The Lumberjack

by Erik Martin Willén

  There were very few vehicles at the camp; only Paul Harris’s truck, the paramedics, another highway patrol car, and a pickup truck parked on the road about a hundred yards away from the scene. There had been one person standing in the rain there, smoking a cigarette.

  Dressed in a long yellow raincoat and rainhat, a slim man in his early sixties observed them in silence. Next to him stood Paul Harris; his breath smelled like he’d just been sick. He was smoking nervously, and as Carlos watched, he lit a new cigarette from the stub of the last. Kneeling on the ground were the two paramedics; also on the ground lay a black body bag, and inside was the victim. Carlos and Ethan Jones exchanged salutes, tipping their hats to each other. Jones didn’t even glance at Takoda or D’Lancy.

  “You want to look at this.” Jones gave Carlos his smart-phone. While Carlos went over several pictures of the dead person hanging from cables, Jones continued, “There’s a video there, too, from when I got here and we took the victim down. He was dangling something awful, and I was concerned that if there was evidence on the body, it might get ruined by the weather.”

  Carlos was well aware that Ethan Jones had crossed the line in interfering in his investigation, but he had done the right thing because of the horrid weather conditions, so he only nodded while watching the short film. In a very soft voice nonetheless filled with arrogance, Jones said, “D’Lancy took some better pictures with another camera; I’ll have her send them to your office.” He deigned to look at the woman. “By the way, since you’re just standing there, why don’t you amble on down the road and take care of crowd control.” He grinned sarcastically while nodding towards the single man still standing in the rain by his truck.

  D’Lancy’s expression betrayed nothing, and without a word, she left them to take care of the “crowd.” Takoda gave her a supportive smile as she passed him and, then without moving his head, shifted his body to stare down the smiling Ethan Jones. Jones lost his smile, then cleared his throat and pursed his lips in a self-satisfied smirk.

  Meanwhile, Paul Harris tossed his latest cigarette butt on the ground and started puffing the next coffin nail. After some prompting, he reluctantly told his story to Carlos, stuttering and going through several cigarettes in the process.

  “Have you had any trucks hauling timber this morning?” Carlos asked when he wound down.

  Taken aback by the question, since it didn’t seem to involve the dead person, both Harris and Jones looked at each other, confused, and then at Carlos. “No, none of my trucks or any of my people should be working today,” Paul said. “Gave everyone the day off, not that it matters, it’s the weekend --it’s just that the weatherman warned about the storm. I had a double-shift working, taking down as many logs as they could the other day to the mill. If you saw any trucks, it must be from another crew. I know some of the young pups don’t care about the weather and the danger it brings with it, and only focus on the damn quota. There are four more crews in this region, but all are on different locations.”

  Carlos knew full well how many logging crews there were in his jurisdiction, but he let the man talk; what he talked about might be helpful. “Do we know who the victim is?”

  “One John E. Clement, we think…or at least that’s what Mr. Harris claims,” Jones drawled.

  “You think?” Carlos shot Paul a questioning glance.

  Paul got even more nervous, and flicked away his cigarette—still only half smoked—before immediately lighting another one, cupping his hands to protect the lighter’s flame from the rain that was still pouring down. “Well, from the size of him and the tattoos, I’m pretty darn sure it’s Noise.”

  “You mean that big bastard they call Little Noise? Damn, I should’ve remembered his real name, considering all the time he’s spent in my lock up.”

  Harris just nodded.

  “Want me to take a closer look, sir?” asked Takoda.

  Carlos had hoped it wouldn’t come to that, having just seen the pictures, but he knew that Takoda was an expert on animal attacks—and they needed as many answers they could get. When Paul Harris saw Carlos motioning to one of the paramedics to open up the body bag, he turned around and puked his guts out.

  Carlos didn’t change expressions. He’d seen horrors like this before; not so much in this county, but when he had worked in the larger cities. He already knew that the head was missing, having seen the pictures and the video. He walked away against the wind, closer to the edge of the rise, and looked down at the hundreds of giant logs laying all over the steep hill, looking like scattered Lincoln Logs at this remove. He figured it was maybe nine hundred feet to the bottom. The entire region looked like a huge square had been trimmed down almost to the ground, with only the stubble of occasional stumps remaining. There wasn’t even any brush left. Typical clearcutting. At least the surviving roots would control the erosion.

  Takoda kneeled and pulled back the cover on the body bag, then reeled backward because the body stank something fierce. He looked at Carlos, and immediately envied him for standing a bit away against the wind, not having to smell this shit. And some of the smell was shit, the body’s bowels having loosened, mixed with piss, BO, the coppery stink of blood—and something else, something rank and animalistic. The dead man was indeed a giant. There were several lacerations and tear marks from what could only be claws. Most likely a bear, he thought.

  “Any ideas?” Ethan Jones asked in a neutral tone.

  “From having seen the pictures and now the markings and bruises, so far I’d say he went a round or two with a grizzly. But…”

  Jones finished his sentence “…but a bear don’t chop off someone’s head that neatly, and they definitely don’t string up bodies on a wire.”

  “Could the body have gotten tangled up in on the hooks accidentally?” Takoda asked.

  “No, not the way they were tied. You can see it on the pictures better.”

  “Damn. It’d be hard tying these thick wires.”

  “Weren’t tied with a knot. They used hook and wire like a noose, just the way they do when bringing up logs, but someone did add some rope too. Making sure the body wouldn’t slip, I guess.”

  “To intimidate, or frighten,” Carlos thought out loud, still standing a bit away.

  “Or vengeance, who knows. Maybe some crazy fucker found him dead from a grizzly, then did the rest to him for some twisted reasons of their own. But he was definitely left that way to scare people, and apparently it worked.” Jones nodded at Paul Harris.

  Carlos asked Jones, “Has anyone been down there looking for any more evidence—established the actual crime scene?”

  “In this weather, no, it’s suicide with all the wet logs and branches. It’s simply too slippery, not to mention the undergrowth. I wouldn’t go down there for a million bucks.”

  Jones was right, and Carlos didn’t like it. Not that he was right, but because there could be some important evidence, like a murder weapon, or whatever was used to behead Noise and so on, but the weather was just getting worse.

  “We need to get down there and check for more evidence, but I guess it has to wait until tomorrow…depending on the weather. Either that, or this place will be shut down. I don’t want anyone up here or down there,” he pointed down valley. “I doubt we’ll find much once we can conduct a better investigation, but still, no one can be here till I say so. You hear me, Harris?”

  “Sure, sure, just find the bastard who did this.”

  “We have to do something to block off the road and keep people away from here. I can’t afford to send one of my deputies to guard this place.”

  “If you want, Sheriff, I can have Mike Hudson drop a few logs over the road. He’s down there by his truck, talking with D’Lancy.”

  “Yeah, I can see the big crowd.” He glared at Jones and then asked, “What’s he doing here, by the way?”

  Looking a bit ashamed, Paul Harris said, “I called him. Sorry.”

  “Well, let’s try and keep a lid on this fo
r as long as possible, okay?”

  In the background, Takoda gestured to the paramedics. “Bag him, please, and take the body to the coroner’s office.”

  Just then there was a change in the wind—and with it came a foul, horrible stench. Carlos froze. Ethan Jones noticed Carlos’s reaction, and said calmly, “It’s from the body. Not sure what to make of that, though. Guess that bear might have taken a piss on him.”

  Jones laughed at his own joke while heading towards his car; Takoda observed the idiot from behind as he brushed by, and then he turned towards Carlos—and that’s when he saw the change from concern to fear in his boss’s eyes.

  * * * * *

  MIKE HUDSON sweated profusely from being so worked up, and he drove his pickup truck well beyond the allowed speed limit. More than a few times, other drivers honked their horns at him, and some of the less happy ones shot him the bird. He ignored all of them, staring dead ahead, but he wasn’t focused on his driving. He had more important things going on in his head; he was thinking up the best story for his drinking buddies at the Last Post. This was big time, big news—big old Noise slaughtered! Go figure. Boy, was he going to be the center of attention! People would listen to and respect him. Now he’d seen it all, he knew, as he reached towards the glove compartment for a bottle of bourbon. He took a big chug, and then another, drifting over to the other side off the road. He saw a flash of movement and realized he’d almost hit a shiny blue Dodge pickup. He reacted fast, though, and with both hands he turned the steering wheel hard right. Realizing that he’d used both hands and the bottle was lying on his lap with the remaining contents pouring out, he cursed prolifically.

  It took him almost two hours to reach The Last Post, due to an enormous accident at Deadman’s Curve. The pigs had only one lane open while road workers rebuilt the guardrail, and they checked all the cars for some reason; probably the murder, he guessed. He had been lucky, noticing the long line of cars, and have taken the long detour at the intersection before the accident. Otherwise they’d have arrested him for sure, given the reek of whiskey all over his cab.

  His truck came to a sudden stop in the Post’s parking lot, splashing muddy water all over. He had his story straight by now, and he couldn’t wait to get inside, because he needed a few more drinks. Maybe he should have the others pay for them in exchange for telling his tale, which by now had far more details and information than even the investigators had managed to glean so far.

  * * * * *

  “I TELL ya, all those motherfucking foreigners are taking over this fucking place,” she muttered, ignoring the facts that her own mother had been born in Germany and she hadn’t a speck of Native American blood.

  BBB waved her fat arm in the air, trying to get the bartender’s attention for a refill. The weather-beaten old man calmly walked over to her and filled up her glass without saying a word. From the speakers came the sound of country music. “They need to build that wall the Pres’dent promised, dammit, and they need to do it in a hurry. Goddamn invasion is what it is,” she muttered. “Shoulda done it two hunnert years ago.”

  BBB looked around the dingy barroom at a dozen or so onlookers, who stood by the bar a bit away from her or sat in chairs next to small, round tables. The establishment reminded her of a scene taken from an old Western movie, with the exception of the more modern clothes on the guests. Four men completely ignored her while playing poker, using matches for wagers in the event the long arm of the law popped up; they would be transformed into dollar bills in the men’s room later on. When she saw the poker players, she became furious and cursed loudly. One of the players raised his hand and shot her the bird. BBB’s eyes widened, and she struggled her way off the bar stool. “I’ma whip your ass, you disrespectful fucker!”

  She stopped dead in her tracks when the man slid his jacket open, revealing the butt of a large revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants. He never moved his head an inch; the only thing that really concerned him was the game.

  “Yeah, well, you’re probably a fuckin’ Muslim too, faggot!”

  She crawled back onto her barstool, gesturing to the bartender for a fill up. Somehow her damn glass had gotten empty again. The shut opened suddenly, letting a cold, wet wind inside, while outside the rain came down hard and the storm thundered away. Mike Hudson, pale as a corpse—due to proper hydration, no doubt—charged to the bar shouting for a bourbon and a beer. He took one shot after another, and downed several beers in just a few minutes. He drank like a champ, like he wanted to impress everyone.

  “Boy oh boy do I have news you gonna wanna hear,” he shouted after a while, “but first I need another drink. BARTENDER!”

  The bartender walked over to Mike with another beer, maintaining a neutral expression.

  BBB replied, “Yeah, well, with the new pres’dent in office there’s gonna be some changes, mark my words! Enough of all them foreign students comin’ here and behaving like they know it all, I’m glad he won the fucking election, YOU HEAR ME, YA BASTARDS?”

  An older man with a white mustache and beard and bloodshot eyes turned to BBB. “The president never won that election, you know.”

  BBB’s eyes grew large, “You fuckin’ stupid old man, if he didn’t win, then what the fuck’s he doing as the motherfucking president, you fucking inbreed!” She slammed her glass down hard, ordering another drink and cursing some more.

  “He didn’t win ‘cause what happened was that all the professional politicians lost, people being tired of all their bullshit. Hell, Big Beatrice Butt-Slammer or whatever you call yourself, if you’d run for office, you’d a been elected too.”

  People laughed at what the old man said while BBB was thinking hard—too hard. She knew he had said something good…she thought. All her brain cells were completely immobile and miswired by this late in the day. So she just smiled and thought out loud, smiling like an idiot, dreaming as she looked up at the ceiling, “Me as president!”

  Someone shouted, “Hey, can you turn it up?”

  The bartender walked over to the stereo controls on the wall and turned up the volume. There was a jukebox in the establishment, and he would turn it on later when there were more customers, so they could spend their money. He walked away, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag.

  The country music echoed a little bit louder from the speakers, and BBB liked the rhythm.

  “Man, this is some good shit, I tell you, this is some music with culture and shit. Man, I never heard this one before, who the fuck is it, and don’t tell me it’s that Miley horn-bitch Cyrus…I ain’t stupid, because I can hear it’s a real manly man singing. Well, bartender, who the fuck is it?”

  The bartender just shrugged, and then someone shouted, “It’s Miley Cyrus after her operation! She’s a man now, Big Beatrice Buttfucker.”

  The room exploded with laughter, and even the somber bartender smiled.

  “Fuck you, faggot, may a Muslim shove his dick up your ass!”

  “You should know.”

  More laughter. BBB was furious, and was ready to kick some serious ass again. She got up from her seat a little too quick, and wobbled around, looking for the bar for support; eventually, she hit the floor hard.

  Even more laughter from everyone but for Mike, because he was too mad—the fat bitch had upstaged him! He knew better than to interrupt BBB; after all, the late Little Noise was one of her lovers…and then his face lit up.

  An older biker walked over to BBB and helped her to her feet. She reached to his chest and she looked up, smiling something horrible at him.The biker gave her a mischievous smile and said, “The name of the singer is Simon Andersson.”

  “Never hear of the fella, but he’s good. So why don’t a stud like you get me another drink and tell me some more.”

  The old biker leaned over the bar, grabbed a bottle, and poured up two glasses. BBB did everything she could to smile at the gentleman who had helped her from the dirty floor.

  “The name of the song is Crazy.”


  “I like crazy. Now, that’s some good name on a song.”

  The biker smiled winked one eye at BBB and said, “And he’s from Sweden.”

  BBB’s eyes grew big while she took in the information. At first she only sputtered, and then she exploded. “Didn’t I tell you all that we’re being invaded? Shit and fuck, that’s it! Now the foreigners are stealing our fucking music too? They better start building a fucking wall in New York too, bet that’s were all them fucker are invadin’!”

  More laughter, but one of the patrons shouted back at BBB from a table in a corner of the room, “BBB, be careful stepping on the Scandinavians, because half of this town has relatives from there.”

  BBB turned around in her seat while the biker, laughing, walked over to some friends. She stared at the man in the corner. “Fuck you! They should build a wall around you too.”

  She then turned around, and facing her was a younger bartender from India, wearing a turban, his white teeth sparkling as they contrasted against his dark skin. With that odd but still beautiful accent, he addressed BBB: “Perhaps my lady would like to slow down on her drinking for a while.”

  BBB could not believe her eyes, “What the --! What fucking bottle did you pop up from, genie?”

  More laughter in the background, and Mike Hudson realized he just had to wait his turn.

  “Oh ho, that is very funny. I am Akash, the new bartender. Old Joe over there needed some extra help, so…”

  “Joe, you fuckin’ traitor, you got yourself a fuckin’ Muslim here?”

  “Actually, ma’am, I am a Hindu, and…”

  “Fuck! You’re what I tell you you are, terrorist!”

  “ENOUGH, BBB!”

  She turned towards the bartender, and she knew that he only gave one warning; but she was still thirsty, and by now a bit drunk. She decided to retreat into the ladies’ room; she was there for quite some time, being in no hurry. She realized after a while that the music had stopped, and there was silence. When she finally emerged from the ladies’ room she walked back to the bar, but there was a near-complete silence, as everyone listened intently to Mike Hudson. Even the poker players had stopped playing, and now leaned over their chairs, listening.