Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

Mrs. Lindenhurst’s body was relatively untouched by the flames.

  That poor woman suffered before her passing, he observed. While the pre-death welts and bruising were external signs of violence, the extensive circle of purple, sticky blood covering her pants told the real story. She died before the fire. She bled out, he reasoned. Death by hemorrhage, not smoke inhalation.

  He stepped back for a moment, his sage eyes carefully examining every inch of the female victim’s remains. Dozens of less obvious items drew his attention, small things that told the story of what had happened here. Often, it was what he didn’t see that whispered in his ear.

  She was reasonably well nourished. Tan lines on her fingers told him she had worn multiple rings. They were gone. One of her fingers was badly mangled. That’s where the wedding ring would’ve been, he considered. She hadn’t wanted to give that up. Someone had yanked it off anyway. Brutally.

  The big Texan moved closer again, careful not to disturb the corpse. As he knelt to inspect her back, the edge of his badge dug into his leg, almost pushing the clip from his belt. The adjustment, moving the oversized identification to the side, was automatic. So was his hand’s follow-on movement to the hip – a subconscious effort to verify the holstered sidearm. The checkered grip’s touch was reassuring, helping the ranger deal with the gruesome scene at his feet.

  Much of the woman’s clothing was torn, bloody or soiled. There was skin under her painted fingernails, bruising on her knuckles. She’d put up a fight – a scrapper. She’d lost.

  He ascertained her clothing was relatively new and of good quality. Her shoes were missing, but the patches of her torn blouse, where there wasn’t any fire damage, showed evidence of few washings and little age. The same could be said of her slacks – what was left of them. The bottoms of her feet were dirty, her toenails colored. Spare time to doll herself up, do girlie things, he noted.

  The home was a step above typical, a few rungs short of luxurious. The yard was well cared for. The cars in the driveway were clean. There weren’t any weeds in the garden beyond.

  This pair was just average townspeople, he concluded. Maybe even wealthy folks – at least by today’s standards.

  He moved off to mentally catch his breath, pretending to study something in the ashes and debris. It was the third killing this month, and payday was still a week away. That was three too many as far as Zach was concerned.

  The injustice of it all began to fuel a slow simmer of rage in Zach’s gut. This dead woman might have been many things while alive, but he doubted any of them warranted the slow, agonizing death she’d suffered. Had it been a robbery… or vendetta… or even a rapist’s sick desire to dominate? Regardless, the injustice of it all fueled his ire, and that was a dangerous thing for a man of his capabilities.

  There was one thing that kept Zachariah Bass in law enforcement, a single point of gratification that allowed him to get out of bed every morning and pin on the five-star badge.

  Zach had no need for authority, didn’t thrive on law, order, or some obscure sense of justice. His ego didn’t feed on controlling others, nor did he see himself as a hero of any sort. As a matter of fact, more so than many of his co-workers, Ranger Bass fully embraced the concept that the human race was far too complex and intricate to be defined by such comprehensive labels as good or bad.

  No, what kept Zach in the game was protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. The job was really just that clear-cut in his mind. He had been too late for the couple in the house. He couldn’t help them now, hadn’t been there to keep them alive, and it taxed his humanity.

  Shaking his head to remove the building anger, Zach uncoiled his lanky frame. Finally reaching his full height, his thumbs found the inside of his belt as his shoulders squared. “I’ll bet a dozen doughnuts that the locks don’t show any sign of forced entry,” he commented to a nearby deputy. “I’ll up the ante to a cup of joe that the fire started around some sort of filing cabinet or maybe in a home office - if there was one. I’ll go double or nothing that the woman was killed first, probably tortured in front of her husband. The animals that did this wanted something from him, maybe the combination to a safe, or the key to a filing cabinet. Afterwards, they slit the victim’s throat.”

  The young peace officer didn’t get a chance to answer, a voice booming out from behind, cutting him off. “Well, well… to what do we owe the honor?”

  Zach turned to see the county’s sheriff approaching, a smile forming under the new arrival’s mirrored sunglasses and low brim of a Stetson.

  “Hello, Sheriff. Did you bring coffee?”

  Grunting, the older man extended his hand. “Zach, how are you? Not seen you in these parts for a while. What brings a ranger to our part of the Republic?”

  Zach noted the man’s use of the term “Republic.” Most people still referred to Texas as a state, despite the secession’s first anniversary having already passed. Accepting the offered hand, he answered, “I’m good, Skip. My partner and I were in the neighborhood. We stopped to see if we could help.”

  The local lawman scanned the area while shaking the taller man’s hand, “Partner?”

  “Sam,” Zach called over his shoulder, “I want you to meet Skip Winslow, the local sheriff. I can vouch that he is a reasonably honest man.”

  A raven-colored head of shiny hair appeared over the far side of the smoldering bricks, quickly followed by Sam’s frowning face. She cast a quick glance and nod at the two men and then disappeared again, apparently searching for some clue. A muffled voice sounded over the still popping and steaming embers, “Be there in a minute, Zach. I’m looking for something. I want to be the first one to dig around before somebody screws up the crime scene.”

  “You won’t find any weapon, or sign of forced entry,” Zach replied knowingly. “I can save you the time and trouble.”

  “I know… but I’ve got to look,” came the reply.

  The sheriff caught Zach’s attention, mouthing the question, “Sam?”

  “Ranger Samantha Temple,” he replied, “Everyone calls her Sam. She joined six months ago – former Houston homicide detective and royal pain in the backside.”

  “I heard that, asshole,” the voice from the afar vehemently protested.

  Zach grunted, eyeing the sheriff and waiting for the usual response.

  “A female ranger?” the local lawman whispered. “Why I never heard of such a thing. What has become of the Republic?”

  Zach had heard the same doubting attitude a dozen times since Sam had been assigned as his partner. And it was a fair question given the background of the Texas Rangers.

  Throughout their extensive history, there had never been a female pin on the “star in wheel” badge. Sam and three other experienced, tough lady cops had been the first.

  In the months following the secession, the Texas Rangers had quickly been overwhelmed. With over 100 federal law enforcement agencies suddenly evaporating from the streets, it seemed President Simmons felt obligated to assign every problem, issue, and jurisdiction to the law enforcement branch which was held in the highest esteem – the Texas Rangers.

  The once-tiny assemblage suddenly found itself fulfilling the former roles of the FBI, DEA, ATF, federal marshals, and a host of other law enforcement organizations. Just recently, Zach had heard an Austin politician on the television, going on about how the rangers should be assigned as the new nation’s postal inspectors. Go figure.

  Given a host of new responsibilities, the rangers were forced to expand. Some former federal officers wanted to stay in Texas and were quickly recruited. Still, there was a need for more boots on the street, and as was tradition, the best and brightest cops from local police departments were recruited.

  Zach didn’t have any problem welcoming females into the ranks. He’d seen Samantha Temple in the field before and knew she was as rugged as an iron spike. But those feelings weren’t shared by every one of his colleagues. Some of the old boys thought the organization’s
history and reputation was being watered down; others were concerned about placing their lives in the hands of the fairer sex.

  Like always, it was the politicians who had finally determined the organization’s future.

  Texas, as a nation, was regularly portrayed as a bastion for conservative, white, wealthy males. The world’s media droned on and on, projecting that the women’s movement in the Lone Star Nation would lose traction, perhaps reverting to the Stone Age of Wilma and Betty. Some of the more liberal outlets even went so far as to predict females would become second class citizens, along with Blacks, Asians, Latinos, and anyone else who didn’t fit the Texas mold. One extremist editorial had even questioned, “Will women lose the right to vote in the new Texas?”

  So the statesmen in Austin reacted, often bending over backward to show the world what a fair, benevolent, lovable place Texas was turning out to be. It boggled Zach’s mind. According to his way of thinking, you got back from life what you put in, regardless of sex, color, or creed. Why make such a big deal out of it? Why did people need the government to tell them what was right and wrong with social behavior?

  Peering back at the sheriff, Zach finally responded, “She’s earned it, Skip. Having her as my partner has been an asset, not a punishment. But please don’t tell her I said that.”

  The local lawman was forming a reply when his radio squawked a metallic voice. “Sheriff, we’ve found some fresh tire tracks, half mile due east of the victim’s home off County Road 2118. Somebody was headed for Louisiana along one of the old logging trails.”

  Looking at the tall ranger, Winslow keyed his microphone. “Follow the tracks as far as you can, Dually. I’ll head over that way in just a minute.”

  The sheriff turned back to Zach. “Want to tag along? I could use all the help I can get. My department doesn’t see that many double homicides.”

  “Naw,” the ranger replied with a thick drawl. “I doubt you’re going to find anything useful.”

  “Okay, Zach, come clean with this old law dog,” began the older cop. “I ain’t buying your story for one second. No way were you just ‘in the neighborhood.’”

  Before Zach could answer, Sam appeared next to one of the deputies who was scribbling on a clipboard. “No sign of forced entry,” she announced. “At least not that I can tell from what’s left of the doors. Could have been a window, but I doubt it. That’s rare. Leads me to believe that the victims let the killer inside. Whoever did this probably just knocked on the front door.”

  She then strolled toward her partner and the sheriff, eventually offering her hand to the local lawman. “Sam Temple.”

  Winslow accepted the handshake, “Nice to meet you, Ranger Temple. You have my sympathies over being assigned as Zach’s partner. Who’d you piss off?”

  Looking up at Zach, she smiled and answered. “I see the sheriff knows you well,” and then without giving him a chance to retort, she spotted a nearby deputy approaching the destroyed home. “Please don’t step in that area. I’ve not had an opportunity to photograph that section yet,” she snapped, startling the young officer.

  Skip’s man didn’t seem to know how to respond, finally mumbling a chastised, “Yes, ma’am. My apologies, ma’am.”

  The deputy backed away carefully, his expression showing obvious signs of intimidation. Zach didn’t blame the lad – Sam was a presence, especially when she got her dander up.

  Just under six feet tall with shoulder-length, black hair, the new ranger looked more like a supermodel than a law enforcement officer. Damned pretty, long legged, and blessed with killer green eyes, she could be a daunting presence. The badge and .45-caliber 1911 officer’s model displayed on her belt added to the effect. Some men went stupid around striking women, others knocked off their game by any display of female authority. The combination, Zach observed, was often humorous to watch.

  Winslow was still focused on his unsolved homicides, “So you were saying?”

  “My partner and I were working another case and on our way out to visit Mr. Lindenhurst. I think we were a little late,” the ranger confessed.

  “I hate complexity,” the sheriff muttered, “Give me a jealous husband, drunken brawl, or outright thief any day of the week.”

  “There’s no way to be sure it’s related,” Sam interjected. “But whoever did this didn’t want to leave any trace evidence. I think they took her valuables to cover up the murder. The fire was just insurance. I just can’t help but feel there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, the county’s top lawman was saddened. “I’ve known Ted and Martha for years. They were respected members of this community. Why would anyone want to do this?”

  Without going into a lot of details, Zach filled the sheriff in on why Sam and he happened to be in the area.

  “I remember that auction. It struck me as odd because one of the Bender boys was bidding like he’d just won the lottery.” The sheriff then rubbed his chin, “I know old man Bender. He and his sons mostly deal in salvage. That’s a pretty rough crowd. Last year, I had one of them in my jail for stealing copper wire out of a church’s air conditioner. I think it’s safe to say that entire clan wouldn’t be on anybody’s list of candidates for Citizen of the Year, if you know what I mean. Anyway, when I saw one of them spending all that cash at the tax sale, I had my boys look into it. Nothing ever came of it, though.”

  “Do you know where we can find them?” Zach asked, apparently undeterred by the sheriff’s assessment.

  “I know where their business is located, for sure. But if you’re intending on heading down there, I’d suggest having a few of my deputies to go with you. We call that area ‘The Bottoms,’ and it’s more than a little seedy.”

  “The Bottoms?”

  “Yes, sir. The Beaumont side of the Neches River does well. Hell, I just read it’s the fourth largest port in North America, right after New York. But on our side of the river, things aren’t quite as economically favorable. The people over here mostly get the crumbs and nasty jobs nobody else wants. You’ve got a lot of shrimpers, oyster boats, scrap dealers, and salvage yards. Most of ‘em barely keep their heads above water, if you’ll pardon the pun. Pretty rough crowd in those parts.”

  Zach glanced back at the former house, watching Sam as she supervised the ambulance crew loading a body. “I need to have a word with Mr. Bender, and it would probably be best if we didn’t bring along a full infantry division.”

  The sheriff nodded, understanding the ranger’s meaning. “Would you mind if I tag along? As I said, Ted and his wife were good people.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea, Sheriff. Besides, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have one uniform in the mix.”

  Skip then remembered Dually and the tracks. “Are you sure this wasn’t just some desperado coming across the border? We’re seeing more of that these days. Petty stuff, mostly steeling out of people’s garages or cars. It kind of reminds me of the Vietnam War. The Cong would sneak across the Laotian border at night, attack us, and then slink back across where they knew we couldn’t hit them back. We seem to be receiving a lot of undocumented visitors from our Louisiana neighbors lately.”

  Zach shook his head, “I can’t be 100% positive this crime scene is related to our case, and you know that. I will say I don’t envy you when it comes to the border. There’s nothing but 50 miles of pine forest in any direction, little but logging roads and muddy lanes. If I was a petty felon, your county would be one I’d pick for the occasional cross-border shopping spree.”

  “The Louisiana side is the same terrain,” the sheriff added, a sad expression appearing as his eyes darted back to the burned out home. The sheriff’s gaze then wandered east, toward the old state line that was less than two miles away. When he spoke again, there was apprehension accented by a hint of fear. “I used to preside over a peaceful county that was 300 miles from the nearest dangerous border – now, I’ve got a front row seat.”

  Zach had t
o agree with the man’s concerns. While the Republic of Texas welcomed everyone from the U.S. with open arms… growing economic issues, social unrest, and political strife rocked the huge neighbor to the north. Anyone trying to leave the troubled giant was considered a traitor by some, a coward by others. It was disconcerting because a neighbor’s troubles often have a way of boiling over into your own yard.

  And Texas? Was the exact same discussion being held between a Louisiana sheriff and an FBI agent on the other side of the border? Zach thought there might be a good chance of that.

  Local lawmen on both sides of the border were on the front lines, experiencing the blunt reality that things weren’t going smoothly after the secession. It reminded the ranger of the old Mexican border with Texas.

  Zach sighed. It wasn’t supposed to have been this way. Both countries were to be allies. When family turns on each other, it’s always such a bitter feud.

  Each side blamed the other, of course. In reality, both sides had been wrong, and now people like Zach and Skip Winslow were left to deal with the aftermath. Wonder if we are the Hatfields or the McCoys? Zach pondered.

  The drive to the river was only 25 minutes, Zach following the local lawman’s lead. It wasn’t long before Zach understood exactly what the sheriff had been talking about.

  The poverty they passed through was stark. The few homes visible from the road were dilapidated, some having walls patched with sheets of rusting tin, one partially constructed from an old shipping container.

  The yards were mostly bare dirt and piles of junk surrounded by weeds. Sam shook her head in sympathy when they passed a group of small children, all with stringy hair, bare feet, and hollow-looking eyes.

  The roadway mirrored its surroundings, changing from blacktop to gravel, and then finally a dusty, dirt washboard surface.

  They arrived at a gate of sorts, the weeds and brush shoulder high on both sides of the lane. A fence surrounded the Bender and Sons, but it was nearly impossible to see, given the overgrowth.

  Exiting his car with a demeanor that said, “I told you so,” the sheriff signaled the rangers to join him at the gate. Access to the property was denied by a rather sturdy looking padlock and chain.