Death at the Black Bull

by Frank Hayes

  “Any problems?” Virgil asked as Dave switched off.

  “Nothing unusual. A couple of steers got out of the stockyard and started heading for the interstate. Alex called his father-in-law and they got a couple of hands down there and caught them up. Just another Wild West story.”

  Virgil smiled. “You know, Dave, if you got a job in a big city, it would probably be a lot more interesting.”

  “I’d rather chase cows than drug dealers.”

  Virgil finished his soda and stood up. Dave joined him and together they walked out to Virgil’s cruiser.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place, Dave.”

  “You make it sound like I’m an interior decorator. Alex does the flowers. We try to cover up the fact that we’re working out of a trailer. Makes us look a little more permanent.” He gave the sheriff a wave. “See you, Virgil.”

  “See ya, Dave.”

  Virgil hadn’t driven a mile before he got a call from Dave. When Virgil returned and pulled back into the driveway, he saw Dave standing outside the trailer. It didn’t escape his notice that Dave was wearing his hat. More telling was the fact that his holster wasn’t empty.

  “Alex just called back in. Sounded like something. Thought, since you were here . . . Come on, we’ll take my vehicle.”

  Virgil turned off the engine and stepped out. Dave was already in his Bronco. Virgil knew it was likely they might be going off road because of Dave’s suggestion. He had a heavier suspension and twice the clearance of Virgil’s cruiser.

  “What’s up? Did some more steers go AWOL from Luther’s? Hell, I’d jump a four-foot fence to avoid ending up on someone’s plate.”

  “Not sure, but Alex sounded a little apprehensive. That’s not like him. Like I said, as long as you’re close, I thought maybe you’d want to check it out with me.”

  “Why not? A little change of pace for me.”

  Virgil watched the passing scenery on the way down to Luther’s Livestock Auction. The chance to look at the world as a passenger didn’t come too often. It was less than forty miles from Hayward, but the differences in the landscape were dramatic. There was little subtlety in what was one step removed from desert; his vision filled with sharp lines and right angles. Buttes and stone carved into incongruous shapes by thousands of years of weathering breaking up a landscape that could have been found on the moon. Red rock striated with shades of blue broke up the monochromatic brown. Tufts of cholla, scrub pine, and an occasional cottonwood offered the only hint of green. He saw the distant mountains and wondered how a last band of Apaches could have called them home.

  “There’s Luther’s.” Dave’s words broke the silence.

  Virgil looked at the collection of corrals bordering some larger feedlots, most containing cattle that lined both sides of the road. He knew that if he had rolled down the car window long before the pens came into view a strong aroma would have predicted their presence. It was not an unpleasant or unfamiliar smell. They continued on for another quarter mile until they saw Alex standing by his car. He took off his sunglasses and extended his hand when he saw Virgil get out of the Bronco.

  “Hey, Sheriff. Didn’t know you were coming.”

  “What’s up, Alex?” Virgil looked into the lean, tanned face of his deputy, noting how much Alex seemed to fit the land he’d just seen. He was spare and square-jawed.

  “Well, maybe it’s nothing, but when we were catching up them steers, I saw something. Maybe caught a whiff of something, too. Didn’t say anything to the boys I was with, but thought maybe it was something worth checking out.”

  “Okay, let’s have a look.”

  They got into Dave’s truck with Alex behind the wheel. They drove for about twenty minutes until Alex finally slowed, then pulled off onto the shoulder. When they were out of the vehicle, Alex motioned for them to follow him. The road curved for a quarter mile into a steady ascent. He had left the car on the straightaway, the safest place before the start of the curve. Alex walked ahead, followed by Virgil, with Dave bringing up the rear. Virgil could hear Dave’s breathing.

  “Hold up a second, Alex.”

  Alex stopped and Virgil waited until Dave came alongside.

  “You all right, Dave?”

  “Just give me a minute. Damn cigarettes.” He coughed twice. “I . . . I gotta quit before I end up in one of those anti-smoking commercials.”

  “We’re almost there,” Alex said.

  “Stay here, Dave. I’ll go on with Alex.”

  Dave didn’t protest. He sat on a huge boulder that had probably broken off from the escarpment on the opposite side of the road. It had stopped before dropping down into the ravine.

  Virgil turned away and along with Alex they started farther up the grade. They had just rounded the curve when Alex pointed to the sky. Gliding on the thermals, there were a dozen or more buzzards. A few more yards farther on Virgil caught an unmistakable scent. An odor that, once smelled, was never forgotten.

  “Could be an animal,” Virgil said.

  “Could be.” Alex’s voice lacked conviction.

  They walked a little farther until the stench became overpowering. Alex pointed to something fluttering on the branch of a piñon, fifteen or twenty feet down the slope. “That’s what I saw after I caught the smell and got out of my car.”

  “Go back to the Bronco. I’m sure Dave’s got a coil of rope in back.”

  Alex left, and Virgil waited. A few minutes later he was back. Dave was with him.

  “This doesn’t smell good,” Dave said. He tied the rope to a metal road stanchion that bordered the midpoint of the curve in the road. Alex began to rappel down the rope, with Virgil acting as a guide from the top. Virgil followed when Alex hit the bottom. On the way past the piñon, he reached up and snatched the piece of blue fabric. He could see the pattern of small, yellow flowers against the bright blue background. When he reached the bottom, Alex was waiting for him. The smell of death was intense enough to make a strong stomach churn. Alex had taken out a bandanna from his pocket and made a mask. Virgil had no bandanna.

  “I don’t know, Virgil.” It was the first time Alex had called Virgil by his first name. The color had left Alex’s face, and Virgil understood.

  “Wait here a minute, Alex.”

  Virgil grabbed a small cottonwood struggling for life in the middle of road debris, riprap stone, and whatever trace of soil it could find and continued his descent another fifteen feet until he reached the base of the arroyo. He could hear the barest trickle of a creek a little farther ahead as he picked his way across rock and road litter tossed from above. A scrape of boots told him Alex was following as he made his way toward a mix of dense foliage. He slipped and fell to one knee, impaling his right hand on a small cactus. As he pulled himself upright, a bright trickle ran down his fingers from the fatty part of his palm. He reached forward to part the dense cover in front of him. The rebellious calls of the scavengers above circling in the blue sky were like a bizarre chorus. There was little give to the scrub plants that had struggled to life, anchoring themselves in the hard earth. He pulled harder with his right hand until he heard the snap of a large branch as it broke under his grip. He reached with his left to another and felt it give. Then suddenly it released its grip on the hard dirt and pulled away. He stumbled back as a round object rolled out from underneath the bush and landed a few feet in front of him.

  “Holy shit!” The exclamation came from Alex, who had caught him as he fell backward. Oblivious to the stench that rose from the bushes, they looked down to see the eyes of a man whose head no longer belonged to his body.

  Virgil heard the spontaneous retching coming from Alex. He glanced back to see him clutching a cottonwood branch for support as he emptied his stomach. Virgil felt the piece of blue fabric that he had stuffed in his pocket.

  He knew it did not belong to a man.


  Leaving Alex, he stepped forward into the copse of bramble, scrub pine, and matted grass, pushing low-hanging limbs out of his way as he went. He had only managed a few steps when he found the headless corpse. As he moved to investigate further, a pine branch that he had released from the grip of a wild grape vine slapped his face. The sting startled him. The pungent smell of death impelled him forward. He had taken the torn fabric, blue with the vibrant yellow flowers, from his pocket. He worked it nervously in his hand as he struggled a few steps forward, until it was wadded into a ball.

  Alex was a few feet in back of him. Suddenly, a shaft of light fell on a lot more of the blue fabric. Virgil stopped. Despite the heavy stench, he drew in a deep breath while Alex came alongside of him. Then he drew back a low-hanging branch to reveal what he knew would be there.

  He felt Alex’s hand dig into his shoulder as he steadied himself. The two just stood there for a long minute.

  “I never . . .” Alex never finished the sentence.

  “I know.”

  “Why . . . Why would they . . .” Alex struggled for the words. “Decapitate them?”

  “I don’t know,” Virgil said. “Maybe as some kind of warning.”

  “Who do you think they are?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have a feeling they might be the couple Jimmy was trying to find, who are no longer in the wind.”

  22

  It was closing in on six by the time Virgil started back to Hayward. He’d gone to Redbud looking for answers, but was coming back with more questions and two more murders to investigate. He had stayed until they had processed the crime scene. Alex photographed the scene while Dave searched for any trace evidence up on the road. He had called Virgil over to look at some tire impressions in the loose dirt on the shoulder, but the dirt was more like dust and too loose to make a mold. They had Alex take as many close-ups as they could get. They all agreed the impressions looked like truck tires.

  “Well that narrows it down to about ninety-eight percent of the population,” Dave said.

  Within another hour, the coroner had come down from Hayward. This was part of the protocol Virgil had established when he became sheriff. It was not an innovation warmly received by the town council, since it involved extra pay and frequently overtime.

  Dave held the coroner in little esteem. “He’s as useless as tits on a bull. If it weren’t for that one-eyed intern of his, those two bodies at the bottom of that gulch would have been picked clean by them buzzards by the time he got to them.”

  “Well, I don’t know the intern that well, but as far as that assessment of Doc Kincaid is concerned, your opinion wouldn’t be colored by the fact that he was your main competition for Rosie, would it?”

  “Well, that kid rappelled down that slope with one eye and was at the scene twenty minutes before Kincaid finally reached bottom.”

  “Imagine that, a one-eyed twenty-seven-year-old former Special Ops guy, who did two tours in Iraq, got down there quicker than a fifty-five-year-old with a stomach bulge you could set a dinner plate on. Guess things like huffing and puffing when you walk up a hill come easier to guys on the shady side of fifty.”

  Dave had no comeback.

  The coroner said he’d call Virgil as soon as he had preliminary results. Virgil was tired. It had been a long day, so after he left the hospital and Doc Kincaid he headed for home. He was looking forward to a quiet night.

  Cesar was sitting on the front porch sipping a beer as he pulled up in front of the house. Five minutes later, Virgil was next to him, sipping on his own beer and trying to put the day’s events in his rearview mirror. A soft breeze caressed him, and he felt the stress of the day slipping away. He breathed deep the smells of the ranch, trying to displace the other smells. The mixed perfume was more than green grass, cut hay, and manure. It was home.

  Cesar brought him up to date.

  “That little foal is coming along. Only thing is that Star won’t let him take a step without being on top of him.”

  “Well, she’s waited over twenty years for motherhood. Guess being a mom is a little overwhelming after all that time. How’s the graze holding up?”

  “Don’t think there’s going to be much of a second cutting less we get some serious water. Even good bottomland gets thirsty.”

  They sat a long time in quiet listening to the soft murmurs of the earth. Finally, Cesar stood up.

  “Guess I’ll head into town. Get something in Margie’s then maybe . . .”

  “Then maybe you’ll visit somebody.”

  “Could be.” Cesar gave a half smile and stepped down off the porch. “You know, maybe later you could pick up that phone. Maybe call down to Black Bull. I hear there’s a nice lady down there.”

  “Old man, someday I’m going to find out how you know everything.”

  “Then you’ll be as smart as me.” He gave a half wave and headed toward the pickup parked by the corral.

  Virgil sat sipping another beer until the sun slipped behind the barn. Finally, he dragged himself to his feet, went inside, and took inventory of the refrigerator. He got some cold chicken and potato salad and fixed himself a plate, then watched what was going on in the rest of the world as he slipped into the recliner in front of the TV. By the time he finished his supper, he realized that his corner of the world was not so unique after all.

  He carried his dish to the kitchen and set it in the sink. He glanced at the clock, picked up the phone, punched in some numbers, and waited.

  “Black Bull, how can I help you?” A familiar voice.

  “Let me think about that.”

  * * *

  He knew he was late, and if it weren’t for the accuracy of first light hitting him square in the eyes, he’d still be asleep. Quietly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, then stood, still squinting. The monotonous weather was getting to him. Another cloudless sky. Looking out at the empty landscape, he had the feeling he was facing another long day, but he felt good. At the realization, he glanced over at the still-sleeping figure, his eyes lingering on the smooth, exposed skin that reawakened a fleeting desire. The taste of the night was still on his lips as he headed for the bathroom.

  “When am I going to get that riding lesson?” The question greeted him ten minutes later as he returned from the bathroom. He walked to her side of the bed. She hadn’t changed position and looked up at him, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

  “You mean you want another one?”

  With a speed that surprised him, she reached out, grabbed his pillow, and in the same singular motion threw it at him. He caught it in midair and threw it back at her. Wordlessly, he sank down on the bed as she rolled over. He reached down and brushed her breasts with his hand, then kissed the small hollow in her neck. Finally he brought his lips to hers.

  “Yuck, morning mouth,” she said as they parted.

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Mine,” she said.

  “You taste good to me.”

  She placed her hand on his cheek.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “I’m already late.” He leaned over once again, gave her a quick kiss, and stood. “I’ll call later.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “I’m good. I’ll catch something on the fly.” He blew a kiss and left. He thought about stopping by the ranch for a quick change of clothes, but decided to put it off until after he met with Dr. Arthur Robert Kincaid, the coroner, whom everyone in town knew as Ark. So many people in small towns seem to carry nicknames, Virgil thought. How had he himself escaped one?

  He pulled into the hospital parking lot. His next thought, once inside, was why were morgues always in basements?

  There was no sign of the coroner in his office, so Virgil headed down the hall. Before he got as far as the viewing room, a door opened and the intern stepped out.

  “Good morni
ng,” Virgil said. “Is Ark . . . I mean Doctor Kincaid in there?”

  “Sorry, he is running a bit late.”

  Virgil reached out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Dalton. We never really were introduced.”

  “Yes, I know,” the intern said. “The badge, the shades, and the cowboy hat gave you away. I’m Chet Harris.”

  They shook hands.

  “It’s all right,” Harris said, as Virgil couldn’t help looking at the man’s eye patch. “It’s a little disconcerting for most people. The patch—”

  “Oh, sorry . . . It’s just that you don’t see . . . I mean . . .” Virgil rarely got caught with his conversational pants down, but the young intern was still smiling and seemed to be enjoying his embarrassment. “Maybe, if you got a parrot.”

  “Good recovery, Sheriff. Actually, I’ve tried a couple of prosthetic eyes, but so far haven’t found one that doesn’t cause irritation. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you’re waiting?”

  “Thank you, sounds good.”

  Virgil followed the intern back through the door and they spent the next ten minutes getting acquainted, until Dr. Kincaid finally entered.

  “Sorry, Virgil. Had to drop the kids off at summer camp. Hate starting the day late. I feel like I spend the whole day playing catch-up.”

  “Relax, Ark. As a guy who didn’t become a father till he was almost fifty, I cut you plenty of slack. Besides, this has given me a chance to get to know your pirate.” He handed Ark a cup. “Coffee?”

  “I’ve got some stuff to do,” the intern said. “Nice meeting you, Sheriff. Good suggestion for Halloween.” He started to leave the room.

  “Hold on a minute, Chet. It can wait. Sit for a moment. This is part of the job description, too.”

  “Okay, so what have you got for me?” Virgil said.

  “This is preliminary, Virgil. I won’t have the tox screen and other lab work for a while, but I can tell you a couple of things. First off, they didn’t die a natural death.”

  “C’mon, Ark. I didn’t get out of bed for your gallows humor.”