by Ken Oder
Two more shots ripped through an oak sapling beside the mailbox while Chase rounded his truck to take cover. By the time he drew his service revolver and peeked over the hood, the man was no longer in the doorway.
A few seconds later, the man jumped out from behind the outhouse and fired a round that whizzed by Chase’s head. Chase returned fire and the man dove behind the outhouse.
Another thirty seconds passed before he burst into the open and charged up the mountain. He was only fifty yards away and Chase had a clear shot at his back, but he held his fire. The man scrambled up the slope and disappeared in the trees.
Chase let out a long breath. “What the hell?” he muttered.
A short, chubby woman clutching a coal-black puppy under her arm appeared in the doorway. Her purple housecoat exposed a slip that stretched taut over her distended belly. “Y’all might as well give it up,” she shouted. “Don’t matter how many y’all come round here, Sonny won’t never go.”
She stepped out on the stoop and stomped across the yard toward Chase. The puppy wriggled to free himself but she held him tight, scowling darkly.
Chase holstered his gun and came around the truck.
The woman marched up to Chase and stood too close to him, the toes of her filthy house slippers touching the tips of his boots, her belly pressing against his belt buckle. She squinted up at him through thick glasses that magnified her crossed green eyes. A wave of body odor hit him as he looked down at her tangled, ratty hair, pimpled button nose, and buck teeth. He had to swallow hard to fight off an urge to gag.
“Sonny’d kill hisself fore he’d go with y’all!” she shouted. Her breath smelled like sour milk. “You might as well get back in your truck and go on away from here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.”
“I ain’t no ma’am. I’m Rosabelle, and y’all done caused me more’n enough trouble. Evy time y’all come around, Sonny runs off for a month a Sundays and I have to do all his chores.” She pointed toward the pigpen. “Who you reckon’s gonna slop at hog tonight? Sure as hell won’t be Sonny now that you done run him off again.”
“Who is Sonny?”
“Well, shit! He’s my brother, as if you don’t know.”
“The man who fired at me?”
Rosabelle paused, looking confused. “Ain’t you the army?”
“My name’s Chase Dooley. I’m a deputy sheriff from Selk County.”
She jabbed her stubby finger at Chase’s truck. “That’s a army truck if ever I saw one.”
Chase glanced at his truck, awareness of a misunderstanding creeping over him. Sheriff Grundy had granted his request to paint his patrol truck army green when he signed on as a deputy fresh off his discharge. Neither of them thought the distinctive color would cause a problem, and it hadn’t up to that point. “I’m not with the army, ma’am.” Chase pointed at the county logo on the truck’s door. “I’m a Selk County deputy sheriff. I didn’t come out here to see your brother. I came to see you about your missing persons report on Thurman Bowie.”
She scowled. “Well, I’ll be damned. Sonny done run off for nothin.” The puppy wriggled and whined. She stepped back from Chase and set it on the ground. It waddled over to the mailbox and cocked its leg on the post.
“Why did your brother shoot at me?”
“Sonny run off from the army last year. They come after him four or five times now. He don’t want to go back so he shoots at em and runs off evy time they come around. He dug a pit somewhere up on top the mountain. Covered it with branches and leaves and such. He crawls in it evy time them army men come. They climbed all over the mountain last time they was here, but they couldn’t find him. He thought you was one a them when he saw your truck.” She sighed and rubbed her belly. “Trouble is, he’ll hole up in that pit for a month to make sure he won’t get caught, and I’ll be stuck here with no help now that Thurman run off.”
“Sheriff Feedlow tells me you reported Thurman missing, Tuesday, February twenty-six,” Chase said, trying to get back on track.
“Lotta good it did me. Sheriff Feedlow won’t even go lookin for him. Said it was a waste a time cause Thurman probly disappeared on purpose to get away from me.” She looked at the puppy, trotting off toward the pigpen, his tail wagging. “The sheriff’s bout as useless as Tater.” She looked up at Chase with a spark of hope in her eyes. “Wait a minute. Did y’all find Thurman over there in Selk County?”
Chase hesitated, not sure how to approach the subject of Bowie’s death or how Rosabelle would react to it. He noticed two wooden lawn chairs under a persimmon tree near the house. “Can we sit over there and talk for a few minutes?”
“I s’pose.”
She walked across the yard. Chase followed. Chase helped Rosabelle sit down on the more sturdy-looking of the two and he sat down carefully next to her. They were downwind of the pigpen and the scent of slop soured the air.
“How long have you known Thurman?” Chase asked.
“Since he come home from the big house last summer. His momma lives up a road here. She threw him out after he run his daddy off. That’s when he moved in with me and Sonny. Him and Sonny got on pretty good, so he let him stay. Pretty soon, Thurman and me got on real good, too.” She sniggered and rubbed her swollen belly.
“When are you due?”
“Next month. Thurman and me’s s’posed to get married fore the baby comes. That’s why I been chasin after him. We’re runnin outa time.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Saturday, bout three weeks ago. We’d spent Friday night drinkin and such. He’d come home with a bottle so we could celebrate bout his new job.”
“What kind of job?”
“A contract job, spot work. Thurman don’t like regular work. He hires out his services for a fee. Some man came along to the firin range and hired him to shoot at big game on a huntin trip.” She smiled, her buck teeth gleaming yellow in the sunlight. “He’s a helluva shot. Evibody says so.”
“What kind of rifle does he have?”
“Thirty-aught-six. Good for long shots. He zeroed it in so he can hit a dime at three hunnerd yards.”
“Did he say who hired him?”
“Said his name was Ray. Thurman didn’t know his last name.”
“Did you meet the man?”
“Naw, but I saw him that Saturday when he come by to pick up Thurman to go do the shootin job.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him. Parked out there by the road. Didn’t get out of his truck. Gray hair and a gray beard is all I saw.”
“What kind of truck did he drive?”
“Black Dodge pickup. Couple years old.”
“What time on Saturday did he come to get Thurman?”
“Bout noon. Thurman said he’d be back here in four or five days, but he ain’t never showed up.” She scrunched her face into a frown, the buck teeth sliding over her lower lip. “What’s all these questions about? Did y’all find Thurman or what?” Rosabelle looked at Chase with a hopeful expression.
Chase looked around at the house and the yard. Some of the foster homes he’d grown up in were as rough as this one. Most of his foster mothers were cut from the same cloth as Rosabelle, considered by the general public to be white trash, worthless, no-account, with no prospects and no hope of rising out of the squalor of poverty. Some were cruel and Chase had suffered at their hands; others were kind and treated him with care. Rosabelle probably ranked somewhere in between. He knew her type well. Despite her rough appearance, her heart wasn’t made of stone. She had feelings, just like expectant mothers with good breeding. The life of a young woman like Rosabelle was a parade of heartbreaking setbacks and disappointments, he knew, so she probably saw this one coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to tell her.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, ma’am.”
She put a trembling hand to her lips and her eyes brimmed with
tears.
He spoke in soft tones. She put her hands over her belly and broke down. He put his arm around her and drew her to him. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Naked Corpse
March 6, 1967, Monday afternoon
Cole and Mabel sat at Cole’s desk after Rachel and Reba left his office. Cole wiped the sweat off his face with a kerchief. “I’d give my badge to catch the man with the leather mask.”
Mabel dabbed her own flushed brow with a tissue. “Reba gave us a slim lead, you know.”
“The wound.”
She nodded. “Thirty years ago the state didn’t require a doctor to report a gunshot wound to the authorities, but if we’re lucky, the man went to Dolley Madison. They keep records going back decades. Down in some dank basement archive there may be a cardboard box containing the name of a patient the hospital treated for a small-caliber gunshot wound between April one and May thirty, 1937.”
“See what you can find.”
“Will do.” She looked over her notes. “One thing Reba said puzzles me. She claimed Betty Lou hated their mother.”
“That’s consistent with what I’ve learned. Betty Lou told Elwood Critzer she was glad Hazel died, and Reverend Chatham says she blamed her mother for ruining her life.”
Mabel looked perplexed. She went to the file cabinets, withdrew a file, and placed it on Cole’s desk. It was labeled “Emley, Hazel.”
“Read this while I type up my notes of the meeting with Reba.” Mabel left the room.
Since Hazel Emley died of natural causes, the sheriff’s office conducted no investigation of her death and the file contained only three documents: notes from dispatch about the discovery of Hazel’s body, Deputy Karson Deford’s report about his response to dispatch’s call, and a copy of the death certificate.
The notes from dispatch indicated that Hazel’s neighbor, Jerry Caldwell, reported the discovery of her body at 11:15 p.m., December 25, 1966. The dispatcher sent Karson Deford to Hazel’s home at 43 Blackberry Road in Saddleback Cove and called the rescue squad and the medical examiner, Randy Hotchkiss.
Karson Deford was in his midforties, six foot five, lean, with a long, thin face, fierce black eyes, and a complexion the color of pecan shells. He was the only black man on the force. Five years ago, he resigned from his twenty-year position as a Virginia state trooper and accepted Cole’s offer of a job as a county deputy to be closer to home after his wife suffered a spinal injury that rendered her a paraplegic. He was a good officer, calm under fire, quiet, but forceful.
Cole turned to Karson’s report about Hazel Emley’s death. “Arrived at 43 Blackberry Rd at 11:45 p.m. Jerry Caldwell and Elizabeth Louise Mundy, Hazel Emley’s daughter, met me at the door.” Cole paused. That was the detail about Hazel’s death he hadn’t been able to recall. Betty Lou’s presence at her mother’s house had seemed insignificant when he scanned Karson’s report in December and he had forgotten it, but it took on new meaning in light of Betty Lou’s comments to Elwood. If she hated her mother, what was she doing at her house on Christmas night? Mabel’s photographic memory had recalled the detail and noticed the inconsistency.
“The residence has two rooms,” Karson’s report continued, “a combined sitting area/kitchen and a small bedroom. Hazel Emley lay on her back on the bed in the bedroom with a blanket pulled up to her chin. She was naked. Her clothes lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. She had no pulse. Her eyes were open and glazed over. Her body was cold. Mr. Caldwell told me she was not breathing and had no pulse when he arrived a half hour earlier. I radioed dispatch to notify the rescue squad to return to the hospital.”
“I then spoke to Mrs. Mundy and Mr. Caldwell. Mrs. Mundy said she arrived at the house to check on her mother’s condition about 10:30 p.m. She found Mrs. Emley in her bed unconscious and unresponsive.”
Cole put his hand to his chin, thinking. Reverend Chatham said Betty Lou had learned Leland had an affair with Reba that day and she blamed Hazel for it because she sold them to molesters, poisoning their relationships with men. Betty Lou “found” Hazel’s corpse only a few hours after her meeting with the preacher. The timing begged the question: Did Betty Lou harm her mother?
Cole returned to the report. “Mrs. Emley’s house does not have a telephone, so Mrs. Mundy drove to the residence of the nearest neighbor, Mr. Caldwell, and Mr. Caldwell called our office. Mrs. Mundy drove back to her mother’s house with Mr. Caldwell following in his truck.”
“Mrs. Mundy said her mother was seventy years old, a lifelong smoker with a history of respiratory problems, and in poor physical condition. She said Mrs. Emley suffered from a severe cough that had grown much worse during the last month.”
Cole reread those sentences. Betty Lou’s comments implied she had been a concerned daughter, monitoring her mother’s health.
Cole read on. “Dr. Hotchkiss arrived at 12:45 a.m. At 1:00 a.m. I helped him place the corpse in a body bag. We carried it to his van, and he left the premises.”
“I released Mr. Caldwell and Mrs. Mundy at 1:15 a.m. I went through the residence after their departure and found nothing to indicate foul play. I locked the door and left the scene at 1:40 a.m.”
“By all appearances, Mrs. Emley was an elderly woman in poor health who died in her sleep. Pending Dr. Hotchkiss’s determination, I recommend no further action.”
Cole reviewed the report a second time, then buzzed Mabel and told her to ask Karson to come to Cole’s office.
Cole turned to the last document in the file, the death certificate, a one-page form. Randy Hotchkiss had checked its boxes and filled in its blanks. His practice throughout his tenure as the local medical examiner had been to supplement the form with a memo to the sheriff’s office summarizing his observations from his external inspection of the corpse, but there was no memo from Randy in Hazel’s file.
On the death certificate, Randy had provided uncharacteristically sparse information. For cause of death, he entered “Pneumonia.” He left blank the spaces calling for the date of the onset of the disease and any other underlying diseases, injuries, or significant medical conditions that contributed to the death. Under “Autopsy?” Randy marked “No.”
Cole stared at the death certificate with a growing sense of unease.
The document listed Holbeck and Hollingsworth Funeral Home as the undertaker. Cole telephoned George Hollingsworth.
“When did Randy deliver the corpse to you?” Cole asked.
A rustle of papers came across the phone line. “Says here we took possession at nine a.m. on December twenty-six.”
Cole was surprised. Randy had released the corpse less than eight hours after he took custody of it. Normally, he would have reviewed a decedent’s medical records to corroborate his determination of the cause of death before he transferred the body to the undertaker. Having been indigent, Hazel probably couldn’t afford a family doctor’s care, but the emergency room at Dolley Madison or one of the free clinics would have treated her from time to time. Randy couldn’t possibly have talked to them and researched her medical history in the short time he retained custody of the corpse.
“Who paid for the burial?” Cole asked George.
“Her only surviving relatives were Reba Emley and Betty Lou Mundy. They both refused to take responsibility. The state paid for a pauper’s burial at Grace Church Cemetery.”
Betty Lou’s concerned-daughter act apparently fell away the day after her mother’s death, Cole thought.
Karson Deford appeared in Cole’s doorway. Cole thanked George for his help and hung up the phone. Karson folded his tall lanky frame in the chair across the desk from Cole. “I just reviewed your report about Hazel Emley,” Cole said. “I have a few questions. Did Betty Lou Mundy seem distressed that night?”
“She wasn’t in tears, but she seemed upset.”
“She told you she dropped by at ten thirty to check on Hazel. Seems late for a call on an elderly woman.�
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“She said she’d been at a party. Came by the house afterward.”
That didn’t make sense to Cole. Given the preacher’s description of Betty Lou’s agitated state of mind, she would have been in no mood to go to a party.
“Your report says you didn’t see any evidence of foul play. Did you see anything at all irregular?”
“There wasn’t much furniture in that old shack, but it was all in the right place. Nothing damaged or overturned. No signs of a struggle. The only thing I found curious was the old lady didn’t have a stitch of clothing on her. The temperature was in the twenties, and that place had cracks in the wall big enough to stick a finger through. No covers on the bed except for a natty old army blanket. I asked Doc Hotchkiss about it. He told me it wasn’t unusual for an elderly woman in Mrs. Emley’s condition to go to bed naked in the cold. He said she looked like she hadn’t eaten in days and that malnutrition and the cold weather probably brought on hypothermia, which would have made her feel so warm she took off her clothes to cool down.”
This seemed farfetched to Cole. “Was Randy sober that night?”
“He didn’t seem drunk, but I smelled whiskey on him.”
“Anything unusual about his behavior?”
“He was mighty anxious to put her corpse in a bag and carry it out to his van. He didn’t spend more than five minutes with the body.”
Another possible reason for Randy’s hasty disposition of the corpse, much more troubling than mere drunkenness, took seed in Cole’s mind. “How about Betty Lou? Was she sober?”
“She was a little tipsy. I chalked it up to the party she went to.”
“Was there any contact between Randy and Betty Lou?”
“After we loaded the body in his van, he came back inside the house and spoke to her.”
“What did he say?”
“He kept his voice low so I didn’t hear it, but at the time, I figured he gave her his condolences.”