Pernicious

by Henderson, James

  Tasha stole a glance at her watch. Seven o’clock.

  “To make a long story short,” Sheriff Bledsoe said, “Robert used to have an appointment every Wednesday at Doctor Gilmore’s. His office is directly in front of the station. Every Wednesday Robert and Perry would drive up--usually I found somewhere to go before they came. Perry’s driving, the dog riding shotgun and old man Stubbs in the backseat.

  “She’d sit in the car a few minutes, applying makeup, combing her hair, then get out and open the door for the Saint Bernard. She and the mutt would trot off down Main Street while old man Stubbs was struggling to get his door open. It took him thirty minutes to turtle across the street to Doctor Gilmore’s office. A pathetic sight. Snooped over, dirty clothes, pissy, attached to life-saving machines on wheels. He couldn’t get no more than two feet without having to stop, gag and wheeze.

  “Well, this particular Wednesday, as usual, Perry and the dog were long gone and Robert was out there in the middle of the street coughing up a lung. This kid from Little Rock come flying into town, sixty or more. Robert looks up, sees the car coming, can’t even think fast enough to get out of the way.

  “Thank heavens, the kid steers off at the last second and barely misses Robert, but wipes out all his equipment. Bam! The oxygen tank and heart monitor went one way, Robert the other. The kid slams into the post office, jumps out, sees Robert lying flat on his back and hightails down the road. I caught him, still running, in Monticello, twenty miles from here. I went to see Robert in the hospital, see if he wanted to press charges.”

  Tasha again glanced at her watch.

  “He told me then he was the baby’s daddy. He knew he was dying and didn’t think he’d live long enough to see the baby born.”

  “Did he say anything about insurance?”

  “No. A man who doesn’t trust banks, probably doesn’t trust insurance companies, either.”

  Tasha stood up. “Well, I guess that should wrap it up, unless you have anything else to add.”

  “I’ve just got started. I could sit here all day and talk to you.”

  “Thanks a lot. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Don’t mention it,” following Tasha out the door. “Hey,” as she was getting into the car. “Don’t forget what I told you. She’s a dangerous woman.”

  Tasha nodded.

  “One more thing, who did she kill?”

  “It’s still an on-going investigation, Sheriff.”

  “I know. Who did she kill?”

  Tasha smiled at him, put the car in reverse, backed up and drove off.

  Chapter 7

  Bob was already at the office when Tasha arrived the next morning. Obviously he too had endured a long weekend: feet propped on his desk, head resting awkwardly on the back of the chair; snoring, drool dripping onto his corduroy vest.

  Feeling naughty, Tasha picked up a telephone book, held it high and let it drop flat onto his desk.

  Blam!

  Bob jumped to his feet. “Oh shit!” reaching inside his coat.

  Tasha thought he was checking his heart, and suddenly realized he was going for his weapon, a nickel-plated 357 Magnum he carried in a shoulder holster.

  “Bob!” Tasha shouted. “Bob, it’s me!”

  Bob stared at her, his hand still inside his coat. “You scared the hell out of me!”

  Sighing in relief, Tasha said, “Yeah, I know.”

  The two detectives sat down, hearts racing, minds wondering what if.

  “That was close,” Bob said. “Dangerously close.”

  “Yeah,” Tasha agreed. She took out a cigarette and lighted it, shaking so badly she had to hold the Bic with both hands.

  “You spooked me and got spooked yourself, didn’t you?” Bob asked.

  “Spooked? I wasn’t spooked,” Tasha said.

  “Why are you vibrating?”

  “It’s cold.”

  Bob started laughing. “Whew!” tears rolling down his face. “Tash, you kill me!”

  You almost shot me, Tasha thought, laughing.

  Captain Franklin passed by the entrance, quickly came back. “Are you two all right?”

  They continued laughing.

  * * * * *

  An hour later they cruised down the highway in the Taurus.

  “The Game and Fish people,” Bob said, “were more cooperative than I expected. They’re sending out the game warden who arrived at the scene when Willie Davis drowned. The captain said he’s one of their best men.”

  “Fantastic,” Tasha said.

  “They said bring our own lifejackets.”

  Tasha perked up. “What we need those for?”

  “Well, to my understanding, we’ll be in a boat.”

  “We can’t view the area by land?”

  “I guess not.”

  Tasha turned and looked in the backseat. “Where’s the lifejackets? In the trunk?”

  “Uh-uh,” Bob grunted.

  “Under the hood?”

  Bob shook his head.

  “Where they at?”

  “Couldn’t requisition any. Hell, we’re two bold homicide detectives, we don’t need no stinkin’ lifejackets.”

  “We can’t swim.”

  “We’re not going swimming,” Bob said, grinning, “we’re going to view a possible crime scene.”

  “Yes, in a boat with two white men. I know he’s white because ninety-nine percent of the game wardens are white. I’m not racist, but I have a major problem riding in a boat with two white men.”

  Laughing, Bob said, “Two professional white men. Don’t worry, Tash. If you go in the drink, I go in the drink.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “Hell no!” playfully squeezing her shoulder.

  A half mile before the bridge that spanned over Fourche Creek, Bob turned on the emergency flashers. Slowing the car to a crawl, he turned off the highway and eased down the grassy knoll toward the footpath that led into Fourche Creek.

  Bob killed the engine. “He’s running late,” looking at his watch. “He said he’d meet us here at eleven. It’s fifteen after.”

  “He’s probably come and gone,” Tasha said. “You and him better reschedule, without me next time.”

  “Detective Montgomery, you’re not letting a little old creek give you the heebie jeebies, are you?”

  Tasha rolled her window down. An effluvium filled the car. “It sure stinks out here. What is that smell?”

  “Fish guts, unused bait, trash, you name it. You can’t expect people who are nasty at home to be clean in the great outdoors.” He reached under his seat and retrieved a box of doughnuts. “Want one?” chomping into a jelly doughnut.

  “No thanks. It stinks out here. I can’t eat.”

  “Too bad,” grabbing another doughnut.

  A green Dodge Ram towing a boat pulled in behind them. The front door displayed a picturesque emblem: a duck, a large buck, and a large bass, shadowed by a mountainous landscape.

  “Here’s our man,” Bob said, getting out.

  A tall, lean man dressed in camouflaged shirt and pants, spit-shined army boots and a Smokey Bear hat, stepped out of the truck. Below the Smokey, stringy blond hair, a pair of biker’s sunglasses, a spatter of zits, a big nose and a silly grin. A generic Gomer Pyle, Tasha thought.

  “How do?” he said, his voice squeaky, just like Gomer’s.

  “Just fine,” Bob said.

  “Dill Washington. Game Warden Dill Washington. You can call me Dill if you like.” He grinned, as if his name were funny.

  “Detective Bob Kelvis. Nice to meet you.” The two men shook hands. Bob gestured toward Tasha, staring at them from inside the Taurus. “My partner. Detective Tasha Montgomery.”

  The man waved at Tasha. She didn’t wave back.

  “She’s kind of shy,” Bob said.

  Dill sauntered over to the Taurus and tapped on the window. “Howdy,” lifting the sunglasses to his forehead. “Are you a real detective?”

  Tasha nodd
ed.

  “Well, I’ll be dang!”

  “Hey,” Bob said, “I wouldn’t do that I were you. Let’s get down to business.”

  “Show your right. First let me back the boat in the water, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

  “Bob,” Tasha said, exiting the car as Dill backed down the trail.

  “Yeah.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Getting into a boat.”

  “With him?”

  “It’s his boat.”

  “Bob, is it just me, or does he strike you as someone who idolizes Glenn Beck?”

  Bob laughed. “He’s a goofy sumbitch, isn’t he?”

  “We agree there. Why are we getting in a boat with him?”

  Dill waved at them. “Y’all come on down!”

  “Come on, Tash,” Bob said. “Don’t let this backwater game warden think you’re chicken. Hell, he’s never seen a female detective before, watch his face go slack when he sees you navigate a boat.”

  They started toward Dill, standing in ankle-deep water, grinning.

  “Bob,” Tasha whispered, “why is he grinning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  At a camouflaged, flat-bottom boat with a Johnson outboard motor, Bob stepped in first, causing the boat to dip low enough to take in water.

  “Damn!” he said, balancing his large frame near the center. Sitting down he motioned to Tasha. “Come on.”

  “I’m not sure about this,” Tasha said.

  Dill laughed. “You can swim, can’t ya?”

  “I sure cannot.”

  “You can’t?” Shocked. “You can become a detective without knowing how to swim? Well, I’ll be dang!”

  “Maybe I should stay on the bank while you two go ahead.”

  “Fine with me,” Dill said. “Don’t make me no difference. Uh…” He paused, started chuckling.

  “What?” Tasha asked.

  “Water moccasins. The last detective waited on the bank got swallowed up by one of the biggest water moccasin I ever seen. It was this thick.” He patterned a large circle with both hands. “I had to use my truck and a chain to pull him out. Man, what a mess!”

  Glaring at him, Tasha stepped into the boat. It shifted under her weight and she started to step out when Dill grabbed her under the armpits and urged her forward.

  “There you go,” he said.

  “Just relax,” Bob said. “This boat is safe, isn’t it, Dill?”

  Dill pulled hairs on his large Adam’s apple. “Sort of and sorta not of.”

  “Meaning?” Tasha asked.

  He started to explain but Bob cut him off. “Warden Dill, why don’t we get started?”

  “Yeah. I gotta pull the truck up,” he said, and sloshed off.

  “Bob, how much do you weigh?” Tasha asked.

  “Between two hundred and two-fifty, give or take a few ounces. Why?”

  “I weigh a buck forty. Our tour guide looks a buck seventy-five, plus your three hundred, and that’s, uh, six hundred and fifteen pounds!”

  “I’m coming!” Dill shouted, running toward them, carrying a double-barrel shotgun.

  “What the hell he need a shotgun for?” Bob said.

  “Water moccasins…I hope.”

  “Let’s do it,” Dill said, “with do-it fluid.” He pushed the boat into deeper water before jumping in.

  “Why the shotgun?” Tasha asked, forgetting her concern about the boat’s weight limitation.

  “Just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  Dill didn’t answer. He fetched two wooden paddles out of a side compartment and handed one to Tasha, who in turn handed it to Bob. “We gon’ hafta paddle,” he said.

  “How far?” Bob said, paddling through muddy water.

  “Not too far. Just a bit up yonder.”

  “Would you please explain to me,” Tasha said, “why you need a shotgun?”

  Rowing and grinning, Dill said, “Every now and again I meet someone deaf and dumb. I tell em to stop and they keep going. Had an old boy the other day--he knew he’d caught his limit--told him to stop, you know, real nice-like. ‘Sir, would you stop?’

  “He looked at me like I was a dyke with a bloated lip, let out a hoot and holler and hauled ass, paddling like crazy. We were in the stumps--I couldn’t use the motor. Wasn’t a race, old boy left me by a mile. Now I carry this.” He held up the shotgun.

  “You intend to shoot someone who caught the limit in catfish?” Bob asked.

  “Nope. We can’t do that. I asked em, and they said don’t do that. Wish we could, though. What I plan to do is catch a fellow’s attention. He hears this baby and there’s one of two things he’s gonna do: foul his Fruit of the Looms or stop. Either way I’m happy.”

  “Dill,” Tasha said, “does Arkansas Game and Fish require applicants to pass a psychological profile?”

  “You wanna hear her scream?” Dill said, grinning.

  “Excuse me?” Tasha said.

  “You wanna hear her cut loose? Bobbi, my shotgun?”

  Bob and Tasha shook their heads.

  Despite unanimous objection, Game Warden Dill Washington pointed his shotgun at the water and fired…Kaboooooooom!…A split second later, another: Kabooooooom!…A flock of crows lifted uniformly and flew off in different directions…A series of splashes resonated near and far, animals of all scales and stripes seeking safety below the water.

  The various insects that hummed and buzzed before the blasts were conspicuously silent. The only sound Tasha heard now was her heart thumping.

  “Would you not do that?” Bob said.

  Dill gave Bob a goofy grin and laid the shotgun down.

  A few minutes later, Dill said, “Hold up. We’re ‘bout here.”

  “This the spot?” Bob asked.

  “Yup,” Dill said. “The body was floating right about here.” He pointed at an area a few feet away, thick with algae and lily pads. The boat rocked against a cypress tree stump and made a loud screech.

  “Was the water this murky that day?” Bob asked.

  “I believe so,” Dill said.

  “In your expert opinion,” Bob said, “would this be the ideal place to fish?”

  “Not hardly. You can go farther down and the water clears up.”

  “How was the body positioned?”

  “What you mean?”

  “On its back or facedown?”

  “Belly. This colored woman found him; she could have turned him over, but I doubt it. She was all shook up, just a shivering and shaking like a wet pup. I asked her, ‘You ain’t never seen no dead man before?’ and she went to screaming and hollering like I’d showed her my private credentials.”

  Tasha groaned.

  “How deep you think this water?” Bob asked.

  “Let’s see.” He stuck a paddle into the water and it submerged to his wrist. “About three feet.”

  Bob nodded at Tasha. “How tall was Willie?”

  “Six feet, I’m guessing,” Tasha said.

  “Warden,” Bob said, “can a person walk to the bank?”

  “Don’t see why he couldn’t. It’s sandy and slick on the bottom, though I’m sure you can stand on it. You want me to demonstrate for ya?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Warden. Now tell me, where was the boat?”

  “About a few feet away from the body.”

  “Anything about the boat that struck you as odd? The way it was turned over? Any holes in it? Anything that seemed out of place?”

  Dill held up his hands. “Whoa, just hold on. You asking too many too fast.” He took off the Smokey and wiped sweat from his pate. “I don’t recall anything special ‘bout the boat, just a regular ten-foot MirroCraft.”

  “How often does a person drown out here?” Tasha asked.

  “Hmmm…let’s see…” He counted on his fingers. “I’d say couple or three every year, all depends if the fish are biting.”

  Bob removed his Stetson and mimicked Dill’s sw
eat-wiping. “Care to conjecture with me, Warden?”

  Looking sheepish, Dill said, “I’m game if you promise not to tell a soul.”

  “What?”

  Red-faced. “I may have misunderstood you.”

  “Okay. Let’s say two people came out here at night in a boat and--”

  “Hold up!” Dill interrupted. “Were they white or colored?”

  Bob glanced at Tasha. “Colored.”

  “Had to ask ’cause it makes a helluva difference.”

  Bob looked at Tasha and shook his head. “Warden, what possible difference could that…Just stick with me here, okay? Let’s say one of them intentionally tips the boat over and swims or walks to the bank, leaving the other--”

  “Why?” Dill interrupted again. “Why would someone do something so ornery? Huh? Was one of em stink-baiting with the other fellow’s wife?”

  Bob did not respond.

  “Now,” Dill went on, “if that was what was going on, I can see why an old boy would do something like that. The other old boy was scum, wasn’t he? Only a scum bucket would sneak around with his buddy’s old lady.

  “Not only that he goes and jumps into his buddy’s boat if nothing’s going on. That’s maggot-belly low-down! Backstabbing’s one thing…backstabbing and jumping into a man’s boat! That’s just plain sorry. If you ask me, the old boy had it coming to him.”

  Tasha buried her head between her knees and tried unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter.

  An hour later, back on the highway, Bob vented his frustration: “What a jerk! Can you believe that guy? I should have charged him with unlawful discharge of a weapon.”

  “Bob,” Tasha said, laughing, “the man is a fellow officer.”

  “A fellow idiot. I tell you, Tash, it’s people like him who give law enforcement a bad name. What a waste of time.”

  “Not exactly. What I’ve seen today I’m a hundred percent sure Willie Davis did not accidentally drown.”

  Bob sighed. “I was hoping we’d get lucky back there. We need something concrete. What did you glean out of the mother?”

  “She’s gone. The sheriff there said she, her husband and Keshana took off in the middle of night to parts unknown three years ago. And get this, Perry acquired a taste for easy money in her early teens. She latched on to this elderly, rich white guy with one leg in the casket and a foot in an oil slick. When he died she wiped him out.”