Elvin Bodner's Stand

by Ronald Gaines

  “Now, the Brantleys have mentioned stories about someone standing in the road on foggy mornings and doors left wide open on empty stands, like somebody’s gone in and given them a once-over and then slipped away. We know somebody’s movin’ around the property with buckets of blood splashing campers. To do that, you’ve got to have in-and-out, low-profile access. How do you get that? You do it on foot. You’ve got to get to and then away from the people and things you want to hurt. This is being done by someone nearby – somebody who can move around on foot,” explained Conrad Scott.

  Andrews was silent for a moment. “I believe that makes a lot of sense. It’s someone that knows the setup and knows the lay of the land. Our perp has got to live and operate from some place nearby.” replied Andrews.

  “I think it makes a lot of sense too. I’m going to ask my people to take another look at everyone living within walking distance of the Lodge. And, I’m wondering if you might do that over there on the other side of the line. We’re not talking about a lot of people here, especially if there’s one bad guy living in one of those houses.”

  “I’m sure we’ve already talked to everyone meeting that standard, but it won’t hurt us to do it again. Let me get Larry Wyatt in here Conrad, and we’ll get goin’ on this.”

  “Bill, I appreciate that very much.”

  For the first time, Sheriff Conrad Scott had a positive bounce in his thinking. Sometimes, the simplest answer is the most profound.

  36 Running Down a Donor

  Monday, May 3, 2010 10:35 AM

  Detective Ollie Welch was walking at a brisk pace heading for Sheriff Scott’s office. The sheet of paper with the heading “Missing Person Report” had the young Detective’s full attention.

  “Oops, please excuse me,” said Welch as he collided with Corporal Christine Wilcox, whose tip-toe dance saved her cup of coffee.

  “That’s okay Detective. I should have been looking where I was going,” replied the striking brunette. Corporal Wilcox worked in records and had become something of a fingerprint specialist. Be it real or imagined, it seemed to Ollie Welch that the unmarried Corporal always had a pleasant smile to send his way. On an occasion or two the twenty-nine-year-old bachelor had considered getting himself arrested just so the five-foot eleven-inch beauty would hold his hand.

  There was one very important consideration with the “how” and “when” of Ollie Welch expressing interest in Deputy Wilcox. That was Conrad Scott. The Sheriff’s feelings about fraternizing relations at work were well known. That’s why Gordon Terry and Darlene Mattos were very guarded in building their relationship away from the office.

  Detective Welch saw the Sheriff in with Darlene Mattos as he passed the crime scene office. He walked on down to the break room, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at one of the tables to wait.

  Terry hadn’t been waiting long before Deputy Jayna Jeffrey came into the room. Jeffrey worked in the concealed carry office.

  “Good morning Detective,” said one of the department’s newer officers. She recently graduated from Cashon College with studies in pre-law. Her plan was to pursue a career in the FBI. Given her determination and smarts, most felt she certainly had a shot.

  “Detective, I laid a fax on your desk from the Burnsville Police Department,” said Jeffrey.

  “Yes I have it. Thanks Jayna.”

  “Good morning Ollie, what we got?” asked Conrad Scott as he walked by the doorway to the break room

  “We just received a MPR from Burns County. I circled a couple of things for you there Sheriff. Remember the clothes Butch Brantley called about and the blood type on the campers at the Lodge? It looks like we might have found our donor.”

  “Well, well, look at that. The name is Marshall David McDonald…what’s the date on this Ollie?…oh yeah here it is, April 26… that’s just before the blood hit the campers isn’t it?

  “Yes sir. Three days before that Friday night. But there’s something else there Sheriff. Look down near the bottom where it shows his business. He worked at that real nice butcher shop, Musto Meats, south of Burnsville out on Grainger Road.”

  “Yeah, my wife gets our meats there sometimes. Nice place,” said Sheriff Scott, never looking up from the Missing Person Report.

  “But look there,” said Welch, pointing to the entry beside the Musto Meats line. “He also worked part time with Eddie Fulford at the Lodge butchering station.”

  “Now, what ya know ‘bout that, Detective Welch? Call Sheriff Lisenby over in Burns County and tell him we’ve got something for him on the David McDonald disappearance.”

  37 Sparky’s Last Meal

  Friday, May 14, 2010 6:40 PM

  The huge boar’s cape had been in a Russian freezer or aboard an airliner for three weeks before it arrived at Sparky Mills Taxidermy the afternoon of May 4th. Bureaucratic red tape on both ends delayed its arrival in the U.S.

  Richard Dann, Sparky’s customer, and his Russian guide did a good job of removing and salting down the entire skin, including the head. It’s the only way to preserve a cape when no taxidermist or freezer is nearby. And that’s certainly the case when you are hunting along the Ural River near Orenburg, Russia.

  Dann, a very successful real estate developer, even had flora native to the area where the animal was taken specially preserved and flown to the states to be used in the full-body mount.

  The polar bear Sparky did in 2001 was the largest and most expensive project he’d ever undertaken, but the Russian Boar easily made the studio’s top five.

  Piper Houser and Seth Acree had long-standing commitments for the weekend and Bobby Deason was racing at Sturnburg Speedway. Everyone had put in long hours on the Dann project, but that night the studio owner would be working alone.

  “Sparky, please don’t be here real late tonight. You’ve worked very hard two weeks straight,” said Piper as she opened the studio’s rear door. Seth was already in the car, ready for the drive to Conway for his mother’s birthday party the next afternoon.

  “Piper, don’t you worry about me. I’ll slip out of here before it gets real late. I just want to rework part of this grouping around the front leg here.”

  Thirty minutes later, Sparky stepped back, tilted his head to one side and then the other, surveying what was turning out to be a very impressive piece of work.

  “You’re so damn ugly, you’re down right beautiful,” said Sparky to his almost-constant companion over the past ten days.

  Before the big Russian specimen arrived, Sparky had done several full-size wild boars, all much smaller than this huge Russian piece. In addition, he’d prepared many rugshells and scores of shoulder manikins. But this big bruiser was in a different category.

  The form was truly custom-made, with particular emphasis on the extended snout and head. The brisket and shoulder points were also worked with particular care, trying to achieve an unusually robust look. The form maker had been successful. The eyes were really right, giving the animal an intimidating, almost evil look. It was turning out to be everything the staff had hoped for.

  But now, it was time to eat. Sparky smiled at himself in the mirror, as he washed up for a quick trip to Mickey’s Café. For the past twenty minutes, he’d been reminded by his grumbling stomach that he hadn’t eaten since late morning.

  All I lack is a couple of pictures on the cell phone for Richard Dann and a quick cleanup around the work station. I can take care of that when I get back. Right now Sparky Mills, you’ve earned a Mickey’s Roundhouse Burger.

  Leaving only a lamp turned on in the reception area and the single all-night light in the middle of the back building, Sparky strapped on his chrome-plated pistol, locked the front door, got in his pickup, flipped on the radio and drove the six miles to Mickey Whitelow’s place.

  “Hello there beautiful,” said Sparky as he slid onto one of the stools at the counter. It was his standard greeting for Maggie Dupree, who worked weekends at Mickey’s. During the week, the sixty-six-year-
old widow worked in the cafeteria at Franklin County High School. She’d known Freeman “Sparky” Mills and his family for many years.

  “Well now, if it ain’t the old charmer himself. Anybody told you to stuff it today Sparky?”

  “Now Maggie, you’re gonna have to find some new material. The answer to that one is always “yes”. Besides, is that any way to talk to a paying customer with a Roundhouse Burger on his mind?”

  Maggie smiled and hit the counter with another pass of the cleaning cloth. “How ya doin’ Sparky?”

  “I’m finer ‘n frog hair Maggie. We’re just about to finish up on one of the biggest jobs we’ve ever done. My suppliers, my people, everybody pitched in and did a really good job. Most important, I believe we’re gonna have a happy customer.”

  “Oh yeah, Piper was in here the other day and told me about the big hog from Russia. Sparky, you oughta take a picture and put it over on the bulletin board at the cash register. That’s somethin’ a lot of folks would like to see.”

  “If you don’t think Mickey would care, I just might do that. We’re right proud of it.”

  Maggie served up Sparky’s usual – a Roundhouse Burger with mustard, pickles and extra onions, an order of sweet potato fries and a large chocolate shake. That was chased by a piece of apple pie ala mode and black decaffeinated coffee. Then, there’s always the homemade sweet roll to go. He’d grown accustomed to the ribbing about a guy just over five feet tall eating like a sumo wrestler.

  “What else can I get ya Mr. Mills?”

  “I believe that’s gonna do it Maggie. As usual, everything was top drawer.”

  Sparky dropped four one-dollar bills on the counter before turning for the cash register.

  As he walked toward the door, Marsha Webber, another of Mickey’s servers, called from a front table.

  “Hey Sparky, there was some fella in here this afternoon asking about you.”

  “That right? What’d he have to say Marsha?”

  “Not much really. He just wanted to know if your place was left or right here at the red light. I told him which way to go and he left. He didn’t come by your office?”

  “No, we didn’t have any visitors that I know of. Maybe Piper or Seth saw him up front and I never knew he was there. Thanks Marsha, see you later.” Walking toward his truck with that distinctive sea saw motion caused by his stunted left leg, Sparky was thinking about what Marsha said.

  Who’d be looking for us today? Everybody around here knows where Mills Taxidermy is. No salesman is comin’ by on a Friday afternoon. That big blue metal building and the animal art along the side is almost a landmark around here……oh well, whatever.

  It was 8:30 when Sparky got back to the studio. He entered, relocked the front door and started to take off his sidearm, when he heard a car pull up out front. Marsha’s words about someone she didn’t know looking for the studio flashed back in his mind.

  The driver’s door opened and the interior light outlined the driver. Sparky recognized the wide-brim hat and large frame of Franklin County Deputy Russell Lineberry. Lineberry was not only a friend; he was a customer, previously having Sparky do a coyote, two deer heads and a wild hog. Bobby Deason was currently working on a seven-pound largemouth bass for the deputy’s son.

  “Hey Russell,” said Sparky as he approached the patrol car.

  “How are you this evenin’ Sparky?” asked the deputy, resting his left elbow in the open window.

  “I’m doing fine. I just had one of those king-size burgers at Mickey’s place. They know how to do it up right, ya know?”

  “Yeah, I ate there earlier this evenin’ too. How we comin’ on that bass “Spark”? That’s Jackie’s first really nice largemouth, and he’s about to run me up the very wall he wants to hang it on.

  Sparky broke into a slightly exaggerated laugh, knowing Bobby had not made enough progress on the boy’s fish for the same reason several other projects were behind schedule – the Russian beast.

  “To tell you the truth Russell, I don’t know right off. But you can tell Mr. Jackie we’ll have it to him by the end of next week. Give him my word on that, okay?”

  “I’ll do it. Are you gonna to be working late again tonight? It seems like I’ve seen the lights on late a lot around here.”

  “No, not late tonight like it’s been being. I’ve just got to take a couple of pictures and clean up some. Then I’m outta here.”

  “That sounds good. You can’t work all the time. You need to get home and enjoy the weekend. When I get back by, I’ll plan on not seeing those lights on late tonight. And I’ll tell Jackie his lunker is gonna be ready by the end of next week.”

  Mills hustled back in the office and locked the front door for the second time. Before heading to the back, he stepped into the front men’s room. Standing in the small cubicle, a noise from the back caught his attention. It sounded like a cabinet door closing or something bumping against one of the wooden bases, sliding it on the floor.

  The noise was distinct and loud enough to make Sparky pull the pistol from its holster, before walking toward the door leading into the back. As he moved slowly toward the metal door, he was quickly becoming increasingly concerned. In a matter of seconds, he had managed to convince himself that someone was definitely in the back work area.

  He turned the knob on the door with his left hand and pushed the door open with his right forearm. He reached inside the doorway and turned on the building lights. The switch he flipped only turned on the overhead panel in the rear of the building. He wasn’t given a chance to turn on the front panel.

  As he followed the pistol into the room, in a terrifying instant, the tire iron smashed into his right arm just above the wrist. The blow sent the pistol spinning across the concrete floor.

  Sparky cried out in pain, bending over and grabbing his right arm with his left hand. That’s when he was jerked straight up by a powerful constriction around his neck. His right arm was useless, as he tried with his left hand to reach behind and grasp what or who was slinging him from side to side.

  The next powerful, upward yank took both feet off the floor, dangling the small man like some outlandish puppet, kicking its legs and flailing its arms. Then he was jerked by the neck and slammed to the floor on his left side before being spun in a half circle. Sparky couldn’t breathe; his head was throbbing and spinning in the midst of pulsing shards of light dancing in his closed eyes. He could feel his tongue swelling and beginning to fill his mouth. The sensation of falling, tumbling over and over grew stronger as the feel of rasping cement against his cheek and the glow of halogen lights began to fade. In the cruelest of ways, fully over-powered, Sparky Mills was dying.

  The pistol was retrieved from the floor. Sparky’s body was dragged to the rear door and out to the car’s waiting trunk. As the two men picked him up, a low moan led the heavier one to vigorously jerk Sparky’s head twice into the rear bumper, silencing him forever. They left the taxidermy studio as quickly and easily as they had entered.

  Many would find it surprising that a man who concentrated so much on attention to detail in his work would forget to lock the back door following Piper’s exit earlier in the evening.

  Lights in the office and rear portion of the warehouse were on when Russell Lineberry drove by about midnight. All looked the same when his patrols took him back by Mills Taxidermy just after two AM. Lineberry stopped and went to the front door.

  As he tried the handle, he looked through the sheers behind the door’s glass panel. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Lineberry stepped to the street side of the building, clicking on his flashlight and walking down the one-hundred feet to the rear corner. On the way, he rattled the roll-up door near the rear of the pre-engineered structure. It felt and sounded secure.

  When he rounded the street side rear corner, almost fifty feet away, he saw the door at the other end of the back wall standing open. That’s when Russell Lineberry pulled the service pistol from his belt.

  �
�What the hell…?”

  He approached the open door on the far corner carefully, looking inside as best he could before entering. As with the office, all appeared to be in order. Nothing was knocked over; tools were lying where they might reasonably be when someone stopped working. Spread across the shelf above the door to the office, the small stereo system was playing its usual progressive jazz. Only two things seemed out of order – the back door was standing open and Sparky Mills hadn’t responded to Russell Lineberry’s third call, “Sparky! Sparky you here man?”

  When Sheriff Conrad Scott arrived, the situation was the same as it had been with Bill Andrews in Sturn County – a man was simply gone, without a trace. Just as David Bell had been there one moment and gone the next, there was nothing at the scene to indicate what fate befell Freeman “Sparky” Mills.

  At least with the abduction and presumed death of Judge Elvin Bodner in stand #12 on April 16, there was clear evidence of a struggle. Someone had come into that stand, fought with and abducted a South Carolina Circuit Court Judge. With Bell and Mills, it was as if some alien had dropped from the sky and swooped back into the clouds with two grown men in tow.

  Sheriff Carl Lisenby in Burns County described the disappearance of David McDonald in similar terms – he was there and then he was not there! Only the clothes found in the mud on the banks of the Turtle River could confirm that the young butcher hadn’t simply evaporated from the back room of Musto Meats.

  Before leaving Mills Taxidermy, a little after five AM, Sheriff Conrad Scott called Detective Ollie Welch over to his car. Showing the high frustration that comes with feeling thwarted at every turn, he pointed an index finger at Welch’s chest for added emphasis.

  “Ollie, I know this and the McDonald boy’s disappearances didn’t happen on Brantley Lodge property, but I’m convinced the Bell, Bodner, Mills and McDonald cases are connected. You get that meeting called right away and let’s start recanvasing the homes around the Lodge property. Focus on those where it’s realistic someone could be moving around the Lodge on foot. I believe if we find who’s doing it at the Lodge, we’ll find out what happened to the Burns County boy and Sparky Mills. This guy or guys are local and we’ve got to nail somebody’s ass!” said the Franklin County Sheriff.