Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  “Ah,” the judge said. “Durance vile.”

  Crockett smiled. “Indeed, Your Honor.”

  “A practical and plausible solution. Did Ms. Warner give you any information as to the possible origin of her angst?”

  “She wouldn’t. But her daughter, Fran, said the incidents started shortly after a new church began service a couple of miles from the Warner home. She said it was an offshoot of more extreme individuals kicked out of a Baptist church near Sutton.”

  “The righteous Reverend Emanuel Pike,” McPherson said. “At least that’s what he prefers to be called. His first name is, in fact, Horace. The True Word of God Church, I believe. A small, redheaded man. Bible thumper. Swings Jesus like a whip. Fire and brimstone. Homosexuality is the work of the devil and such. Likes to hear himself make noise. The kind of idiot who would assume Ms. Warner’s group to be witches and the persecution of witches to be God’s will.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Indeed, sir. While he may not be stupid enough to actually dispatch miscreants to persecute Ms. Warner, I am relatively certain he would make little attempt to dissuade them from such actions.”

  “I can,” Crockett said.

  McPherson smiled. “No doubt,” he said. “But in a matter that could involve a church, no matter how dubious an organization it might be, tread lightly. If events do, in fact, lead you to Pike’s group, keep in mind that even the appearance of attempting to control a religious organization can become a can of worms.”

  “Do you know where his church is?”

  “In his home, I should think. Pike is a farmer. Corn and soybeans on modest acreage. I doubt if he or his followers could raise the funds necessary to build or maintain a structure. I would imagine the number of his supplicants to be quite small. He is an individual of modest appeal.”

  “Can he be intimidated?”

  The judge smiled. “Anyone can be intimidated if the threat is believable enough. Those who have ego on their side are usually more difficult. Those whose ego is backed by the almighty tend to be even more difficult. Especially if they crave recognition and publicity. What do you have in mind?”

  “Nothing yet. I’m not trying to borrow trouble. This started with drive by shoutings. That escalated to obscenities and firecrackers. Now, they’ve shot out windows in cars. That is reckless endangerment, Judge. I can’t allow that to go on. If I shitcan the assholes involved maybe it’ll just settle down. If not, justice will be served.”

  “A man of determination,” McPherson said.

  “I’ll let them dictate the pace of the game,” Crockett said. “I will guarantee the outcome.”

  McPherson nodded and stood up. “Your methodology does not concern me, Deputy,” he said. “The results of it do. I hate to see these women in fear. I shall depend upon you to rectify the situation.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Crockett said.

  The judge nodded. “Very well,” he said. “And I shall take care of the check. Always a pleasure, sir. Give my best to your lovely wife. Good day.”

  Crockett watched him walk away and returned his attention to the cold chili three-ways.

  Crockett explained the situation to Dale Smoot at their usual late afternoon meeting at the diner. He began his patrol by driving up to Farm Road 117 and cruising by the Warner residence. As he did, he noticed Fran Warner pulling weeds around a flowerbed beside the house. He turned around and went back, pulling up into the drive. Tall and angular like her mother, Fran was in her early forties. There was something slightly militant about her. She walked over to the truck before he could get out and looked in the window.

  “You again,” she said, pushing a wisp of hair back from her left eye.

  “You’re twice blessed,” Crockett replied. “Get in.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What for?”

  “Moultry with intent to gawk.”

  Fran smiled. “Not that,” she said.

  “It’s an old warrant out of Memphis.”

  She opened the door and climbed in. “Now what?”

  “Now we go for a drive,” Crockett replied, picking up the mic. “Hart two, HQ.”

  “Go ahead, two.”

  “Headquarters, show Hart two ten-six for a while.”

  “Ten-four on the ten-six, two. Advise when clear.”

  “Four. Out.”

  “Where are we driving,” Fran asked.

  “To Emanuel Pike’s place.”

  “You’ve been snooping around, huh?”

  “A little. You know where he lives?”

  “Make a left,” Fran said.

  Ten minutes later they drove by the house, a cheap clapboard structure set back from the road about fifty yards. Behind the home was a battered metal barn with a couple of pieces of rusting machinery adorning its flanks. By the house sat an unfortunate blue Ford pickup and a beige wagon of some type, possibly an old Ford Taurus.

  “That the car?”

  “I can’t be sure,” Fran said. “The color and body style are right.”

  Crockett drove around the area for a few moments until he found an unobstructed view of the place from about a quarter mile away. He pulled his briefcase out of the rear seat and retrieved his spotting scope. Minute adjustments revealed both license numbers. He wrote them down, put the scope away, and turned to Fran.

  “When these idiots come by your house, what’s their route?”

  “They come in from the east. On past mom’s place west a mile or so is a blacktop called Privot Road. The night I chased them, they turned north on Privot, and I couldn’t keep up.”

  “What did you intend to do if you caught ‘em, get their plate number?”

  “I don’t know. I was so pissed, I might have run them off the road or something equally stupid.”

  Crockett smiled. “Tough lady.”

  “Damn right,” Fran said. “There’s a warrant for me out of Memphis.”

  They drove back to the farm, and Crockett dropped her off. Fran stood outside his window.

  “So what are you gonna do?” she asked.

  “I’ll be here Thursday around six and set up in your drive so I can’t be seen but can easily get out. If they show up, I’ll arrest them and put ‘em in the graybar hotel.”

  “The graybar hotel?” Fran asked.

  “Official police talk, little lady. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Just a girl, huh?”

  Crockett grinned at her. “I think the term ‘tough broad’ is more applicable.”

  “You got that right,” Fran said.

  “Question,” Crockett said. “When you walked me out last night, you mentioned something about the man with the knife.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. What did you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes stuff comes out of my mouth that I never remember having said. Man with the knife, huh?

  “Yeah.”

  She looked at him for a moment, and Crockett watched her eyes lose focus.

  “Soldier,” she said, and swayed a few degrees. Her eyes picked him up again. “What about a knife?” she asked.

  “Never mind. Thanks for the tour. See ya Thursday. Say hello to your mom for me, and her granddad.”

  “Sure,” Fran said and turned away toward the flowerbed.

  Crockett returned to headquarters. Margie was, as usual, at the helm.

  “Hi, cutie,” he said.

  “You startin’ up with me again?” Margie asked.

  “I’m trying to control it, Marge. I’m gonna run a couple of plates. See what you can find on a Horace or Emanuel Pike for me, will ya?”

  “Emanuel Pike? What do you want with that idiot? Got somethin’ to do with Verna Warner?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m all over it, Crockett.”

  Both vehicles were registered to Pike. He was arrested for disorderly conduct at a Planned Parenthood office in Springfield, Missouri and another in
Columbia the same year. Several arrests or citations for protests at AIDS clinics in Kansas City and other locations over the last few years, picketing at gay rights events, AIDS fundraising events, and related matters. Now he, or possibly somebody close to him, was getting more serious about targeting a group of women who they knew nothing about. A nice soft target with little threat of reprisal. Until now.

  “It him botherin’ them ladies?” Margie asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Crockett said. “Maybe. Time will tell.”

  “Whatcha gonna do?”

  “Put a stop to it.”

  Margie fanned herself with a sheet of paper. “Go easy, Deputy,” she said. “You are in danger of winnin’ my affection.”

  He blew her a kiss and went out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Merciful Georgia, son,” Cletus Marshal said, “I’m tryin’ to eat breakfast. What kinda unusual demands you gonna hang on me this time?”

  “Hey, Texican,” Crockett chuckled. “September ninth. That’s a Saturday and the date of our happy lake bluegill fry. Be here or be queer.”

  “You expect me to travel durn near four-hunnerd miles to eat fish?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Good. Come down Friday if you want to or Thursday or sooner. We can stand it if you can.”

  “Sounds good. What else ya want?”

  “Who me?”

  “Who the hell do you think yer dealin’ with, Yankee? You think I don’t know ya’ll well enough by now to figger there ain’t nothin’ simple about a call from Crockett. What’s up?”

  “I need some dirt on a fella.”

  “What kinda feller?”

  “A self-made minister of God’s word who likes to bash gays, picket funerals, give women trouble, and get all the publicity he can. From what I’ve been able to find out, he’s a real asshole. I need some leverage.”

  “Gimme.”

  “Name I have off a license check is Horace Gayland Pike, although he likes to be called Emanuel.”

  “Good grief.”

  “I know. DOB is oh-four, one-nine, seventy-one. Social is three-ninety, forty-eight, ninety-one eighty.”

  “Missouri license?”

  “Yeah. Need the number?”

  “Naw. I’ll just send this out to ol’ Irwin Bergman. He’ll find stuff the rest of us can only dream of.”

  Crockett grinned at the memory. “How is Irwin?”

  “Last I heard, he was engaged to be hitched.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Nope. A week or two with ol’ Whisper the porn queen musta, uh, opened up a whole new vista for the boy, so to speak. I was gonna say straightened him out, but I didn’t wanna be crude.”

  “We wouldn’t want that. Thanks, Texas. Put a rush on this if you can. And say hello to Irwin for me when you talk to him.”

  “You got it, pard. Regards to your bride an’ the helo hippie. Call ya soon, and see you for the big event.”

  Crockett grinned as he put down the phone and grabbed a fresh cup out of the cabinet. He could hear Satin thumping down the stairs. He got her coffee together just as she rounded the corner, hair askew in her early morning uniform of the threadbare robe and breadbox footwear.

  “You’ve never looked lovelier,” he said.

  She took the cup, leaned her forehead into the hollow of his throat for a beat, and slumped onto a stool. “I only want you for your coffee, you know.”

  “I’ve always suspected that. Clete says hey.”

  “You talked to Clete?”

  “Hung up when you were coming down the stairs.”

  “Tell him about the fish fry?”

  “He’ll be here.”

  “Good. Be nice to have a man around. Oh! I’m sorry. Was that out loud?”

  Crockett smiled. “Morning, darling,” he said. “You talk to your kid?”

  “Called her last night. She’s excited about being here.”

  “Gonna bring Lucy?”

  “She hasn’t decided. I told her we’d keep Lucy in the spare bedroom if she wanted some alone time with Stitch.”

  “We need to get her a little kid bed or something? Maybe some other girl stuff?”

  Satin smiled. “We could do that, Grandpa.”

  Crockett grinned and felt his ears get warm. “You talk to Danni about the project?”

  “Nope. She’s preparing for it and doesn’t even know she is. Danni graduates in October and has taken a job with a large animal vet that works primarily with horses.”

  “Wasn’t she working at a dog place?”

  “For nearly a year. It’ll be spring before anything here opens up. Give her some more experience. Good timing, huh?”

  “Great.”

  “She’ll be over a day or two before the bash. I’ll talk to her about it then. That way, Charlene won’t hit her cold with the whole thing. What’s going on with you and Cletus?”

  “Why do you think—“

  “Oh, quit. You don’t call Clete just to invite him down. What’s up?”

  “He’s checking somebody out for me.”

  “Who?”

  “A minister who’s an asshole. Probably self-ordained. Maybe licensed.”

  “He can do that? Just get a license?”

  “Sure. I’ve got one.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a licensed minister. Have been for years.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me. Through the Universal Faith Church.”

  “What, you used to preach or something?”

  “Oh, hell no. I got it when I was a cop. In family disputes and such, occasionally I talked with somebody in a manner that might be termed by some people as counseling. A ministerial license gives you a little bit of legal leeway.”

  “I married a minister?”

  “Yes, you did, my child. Praise the Lord.”

  “I’m not quite sure what to do with that.”

  “Perhaps you’d care to join me upstairs to commune in spiritual atonement for your life of sin and flooseydom.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Padre.”

  “I do not rebuke thee. I have only your salvation at heart. It’s never too late to be saved.”

  “Oh, why not?” Satin replied, and turned toward the stairs.

  When Crockett got out of the shower, Satin was working on a late breakfast of scrambled eggs adorned with bits of ham, sweet peppers, cheddar and onion. He took a seat on the other side of the snack bar.

  Satin nodded at him. “Reverend,” she said.

  Crockett returned her nod. “Bless you, my child. May the farce be with you.”

  Satin added a little pepper and smiled. “It’s sitting right in front of me.”

  At about five that afternoon, Dale Smoot peered across their customary booth at Crockett. “You got some kinda Jones for this guy?” he asked.

  “Not if he’s legit.”

  “You just pissed off at God, or what?”

  “No, I’m not pissed off at God, although I do believe his management skills are a little questionable.”

  “How come you’re looking into this Pike guy so close? You don’t even know if he’s involved in this thing with that bunch of women.”

  “Past history. I’ve known a couple asshole self-made men of God. One of ‘em was a cop.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. I can’t even remember his name. He came on when I’d had about five years in. He did a few months on the day trick, then they sent him back to three to eleven and stuck him with me for a couple of months of training. Everybody called him Preacher. Had a church of his own in a two-car garage behind his house in a fairly seedy neighborhood. He had balls, I’ll give him that. If the shit got a little dense, he was right in there with ya. But the guy was hinky. He was a little greasy, like he needed a good shower or something. He paid too much attention to whores, ya know? Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had dealings with a number of pr
ostitutes. A few of them and some all-night diner waitresses were terrific women, but Preacher was slimy about it. Wanting to minister to the hooker’s souls a little too avidly. A couple of the other guys noticed it, too. I was trying to figure a way to get rid of him when fortune, or maybe The Almighty, stepped in.

  “He and I were cruising by the tracks one night behind a big assed warehouse and spotted this woman staggering down the rail bed. We saw her fall and hustled to where she was, lying between the tracks, crying and holding her ankle. Preacher was outa the car like The Flash, picking her up, holding her, helping her tenderly into the backseat of the squad, sitting there with her, arm around her, offering her comfort and solace. I knew her. Denise Watkins. Lovely black girl, early twenties, tall and willowy. Hooked a little. Lived with her mamma on Fortieth Street.

  “Preacher had never seen her before. I swear to Christ, he was panting in that back seat as he offered his brand of comfort to the poor child. Denise was enjoying the attention from the nice policeman. I didn’t do anything to stop what was beginning to happen because I knew something Preacher didn’t know. Denise was not her real name. Her real name was Dennis, and Dennis had a very select clientele. It only took a couple of minutes before Preacher came to realize he was not the only person in the back seat with an erection. When that evidence came to hand, so to speak, he went ballistic. I had to pull him off of her before he beat Denise and/or Dennis to death. Hell, he was so far gone, he tried to kick my ass. When we stopped for her, I had called the contact in. Our backup showed just in time to keep me from having to really hurt that crazy shithead.

  “Denise went to the hospital with a broken nose and jaw, multiple lacerations, and a sprained ankle. I don’t know where Preacher went, but I never saw him again. The city came up with hospital expenses and a few grand to keep Denise, uh, Dennis quiet; and the whole thing blew over in a few days. Denise left town for parts unknown. Damn shame. I always kinda liked her. He was a nice guy, really.”

  Smoot looked at Crockett. “You’re shittin’ me. You made that up.”

  “Not a word, Dale. All true. Honest.”