I can always call back and call it off once I see what I’m dealing with, but this doesn’t feel right.
Why isn’t the tractor moving?
She recognized that the slope was so muddy because of the recent, re- peated passes of the large tractor she was looking for. The heavy tractor with its oversized treads on its rear wheels had not been easy on the sloped earth. She tried to pick a relatively clean path between the re- peated passes of the tractor, gingerly stepping with her pistol pointed down and away from her body as she descended.
As she drew closer to the water she noted several things. Unlike her last visit, there were no fish carcasses in or around the pond. For that same reason there were also no vultures this time around. The top of the raised wall of the dam that held the water within the pond had been mowed, but the sloped surfaces on either side of that top wall remained thick with tall grass, weeds and the beginnings of small trees that had volunteered to start a new life in the presence of the now dead water—how long did the effects of the Rotenone last? She should remember that from her research, but found that she could recall very little at the moment. Most importantly, while there were plenty of indications that the tractor had been here, and she definitely heard what she believed to be the running engine of the tractor; she could see neither the tractor nor its owner.
She continued to pick her way around the muddier portions of the path and slowly climbed up onto the mowed surface of the dam wall. Her grip on her pistol tightened as she continued to scan the area. Her progress slowed to a crawl, the sweat ran freely down the soaked undershirt on her back. She was startled by the crackle of her communicator and the announcement that her back-up had reached the locked front gate. She
reached across her chest with her left hand as her right was occupied with the gun, and squeezed the shoulder mic.
“You’ll have to hop over the gate. The chain and lock are too tough for our bolt cutters. I’ve already cleared the truck and the area immediately around the house and am now down past the pond you see ahead of you at another, lower pond. Come around the upper pond to the left and come down to meet me.”
“Roger that. What are we dealing with here?”
“I don’t know just yet but the owner has been unresponsive for several days.”
“This is the dead fish guy, right?”
“Roger.” She thought about referencing the dead deer Reynolds claimed he saw on the images captured by the game camera, but did not. Several of her co-workers knew about his initial claims because of the efforts undertaken to pull the images from his laptop. There was no need to get in to all of that at this moment.
She continued her walk along the dam wall and, a few strides later, found what she had been looking for in the form of the flat metal roof canopy of the tractor, which was mounted on a large roll bar, just visible on the back side of the dam wall. She picked up the pace and within thirty seconds witnessed something she would never be able to forget—no matter how hard she tried.
Past the dam wall, beyond the stretch of tall grass on the back shoulder of the dam, the idling tractor sat on a relatively skinny strip of freshly mowed, level ground. Just beyond the tractor, the ground once again elevated, and in this tree-lined area sat the clawed tree where the game camera was once housed.
As she stared at the tractor Deputy Evans could not help but be reminded of how terrified she was the first time she saw the Wizard of Oz as a child.
The flying monkeys had inspired more than one nightmare, but what really frightened her was the shriveled-up legs of the evil witch sticking out from under the house that had landed on her. The disembodied legs
…
There were no ruby slippers or flying monkeys before her, but there were large boots pointed up at the sky pinned to the stubs of jean-clad legs which extended out from under the large front-end loader bucket of the tractor. As her mind scrambled to block out the Wizard of Oz and process what was before her, she absently holstered her weapon and walked down through the tall grass toward the tractor. The smaller, but still sizable, front tire blocked her view of the torso at this angle, but she could see that there was definitely a body pinned beneath the tractor. She also noted that the front-end loader bucket did not sit flat but had instead struck the legs and the earth beneath them at an angle—the kind of angle that would be used to dig out hard earth as opposed to simply scooping it up.
Within a few feet of the tractor the smell hit her. The stench was akin to what she’d just recently experienced with the dead fish—but even more rank. She covered her mouth and nose with her left hand as best she could, holstered her gun and gingerly put her right hand on the front tire, leaning down to try and see under the tractor, while trying to ignore the rich puffs of diesel fuel smoke leaking out from the old engine.
What was once a body pinned under the blade of the front-end loader was now a massive mound of roiling ants clambering over one another in sheets as they sought the riches contained in the bounty beneath them. There were patches of what was likely a green T-shirt visible, as well as the deflated portion of the jeans no longer supported by flesh. What would haunt her though was the flecks of gray hair and teeth strewn about near the remains of what was once the face of Dave Reynolds. There was no front to the skull—just a large, jagged hole. Something considerably larger than the ants had apparently been at work here as well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Post
Mortem
Three months later, Deputy Evans sat at her spartan desk with a large accordion file in front of her. The file was roughly four inches thick, which rivaled the girth of the double cheeseburger that sat unwrapped and untouched off to the side.
Her face was thicker, rounder, due to the twenty pounds she had recently put on. Her eyes, now a bit more recessed, scanned the final write-up she had prepared for the Reynolds case.
Pete Muer, a fellow deputy, came out of the break room with a full cup of coffee. He scanned the small, open area around Deputy Evans and walked up behind her. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You gonna eat that?”
Deputy Evans had no visible reaction to his question, which inspired him to lean in closer. “I was thinking we could get together again tonight and
—”
Deputy Evans reached over and pushed the burger to the side of the desk nearest Deputy Muer. “I’m done.”
He reached past her and eagerly grabbed the burger, then after another quick scan, leaned in to kiss her on her ear. He was instead met by her hand, which pushed his face, and in turn his entire body, away from her.
“I said I’m done. Get away from me.”
Deputy Muer looked shocked for a moment, then quickly stood up straight and tried to dodge the coffee that was jostling out of his mug. He grimaced at the back of her head, sucked in his ample gut and puffed out his chest just as another male deputy entered the room. Deputy Muer caught the eye of the other deputy and used the cheeseburger to point in the direction of Deputy Evans while silently mouthing L-E-Z- B-O.
The other deputy grinned, and then grinned again even wider, when Deputy Evans closed the file and pushed her chair back with enough force to leave a bruise on Deputy Muer’s shin that would last for two weeks.
A few minutes later she pushed the accordion file into the already over- stuffed storage shelf and tried to envision truly being done with the Reynolds case, but could not. The publicity surrounding the case had quickly turned her into a note-taker while others, including of course the Sheriff, took center stage. She truly didn’t care about whether or not she was quoted in the paper, but she did care that the case had been closed so quickly with so many unanswered questions—at least to her.
The Reynolds death was ultimately declared an accident. No one in this neck of the woods was shocked at the notion that a guy from the big city, with too much money and not enough sense, had gotten himself into a bind with an old tractor. Of course, no one could explain what he’d been doing under the tractor, or more importantly, how the
front-end loader bucket had come to fall on him and nearly sever his legs at his shins. Yes, they had found a crescent wrench near the body, but the hydraulic system was intact, leaky but intact, and there was no tidy answer to the question posed (officially it was explained as a freak accident involving a fallen branch coming into contact with the control arm of the loader).
She’d pointed out that this same branch was both long enough and close enough that it could have been used by Reynolds to pull the control arm down to pin himself, but no one was interested in calling it a suicide. The family had adamantly refused to consider that prospect, which was typical, but in the end there was no good way to explain why someone would want to pin themselves, alive, under a tractor in an area known to all to be infested by ants. Death by cop was extreme, but understandable. Death by being eaten alive by fire ants was not something that anyone wants to envision.
The combination of exposure in the extreme heat and the fact that the majority of the body had been consumed by the ants, and perhaps a pack of coyotes, made DNA testing and toxicology reporting problematic. What was literally scraped, even poured together, didn’t reveal drugs or alcohol. There was definitely plenty of evidence that the corpse belonged to Dave Reynolds, including a match of the teeth found around the de- voured skull to existing dental records, as well as a DNA match from the little finger of Reynolds’ right hand, which had also been chewed on by the coyotes but was much easier to get at versus the soupy, ant-laden mess that comprised the rest of the body.
Her efforts to further explore Reynolds’ claims regarding the deer torn asunder on his property were significantly undercut by the lack of any ev- idence or a formal report. There were, of course, no photos, and though chains and grappling hooks were utilized to search the pond for the pur- ported carcass, all that was found was one side of a large set of antlers that had apparently been tossed into the pond, along with a few tires that were attributed to someone’s idea of a redneck artificial reef.
She pointed out to all involved that the lower pond was new, and she doubted that Reynolds would throw antlers or tires into it after all the time and money taken to clean up the area and make the pond. The good old boys reminded her that fisherman liked to give small fish places
to hide from the big ones, and Reynolds, a fisherman who stocked his ponds, probably knew all about it.
None of the neighbors, except Bill Jennings, had anything in particular to say about Reynolds, other than the fact that the few that even knew who he was said he liked to keep to himself. Mr. Jennings volunteered that Reynolds fit the weekender profile—more money than sense—but in his view Reynolds was dumber than most. Mr. Jennings also had a number of complimentary things to say about Mrs. Reynolds.
A criminal background check of the neighbors showed no currently-free violent offenders, though there was a higher concentration of what the Sheriff liked to call “bad seeds” in the area. This area, already notorious from the McAlester murders, could not seem to catch a break in terms of its citizens.
The Rotenone was probably the hardest element to explain away, and the Sheriff did indeed want an explanation, as he was in the midst of the election process, and unsolved murders did not sit well with the con- stituents. A thorough search of the Reynolds barn had unearthed an aged, nearly empty bag of Rotenone tucked away under a collection of cedar timbers. The location of the bag led to suspicions that perhaps Reynolds had done the deed himself—either to get attention or because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—and these suspicions were confirmed, at least in the minds of those who decide such things, by the traces of Rotenone found on the outboard engine of the small Jon boat that Reynolds kept on the property. The outboard had definitely been used as the dispersal mechanism for the small granules of Rotenone.
Deputy Evans had also gone to great lengths to attempt to tie-out and track down all of the most recent correspondence found on Reynolds’ cell phone, which was unfortunately part of the gooey mess that became the final resting place for much of what had been his body. In a more typical investigation a phone would yield a great number of largely incon- sequential texts, a fair number of phone calls and related saved voice mail
messages, and some amount of email traffic. It took time and effort to go through these records looking for something noteworthy, or awry. In the case of Dave Reynolds this work consumed her for weeks. On week- days he had received more than 150 emails—most of which came from clients and most of which in turn compelled a reply from Reynolds. This volume only slowed down a little on weekends, which is when Reynolds seemed to devote the time needed to review all of the emails from the prior week and send out all related follow-ups. Many of these emails involved attachments, which also required a lengthy review. Based on the email activity, Reynolds slept very little, some nights not at all.
Texts were, happily, less frequent, but the phone log was another sig- nificant challenge. The majority of the 30-50 calls a day involved the same clients and related contacts in the emails, but many also involved vendors, and research he pursued on behalf of these clients.
There were two aspects of the investigation that truly deserved to be called interesting. The first came via the repeated calls from a doctor’s office in West Texas. There were no saved voicemails from this number while Reynolds was alive but there were generic requests via voicemail for, “a call back to set up a time to discuss the results with the doctor.” These messages came after the discovery of his dead body and had con- tinued every so often for several weeks.
Deputy Evans had no end of fun getting the doctor’s office to answer any questions, as they took shelter behind doctor-patient confidential- ity. The paperwork involved to compel compliance involved the widow, who was apparently completely unaware of Reynolds’ visit to the doctor and the subsequent MRI. Mrs. Reynolds brought a family attorney into the equation and the process stalled from there. Eventually, through discussions between Mrs. Reynolds, her lawyer and the doctor’s office, Deputy Evans was able to confirm that the MRI revealed no issues.
These discussions spilled over—heavily—into the presence of a large life insurance policy Reynolds had taken out on himself over two years ago.
The agent who sold it, as well as the attorney who set up the trust ac- count, confirmed that, per Mr. Reynolds’ wishes, the beneficiary of the policy, Mrs. Reynolds, was not aware of its existence—at least not from them. Mrs. Reynolds had been deemed credible on this front by other investigators from the department as well as the insurance company— though the insurance company did its best to probe into the secretive MRI and the apparent issues with the headaches—with the hope that they could claim the condition predated the inception of their policy. This argument was eventually done in by the fact that Reynolds had un- dergone an extensive physical as part of the application process for the policy, as well as the reality that the MRI had confirmed that no physical malady existed. Another, less polite argument that the family attorney put forth, was that any claim of mental illness that could possibly have deemed the death a suicide was past the two-year term built within the policy, during which a suicide invalidated coverage.
The second potentially interesting wrinkle of the investigation had come in the form of a large brown envelope that contained a series of 8 x 11 photos, obviously taken surreptitiously, by the fact that portions of an exterior window frame and branches were visible in portions of some of the shots. The envelope had a yellow sticky on the outside that stated, in block letters, “For Deputy Evans—thought you would want to know.”
The photos themselves showed Marilyn Reynolds in a series of extremely intimate, compromising positions. They were date-stamped in three dif- ferent batches from February up to the end of March. Though she ap- peared to be in a hurry to disrobe for her partner, who was not Dave Reynolds, she’d also apparently gone all out in the purchase of lingerie, as each series of shots featured an entirely different outfit being peeled off her willing body. The man in the photos was avera
ge in appearance, though extremely well endowed—she’d blushed at a couple of photos where Mrs. Reynolds gave that aspect personal attention.
The photos and the envelope gave no information regarding the photog- rapher, and as best she could gather from her less than helpful colleagues, the envelope had been dropped off by “some kid.”
She’d marched in to the Sheriff ’s office with this new information and, five minutes later, was shown the door. The Sheriff, exhausted by the entire investigation, particularly the lengthy discussions with the lawyer, which had just concluded, saw no reason to take it any further. Date stamps could easily be manipulated, as could the photos themselves. Fur- ther, as they’d just recently concluded that the cause was accidental death, he didn’t see how pictures that may or may not show the ex in compro- mising positions with another man had any bearing on the case, as they’d uncovered no evidence that anyone else was involved. The Sheriff did de- cide to keep the photos to ponder the issue further, and that, as they say, was that.
In his final days Reynolds had cleaned up the dead fish, burying them in a hole he’d dug with the tractor, that was later excavated by the Sheriff ’s department. He’d cut the grass and paid the current bills via online bank- ing. Lastly, he’d apparently decided to get a jump start on his wildlife census and, after pulling new pics from all the remaining cameras, he’d saved a large batch of them, as well as the mostly-completed forms re- quired to file his wildlife plan with the County, to a flash drive that had been found on the kitchen table. Deputy Evans had viewed those pic- tures as well and had found nothing provocative among them.
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