They'll think Duey did it!” She smacked him again.

  “Right. So what's the problem?”

  “They'll charge him with her murder.”

  “Right. Puts the heat off us. I thought about this, mom.”

  “Did you now?”

  He nodded. “And if you didn't have Alzheimer's you'd think of it too.”

  “So what do you think will happen when Duey finds out Charlene is dead?”

  “Oh. I hadn't thought of that.”

  “'Oh. I hadn't thought of that.'” Ingrid swatted at him repeatedly. “He's going to tell the damn cops everything! Maybe you were better off in jail.” She thought for a moment. “Go get the body before the cops find it. Chop it up. Get rid of it.” Ingrid regretted turning down an opportunity to buy a pig farm last year. “Just like his father,” she said to the empty room after Travis departed.

  In her rage she thought about a certain night at the museum, except it was Travis' face she saw instead of her husband's. Godfrey Leser made a brief appearance in her mind's eye.

  She returned to the present. If all this happened before Marcy Klump lost her job as Medical Examiner Ingrid wouldn't bat an eyelash. Don was by nature lazy and deferred to the official judgments of qualified professionals. It meant he didn't have to do extra work. But the damned cop also had a misplaced sense of duty, which compelled him to investigate tenaciously if wrong doing was suspected. And they did themselves no favors by leaving him a trail to follow. “Mortimer Freeman,” Ingrid said the new coroner's name like a curse. She'd grown complacent over the years and now a competent ME rubbed her face in it.

  They went straight to the cemetery when they got back to town. “They won't get mad and haunt us, will they?” Tom asked for the millionth time and rubbed his hands together vigorously.

  Lucus had given up convincing his partner that ghosts didn't exist. “No. They want us to find out the truth,” he repeated. “Hadiger wants his body dug up so we can find out if he really died of suicide like your mom thought. His spirit won't rest until we do that.”

  “Okay,” Tom rocked back and forth. “Good plan.”

  “Hmm mmm,” Lucus turned down the cemetery road. A small group of workers waited for them by a yellow excavator and an ME van. His phone rang. He stopped the car to answer it. The woman on the other end informed him about the license plate check he asked her department to run. The green Honda Civic was registered to Duey McCaliker. “Thanks very much,” Lucus said. He put the car back in gear and aimed it toward the ME van.

  “They won't get mad, though, will they?” Tom asked again.

  “Don't worry about it.” Something gnawed at the back of his mind.

  “I have nightmares about that guy looking at me out that window in Methton. Do you think he was a ghost? He kept saying they were out of pizza.” Tom adjusted his cap, holding it down like a helmet.

  “I don't know.” Lucus pulled up to the grave site. “Wait. What did you just say?”

  “I'm hungry.”

  “No. What did you say out loud?”

  Tom thought for a few moments. “I have nightmares about that guy. He's scary.”

  “Oh holy hell,” Lucus muttered.

  “Oh my God. Is he haunting me?” Tom brought one hand to his mouth. The other clasped his hat tighter.

  “What? No. Jesus. Duey's car was parked in front of that house. I had a bad feeling about that place...” He called Don.

  After th
e hospital Don and Libby drove to the prison.

  “Good work,” Don said and hung up. To Libby he said, “That was Peggy. The green Honda belonged to Duey. Which I guess if we think about it, we sort of already knew because Duey confessed to killing Swinton.”

  Libby nodded. They signed in and were escorted through the various gates to the interview area.

  “We can still ask him about it though. Maybe it'll clear up a few things.”

  “Good plan,” Libby smiled at her hubby.

  Duey waited for them, strapped to his chair and the table. “I'm not here five minutes and you're already visiting me. I signed the confession. I got nothing to say to you.”

  “There have been developments that we'd like you to clarify,” Libby said.

  Don's phone rang. He walked to the corner. “Yeah, Lucus. Peggy just told us.” He shrugged at Libby, his body language asking her why Lucus was calling. “Yeah, I understand...Yeah...The car is his...I was just telling Libby that we could've figured that out from the confesh—oh. I see,” he gave Duey a look. “Yeah, definitely get a warrant...He'll be fine...Just tell him to protect the medical examiner's staff...Alright, put him on the phone...Hey Klump. Lucus has to go do some stuff in Methton. You'll be okay at the cemetery...that wasn't a question...No Tom, there's no such thing as ghosts...” he gave Libby a look. “She was just kidding...No. That's a cartoon character....No that's from a Stephen King book...Look Klump, you have to face your fears. We're short staffed and there's a bunch of stuff going on...I can't do all these things myself. That's why I have deputies...” He sighed. “Protect the ME guy from the ghosts, okay?...That'a boy...You're just there to make sure no one interferes with the exhumation. The guy has no family objecting. It should be easy. Where's your mom?....Good. So it's a piece of cake then. Just stand there and look pretty...No, not literally...I know you don't do modeling...Yes, I have pointed out on many occasions your lack of good looks...Listen, Klump. Just make sure the coffin gets into the ME van without any problems.” Don hung up.

  He returned to the table. Libby helped him with the chair. “Did you enjoy your ride here?”