Gator Kill

by Bill Crider

  Fred handed me the rifle and dug in his pocket for the extra cartridges. "Here," he said, handing them to me. "You better load that thing."

  Having the rifle would be better than nothing. "Where do you shoot an alligator?" I said.

  "Hell, I never shot one. In the eye, I guess. That way you won't ruin the skin. But I sure hope you don't have to shoot one. That's what you came here for in the first place to find out who killed my gator."

  It seemed like a long time ago. "I remember," I said. "I'll try to restrain myself."

  "Well, if you have to, you have to. Better him than you. Don't worry about it." He started walking in the direction of the Jeep.

  I watched him go and thought about what a mess we were in. Now we had another corpse, and we still didn't know who was to blame. It was easy to see that it wasn't Perry Stone however, and considering the vehicle involved, I thought I knew who to look for.

  Everything fit, and there was the additional consideration that whoever was dumping the PCBs, or whatever they were dumping, nearly had to have the cooperation of the local law.

  Jackson, being in charge of the rustling investigation, could easily steer things the way he wanted them to go and keep suspicion away from the real reason there were trucks on the County roads at night. Sheriff Tolliver was unfortunately blind to the possibility that one of his own men could be involved in something illegal, and that was an obstacle I'd have to overcome. After what had happened tonight, I thought it might be a little easier.

  I thought for a while about who had told what to whom. The thing that worried me was that Brenda had told Perry about the noises, though she had been one of the people making them. Perry had told Jackson.

  But why had Brenda told Perry? Because she wanted to cover her own tracks in case someone told him that she had been down there? Or did she have another reason? Her quick anger still bothered me.

  Before long, I felt like a newspaper reporter writing a story about President Reagan and the Iran-Contra scandal. What did he know, and when did he know it?

  Then I heard the Jeep and saw its lights. At that instant something that I should have thought of before hit me dead between the eyes. I turned it over in my mind and looked at it carefully. It explained everything I'd thought of before and one thing I hadn't, a thing I should have considered.

  Fred drove up and got out. "Thought a time or two I wouldn't make it," he said. "But here I am. Let's see if we can get your friend in the Jeep."

  We did, but it wasn't easy. "Dead weight" is more than just an expression.

  "You have any visitors?" Fred said when we had Ransome stowed behind the seats.

  "Not a one," I said.

  I had been so busy thinking about the tangle of events that an entire herd of alligators, or whatever a group of gators was called, could have come up to steal Ransome away from me and I would never have noticed them.

  "How far from that dump are we?" I said.

  "You thinkin' about goin' over there?"

  "You got this far."

  "Yeah," he said. "But I'd already walked over the ground. I kind of knew where to drive, and I still nearly lost it a couple of times."

  "We could walk," I said. "Nothing's going to take Ransome out of the back of the Jeep."

  "I guess we could," he said. "We're nearly there. But what for?"

  "To see if there's anyone there. Maybe the truck is there waiting for us. Maybe the driver didn't leave."

  "You load that rifle?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "All right, then. I guess you better be the one to carry it. Maybe you can do better with it than I did."

  I wasn't so sure about that, but I didn't argue. "Which way?" I said.

  Fred pointed the flashlight beam. "That way."

  We started walking.

  "These sure are good batteries in this flashlight," Fred said. "I never could figure out why they named them for that baseball player, though."

  "What baseball player?" I said.

  "He might've been before your time. Played for Detroit back in the 'fifties. If he'd been around now, he'd be making millions, though. He was better than ninety-nine percent of those fellas you see today. Maybe that's why they named the batteries for him, because he was so good and so dependable."

  "Who are we talking about?" I said.

  "Al Kaline," Fred said.

  I walked along for a few steps without saying anything. Fred had never told me a joke before, and I didn't know for sure whether he was telling me one now. For all I knew, he was serious.

  We walked along for a few steps, and Fred started to laugh. "I got you on that one," he said.

  He had, so I laughed too. "How much farther?" I said.

  "Not far. If an old fart like me can make it, you can make it too."

  I had to admit that he was in pretty good shape for an old fart. I said so.

  "It's not that I don't hurt in the mornin's," he said. "I think when you get to be my age, you hurt in the mornin' no matter what you do. So I just keep goin' along. It hurts to get out of a rockin' chair, too, so why not get some exercise?"

  We followed the beam of the flashlight, as it threw shadows along in front of us. I asked Fred how he thought the dumping might have gotten started.

  "Hard to say. I told you that I never come back in here--you can see why. The gators down in here are mean, and it's hard travelin'. I could go around, I guess, the way we got in the other night, but I just never thought about it. I like for things to be wild, and I guess I must've thought of this part of the land back in here as a little bit like a jungle, like somethin' I was lettin' go back to nature without any interference from me or anybody else."

  He walked for a while without saying more. I didn't prod him.

  "Maybe it was a bad idea," he said finally. "I should've checked up on things, but I never thought of it. Who'd think anybody would just go through the fence and dump stuff on my place?"

  "Somebody thought of it," I said.

  "Yeah, they did, didn't they? Had to be somebody that knew the area, though."

  I asked who that might be.

  "Hell, it could be anybody from around here. You don't have to be too smart to find the place."

  "What about the Stones?"

  "Sure, they would've known about it. Why? You think they're in on this?"

  "Not really," I said. "I think I've got things about figured out now. Not everything, maybe, but most of it."

  "That's good. You gonna tell me, or just keep me in suspense?"

  "I'll tell you later," I said. "When all the loose ends are tied up."

  "Loose ends?"

  "I still don't know who killed your alligator," I said.

  "Damn. That's the thing I really wanted to know."

  He might have pursued the topic, but we had gotten close to the area where the dumping had been going on.

  "This is about it," Fred said.

  "Turn off the light," I said, whispering.

  He clicked off the beam and darkness settled around us. We stood there letting our eyes get used to it.

  "What do you think we're gonna find here?" Fred said.

  "I don't know. I know you said the truck came this way, so maybe it's still around."

  We stood there quietly, listening. I could hear muffled noises through the trees.

  "How much farther to where we were last night?" I said.

  "Quarter of a mile, maybe."

  "Think we can walk it in the dark?"

  "If we're careful. Slide your feet along, sort of, don't trip, and watch out for limbs in your face."

  "All right," I said. "We won't talk anymore. I'll tap you on the shoulder if I want to stop. You do the same for me."

  "Right."

  We started out, and I felt a little bit like Daniel Boone. Or at least an imitation of him. I needed a coonskin cap. Or was that Davy Crockett? It didn't matter. They were both Fess Parker.

  We moved slowly now, but as we got closer to the spot, the noises became clear
er. When we were nearly there, I could distinguish voices. I tapped Fred on the shoulder.

  "How many more we got?" someone said. He had a hoarse voice.

  "Ten more," a man answered. "We got to bury them, too."

  "Shit, I hate that. Why can't we just dump 'em in the water?"

  "They said not to. Somebody did that once, and they got their ass canned for it. We won't be bringing anymore stuff out here after tonight."

  "Fine by me," the hoarse voice said. "These goddamn mosquitoes are about to chew my ass off."

  I wish he hadn't mentioned the mosquitoes. When we were walking, a couple had buzzed by my face, but they hadn't bothered me. Now I could hear them and feel them all over me. Most of it was probably my imagination, but some of it certainly wasn't. I resisted the urge to slap a stinging area of my neck.

  I heard a barrel being tilted on its side and rolled to the back of a truck. I heard a grunt as someone took it and eased it down.

  I had hoped to find the black pickup, but this was much better--positive proof of what had been happening here. All we had to do was get these two men to the jail, or to a good district attorney, and we had our case made. And I was the one with the rifle.

  I tapped Fred again and we started forward, with me in the lead. When we stepped into the clearing, I pointed the rifle at the man on the ground. He was rolling a barrel over to join a number of others.

  "That looks like good place to rest," I said.

  "What the hell," the man said. He was the one with the hoarse voice. I couldn't see him too well in the darkness, but he was big enough to make a nice target.

  I turned to the truck. "Why don't you jump down and join your friend?" I said.

  The man in the truck didn't hesitate. Fred had turned the flashlight on him, and maybe he could see a little of the beam glint on the rifle barrel. He jumped down and walked over to his friend.

  They stood together in the light, unsure of what to do. They were both big, wearing jeans and T-shirts that were grimy with dirt and sweat.

  "This is private property, you know," I said.

  "My private property," Fred said. "I could shoot the both of you right here and leave you for the buzzards, and nobody would give a damn."

  I didn't know the law on that point, but it sounded impressive. "You want the rifle?" I said.

  "Hell, you shoot 'em, and I'll say I done it," Fred said. "I don't need the rifle."

  "Hold on just a damn minute," the hoarse one said. "We're just a couple of guys doing a job. Work's hard to come by these days. We didn't know this was your land."

  "You must've known it was somebody's," Fred said.

  "Hey, we just do what we're hired to do. That's my truck." He pointed to the bobtail that his buddy had jumped out of. "I do a lot of haulin'. Fella just gives me the load, tells me where to haul it, and I carry it off. Unload and go home. That's my job. That's all I know."

  "Not a very curious guy, are you?" I said.

  "Hell, no. I need the money."

  "Bad enough to risk prison?"

  "Shit. Prison? For just trespassin'? You gotta be kiddin'."

  "Yeah," said a voice behind me. "You gotta be kiddin'."

  It was Deputy Jackson.

  17

  Jackson was holding a flashlight in one hand, but it wasn't on. In the other he was holding a short-barreled pistol. He wasn't pointing the pistol at anyone in particular; he didn't even seem to be gripping it very tightly. It was just there in his hand, ready to be used for whatever he wanted it to be used for.

  "What's this about trespassin'?" he said.

  "Glad you're here, Deppidy," Fred said. "These men are on my land without my permission, and it looks to me like they're dumpin' stuff out here. We weren't really gonna shoot 'em, but I guess I got a right to do that."

  "Depends," Jackson said, walking over closer to us.

  The two men from the truck hadn't said anything, and it didn't appear that they intended to. I kept the rifle on them and tired to watch Jackson at the same time. It wasn't easy.

  "I sure don't like people who have a way of turnin' up in awkward situations like this, Smith," Jackson said. "Seems like the last time we met, it was at the scene of a murder. Now here we are again, and you've got two men covered with a rifle. You're beginnin' to seem like a real dangerous man."

  I tried to see what he was doing with the pistol. "I'm not very dangerous," I said. "Were Holt and his wife killed with a rifle?"

  "I wouldn't know about that. What I do know is that I told you I didn't like you and didn't want you messin' around in my business."

  "Is this your business?" I said.

  "You're damn right it's my business. Law enforcement in this County is my business, not the business of some outsider like you."

  "Just a damn minute here," Fred said. "Seems to me like there's a lot of stuff goin' on in this County that you law enforcement folks aren't gettin' much done about, not even countin' my dead gator. For one thing, it looks to me like this dumpin' has been goin' on for a good while."

  "Maybe it has," Jackson said. "That's not my fault." He looked at the two men I was covering with the rifle. "Why don't you two fellas go sit on the back end of your truck."

  The men walked over to the truck and climbed up on the back end and sat there. I followed them with the rifle, but they didn't seem worried at all. In fact, they were looking almost cheerful.

  Fred noticed their chipper attitude. "What're those two lookin' so smug for? You'd think that with the law here, they'd be scared spitless, knowin' that they were headed for jail quicker'n Jack could skin a rabbit."

  "Maybe they're just two law-abiding citizens, doing their job," I said.

  "That's right," the hoarse one said. "Just two fellas doin' a job of work, tryin' to make an honest dollar."

  "Or maybe they think they've got friends in the right places," I said, trying to watch Jackson out of the corner of my eye.

  "What do you mean by that?" Jackson said, his voice cold.

  "Oh, hell," Fred said. "Let's don't pussyfoot around it any more. He means that somebody has tried twice to run him down in that jacked-up County truck, once just a little while ago. Tried to get me, too, that time, but we got away."

  "So?" Jackson said.

  "So who the hell do you think was drivin' that truck?" Fred said.

  Jackson didn't move or answer. He just stood there, very still, looking at the two men sitting in the bobtail, dangling their feet as if they didn't have a worry in the world. Maybe they didn't.

  "Goddammit," Fred said. "Why didn't you dig a bullet out of that dead gator of mine?"

  Jackson turned his head slightly to look at Fred. "I thought about it. It just seemed like a messy job that might not pan out." His voice had an apologetic sound, as if he were a bit embarrassed at his own squeamishness.

  The hoarse man laughed. Jackson didn't tell him to stop.

  "There are a few other things, too," I said. "Like that pistol you found in Perry Stone's truck, the one that Stone swears he didn't put there. He says he never even owned a pistol like that."

  "It was there when I looked," Jackson said, no longer apologetic. He wasn't looking for an argument.

  That was fine with me. I wasn't going to give him one. Not about the pistol.

  "There's the rustling, too," I said. "You were the one who was supposed to be investigating that, except that there wasn't any rustling going on. The trucks that people heard at night, they were all coming to the same place. Right here. Nobody was missing any cattle, but somehow the rustling story got all over the County. And the rustlers never got caught."

  "They're caught now," Fred said. "But it turns out that they ain't rustlers."

  "And you beat up Perry Stone," I told Jackson.

  "He started that fight," Jackson said. "Not me."

  "You were out to get him from the very beginning. You kept him in jail even though he had witnesses to say he wasn't around Holt's place on the day of the murders."

  "Th
ey were lyin'," Jackson said. "It was three people, all speakin' up for the other. Not one of 'em had an independent witness to say Perry was with 'em."

  "Still, you went after him pretty quick."

  "He'd had trouble with Holt before."

  "It all sounds pretty simple, doesn't it?" I said. "But it's not that simple, and you know it."

  "What is it that I know?" he said. He sounded genuinely curious.

  "You know the clincher. This dumping couldn't be going on without help from the law. There's not a way in the world these men could have gotten away with this if they hadn't paid someone off."

  "I knew I didn't like you, Smith," he said.

  "What about me?" Fred said. "You like me? I'll back up ever'thing he's sayin'."

  "I guess I don't like you much, either, then," Jackson said.

  "Then I don't give a damn," Fred said. "Trouble is, it's all the truth. And it all seems to me to point right at one man."

  Fred hesitated a second, knowing that Jackson had the pistol and I had the rifle, which probably wouldn't be as quick if we needed it.

  Then he said, "At you, is where it seems to me to be pointing."

  Jackson stood there looking at the two men in the truck, who looked back at him through the darkness. He didn't say anything to them or to Fred, however.

  "I think you might be wrong, Fred," I said.

  "Wrong? How in the hell could I be wrong? Look at those two assholes over there, lookin' like they just won the damn lottery. Why don't he take 'em in if he's not in on it with 'em?"

  "He's thinking about it," I said.

  "What the hell's he got to think about?"

  "A lot," I said. "If he didn't frame Stone, who did? If he's supposed--"

  "--to be investigating the rustling, why didn't anybody tell him?" a voice finished for me.

  "Hello, Sheriff," I said.

  Tolliver came walking from around the side of the bobtail. The two men sitting in it didn't seem at all surprised to see him.

  "I thought you might be coming by," I said.

  "Actually, I never left," he said. "I was just waiting to see what developed."

  "The truck must be around in front of the bobtail," I said.

  "Yeah, that's where it is. You're a slippery bastard, Smith. How'd you get away from Ransome?"