by Kieran York
Royce stood, and before she got to the door, she heard Vannie and Antero yell in unison, “Be careful, Royce. We love you.”
“I love you, too.” Royce smiled. “And Chance loves you, too.”
***
Royce pondered her sadness as she drove. When she pulled the vehicle onto the gravel road that led up to the homeless encampment, she considered how she wished she didn’t need to make this call. Or any call today.
There were usually three to ten men in the vagabond’s community. These men were considered societal throwaways – derelicts, winos. Sadly, some were intellectually challenged, some were treated unfairly by fate, some were addicted, and some were criminals. Whichever reason their lives and happenstance put them in the encampment – they’d been battered, self-imposed addicted souls, or unlucky, Royce found them sad.
As Royce got out of her vehicle. She noted the antique camo Jeep that Plato had described as belonging to Duffy McCord, was not at the camp. The camp was a circle of torn tents, rickety panels of particle board, tarpaper shacks. There may have been inhabitants inside the small structures. But only two were in her sight.
The two obvious drifters viewed her suspiciously. “We ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” the tall, thin, craggy one said. The sheriff recognized him as Duffy McCord. And the short, over-weight one was Spuds Flanigan. She remembered him, and his resemblance to rotund elf.
“I’m not here to arrest you or give you any trouble. I’ve been out here before. Duffy and Spuds?”
Duffy’s face wrinkled. “I’m Duffy. And this here is Spuds. Claude Myers took my Jeep to town. He was needin’ him some puffs. He’ll be back later after he gets a pack of cigarettes. If he doesn’t get his snoot in the booze, and stay overnight.”
Royce recalled that she’d never seen Claude sober. And he seemed to be the most contentious of the trio.
“We’re minding our own business,” Duffy lashed.
“Duffy, Spuds, yes, I have stopped by a couple times last summer. I’m just here to remind you about keeping your campfire watched. When you aren’t around, please be certain to douse the fire completely out.”
“We always do, Sheriff,” Spuds said, then spit a wad of tobacco toward the small campfire. It created a steam, and a crackle. “Where’s that fella that usually comes up here to the hobo jungle?”
“Undersheriff Nick Hogan?”
“Yep, he usually comes up ever’ couple weeks. Tells us not to get out of line.”
“Undersheriff Hogan was critically shot. Wounded. I wanted to alert you about his being shot.” Royce tried to read their faces. They’d all learned to lie in order to survive, she thought. “If either of you hear anything, or see anything, let us know. We’re looking for a black, late model Ford Ranger.”
Duffy’s exploding laughter was callous. “You expecting us junglin’ vagrants to find your outlaws for you, you doin’ some wrong thinkin’, lady. We just want to leave you alone, and you leave us alone.”
“I’ve worked hard to be called sheriff and not lady.”
“Sheriff, we seen no one in a Ford Ranger,” Spuds announced. “And you got no right comin’ to this tramp camp. We aren’t fugitives,” he lashed out.
“Look, you met Nick. You might think he was attempting to disband this little settlement. But if he really wanted to run you off, he would have taken you all in to jail. He didn’t. He respected you. He didn’t turn this place over, and he could have. He’s got two children and a loving wife. Give him some of the respect he gave you.”
“He’s a cop,” Duffy spat. “Respect! Ain’t that a tub of crap. Nick got into it most with Claude. Claude didn’t bow down to him, I guess. But they hated each other. Too bad Claude is in town. He’ll get a kick out a finding out about Nick getting plugged.”
Cringing, Royce replied, “Nick is a lawman. He’s also a good man.”
Spuds shrugged, “Come on, Duffy. He didn’t do us no harm. He didn’t treat us like we were worthless kick-shit bums.” Spuds was grilling a hobo breakfast. Bread with a hole in the center was placed on a griddle. An egg was then poured onto the hole. The bread was flipped as soon as one side was fried. The side of fried potatoes splattered. Coffee was also an aroma blending with the food. Duffy squinted. His face puckered. “Naw, Nick Hogan wasn’t too bad.” He looked at Royce and pointed to her, “And you ain’t been too bad.”
Royce smiled, “I’m taking it that ‘not too bad’ as a sincere compliment.”
As she turned to leave, she heard Spuds cough, then say, “Sheriff, we’ll get hold of you if we see that black truck.”
***
Driving a couple miles, Royce turned off to check another of Nick’s possible enemies. There was a tangle between two neighbors. Chris Wyatt’s property was twenty acres moving from top of the hill, called Buckle Peak, down to the creek that passed by at the lower end. Feeding into the creek was a stream flowing. It was a lovely mountain corridor. Wyatt could often be seen with his small portable sluice outfit, and his Bernese mountain dog, Gus. There he would provide tourists with pointers on panning gold.
Once in a while, he was known to stretch his mini-sluice setup slightly beyond his property line. His downstream neighbor, Duane Hill, would call one of the Crystal’s deputies. Undersheriff Nick often warned Wyatt to stay on his own property. And recently, Nick had found his own time constraints made it difficult to continue to bother with Wyatt. The owner of the other property made a fuss and Nick issued a ticket to Wyatt.
That angered Wyatt, so he used some old prospector language. He claimed that Nick was showing favorites, and should have issued a ticket to both men. Not just him.
The conflict accelerated, and Nick threatened to jail Wyatt if he didn’t settle down. Bad feelings, maybe, but Royce couldn’t imagine Wyatt wanting to kill Nick.
Wyatt was bent down with his pan in hand. A bucket was beside him was filled with damp soil and small rock. He shook the pan rhythmically. As Royce approached, he glanced up. “Sheriff, are you here to see if I paid my fine?”
She chuckled. “I’d usually be here if it wasn’t paid. I’m here to ask you about your recent conflict with Nick.”
“Sheriff, I’m sorry to hear about the undersheriff. Hope he’s better.”
“About the same.”
Wyatt appeared genuinely saddened. He was a tall, large man, and was nicely proportioned. He was in his middle forties. His hair was gray, his eyes blue, and a handsome smile was his trademark. From beneath an Australian bush-hat, Wyatt always appeared well-dressed. Although, sometimes he was messy and muddy from working in the stream. Intelligent eyes behind spectacles, and a usually friendly smile, contributed to his attractiveness. His voice had a melodic, pleasant quality. He wore wader boots, and often forded across Gold Dust Creek.
The dogs Gus and Chance immediately began playing, and running. “Looks like our dogs are going to part pals. But yes, Wyatt, we’re calling on folks in the area about Nick’s shooting. You aren’t that far from the vagabond community across the highway. So, I thought you might share ideas about them, and see if you have any ideas about who might have perpetrated the ambush on Nick.”
“Like I said, my problems weren’t with the hoboes, or other neighbors. Just the one always calling the law on me. Now, Nick and I had a few encounters. Caused by that neighbor of mine. He pesters me constantly. He’s sic’d the law after me, and also gave the fellas across the way a bad time. Daryl Hill pesters everyone. I never gave those indigent folks any problems, and they haven’t bothered me. People ought to just leave folks alone. What are you checking on, spit it out? You want to know if I shot Nick.”
“Did you?”
“Naw. I don’t shoot folks.” His laugh echoed. “Why I wouldn’t even shoot Duane.”
“Do you have a gun? Do you carry?”
“I got three. I only carry when I’m out in the wilderness. They’re all licensed and spoken for. I live up here in the mountains, and you know folks mostly all have guns. We’ve got moun
tain lions, bears. It’s wild out here. Late spring, early summer, those animals are looking for food.” Grimly, he pointed to Chance. “A bear would chomp that dog in half.”
He whistled. Gus, the beautiful Bernese mountain dog came to his side. “I have a wonderful dog, here. “Gus is the best dog I could have selected.”
“I remember Jackpot. You train your dogs beautifully.”
Royce called Chance. “Here Chance. A bear might chomp either of our dogs, but not without a fight.”
Wyatt examined Chance. “Your dog, she does have fight in her. I see it in her eyes.”
“Chance is a wonderful dog. She’s almost two. Now suddenly, there are times she doesn’t seem to want to mind when I give her orders. Commands she’s always known seem to be forgotten.”
“Mine have always gone through that time where they rebel back to purely instinct. Chance will be fine.”
“I’ve only had one dog before Chance. She was perfect from the beginning.”
“I liked that little Smoky that you used to have. I remember she played around with my Jackpot a couple times. Dang, I saw that little schnauzer scrappy as a pit-bull once. Someone approached you too quickly.”
“I miss her, Wyatt. And Chance has been a wonderful friend for the past couple years since I lost Smoky.” Royce remembered Wyatt’s old dog, a lovely yellow lab and Alaskan malamute mix. “I recall your old dog, Jackpot.” She paused, “And yes, I’m visiting you to make sure you didn’t have the kind of ill-will against Nick that would have harmed him.”
“I have a bad temper. Too many rules and regulations bossing us around. I was told that the sides of creeks and rivers are public domain. Which means I’m not trespassing. I told Nick that and he said I’d need to get the information. My temper snaps. I might want to fight. And to yell a little. But I wouldn’t have shot Nick or anyone else.”
“You understand that when you got into it with him, he could have had you jailed for a very long time. You can’t square off at a deputy. So, for all our sakes, hold the temper. If you need temper management, let me know. The country provides classes. But don’t get into it with the law. If your neighbor complains, just let it go. If you threaten an enforcer, you can be incarcerated. If you threaten your neighbor, you can have a rocky, miserable life.”
“I’m really a peaceful guy. I’m from Minnesota, a peaceful state. I work here summers, and when it isn’t snowing. Winters I go to Arizona and play golf. I worked for years in financing, in Denver. I finally decided to get more play into my life. I work part time in Arizona, and chase gold in Timber. I take flakes of gold dust and convert them into money. The best of all worlds.”
Rains were beginning to fall. Royce held out her hand to feel the raindrops. “Looks like we’re in for a little sprinkle.”
“I keep sluicing.” His squint nearly shut his eyes. “Nick really could have put me away for a long time?”
“Yes. A very long time. The laws are strict about verbally assaulting a deputy. So, pay your fine, and don’t get into any trouble. And please don’t be spunky. I’m not as lenient as Nick.”
“Spunky!” Wyatt repeated. “I do believe you’re taking on your grandmother’s vocabulary.”
She tipped her hat, turned, and the two shared a laugh. Royce gave a slap on her leg that was the command for Chance to follow closely.
***
Royce pulled into a parking space in front of the office complex which was the Crystal Village Sheriff’s Department auxiliary post. Deputy Sam was at Nick’s desk, searching through files. Beside the desk was the oblong dog’s bed that Nick had purchased for Chance. Chance quickly claimed her bed, and her head eased down on the soft edge.
“Hey, Chance,” Sam greeted Deputy Chance with a few pats. He reported, “Royce, I played the phone recording for the Dillards. It’s such poor quality that they listened several times. They said they couldn’t be certain, but they didn’t think it could have been Kirk’s voice. I tried to clean it up, and still no identification. Lots of ways to see that. Parents protecting the son. The son disguising his voice. Or someone else. We got nothing out of it. Sorry. No clarity.”
“I was afraid of that. I couldn’t have identified it.” Royce tightened her fist. “We aren’t catching any breaks. The tire tracks mean nothing because the truck has already been IDed. We know whose truck it is. We believe the owner of the truck made an appointment for a ride-along. And there is a probability it could be an unknown shooter. What we don’t know is who the ‘hot’ woman wanting a date. We have no idea where the truck is. The prime suspect is also missing. Dismal clues.”
“Hey, Royce, someone planned the shooting carefully. Sucker the prey to a place without much action. Ambush the victim. Make a clean getaway. So, we’re back to finding Nick’s enemies. And the guy didn’t have many.”
“I stopped up to check out the vagrant community. And then I dropped by to see Chris Wyatt.”
“Do you think any of them might have shot Nick?”
“No. I’ve been thinking about the crime.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Something’s been bothering me. Ron and Mandy said that the truck pulled up, driver’s sides parallel. Nick was getting out of his vehicle. The first shot was fired, and it looked like the shooter was exiting the truck to empty his gun into Nick. He got a second round off. He didn’t just shoot and run. He ran when he saw witnesses.”
“That was the story I got, too.” Sam sighed. “Someone could have boosted the truck in order to commit the crime.”
“Okay, to me it sounds as if the shooter was exiting the truck to make it an execution style killing. Like a gangster hitman. If it were a grudge shooting, the perp probably would have just emptied the gun. And he might have taken a few warning shots at the witnesses. But this guy wanted to send a signal.”
Sam poured them both a cup of coffee. “In other words, you’re also thinking Kirk Dillard might not be our prime suspect.”
Royce sipped the coffee. “My dad used to say that wisdom is a valise filled with enough knowledge and experience to leave room for heart. This isn’t the kind of crime we’ve known about or had experience with. We’re running on heart. Who would want Nick killed and why? And what is the connection to Kirk Dillard?” Royce shrugged. “More searching the files. Someone wanted Nick murdered. And we’ve got really great enforcers out there searching. Good men and women. What are we missing?”
“You’re right, Royce. We’ve got a clean, motivated deputy’s force. Excellent values. Where I worked before, I saw officers beat cuffed men and women nearly to death. Quick shoot. The officers were often investigated. Charges dropped. Cleaned up to return to duty. Cash out, and collect pensions. Here we have respect for one another. These people love being deputies, and do a good job. Royce, the place is so beautiful, the people so amazing – I hope it doesn’t change. This crime was a potential homicide and it was citified.” His eyes were saddened. “We need to find the perp.”
Royce stood, took a final gulp of coffee. “We’re going to find who did this. I’m going to stop by the hospital and check on Nick.”
“I talked with Terry, and she said that he’s out of surgery and it was successful. But he isn’t conscious, and probably won’t be. Bev’s with him, but no one else is being allowed in. So, you might as well wait for tomorrow to check on him.”
“Please ask Terry to tell Bev I’ll be there in the morning, and to let me know if she needs anything. Terry is really doing a great job guarding at the hospital. And I know Bev appreciates her.”
“She just wants us to solve the crime.” Sam shook his head. “If only we could locate the truck.”
Royce’s phone rang. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” When she hung up. She said to Sam, “Forensics is even putting it in high gear for this crime. I’m going to drop by Doc Prichard’s office. They’ve got a few of the tests in. I need to get as much information as I can about the firearm. And all else. All else puzzles me.”
Suddenly Sam issued an afterthought. “M
aybe the potential killer might have just wanted to make sure Nick was dead when he got out.”
Royce smiled. “I’m putting every conceivable scene together. Something has got to start making sense. Kirk Dillard doesn’t look good for this attempted murder. And it’s not just a weak motive that’s making me believe this.”
Leaning back in his chair, Sam sighed. “Maybe it’s some mental disorder. A breakdown. This kid, Kirk Dillard, he has it all. Wealthy parents. He just got his degree. Never been in trouble. Why would he try to be a cop killer? Why kill Nick?”
“I keep asking myself that.” Royce made her way to the door. “Anymore there seems to be a hatred for police.”
“Maybe it was a dare. Some of his other friends dared him. Young people see crime on TV, and maybe want to emulate thrill on the screen.” He bit his lip. “Why?”
“Sam, that’s the other thing, he doesn’t seem to have friends. His parents couldn’t name one friend. I know he just arrived here from a college. But his mother said she didn’t know his college pals. Unusual.”
The sheriff second guessed their suspicions. Perhaps he was a loner. He was excited about meeting a hot woman.
***
The Timber County Judicial Building had recently added a Forensic Unit. Headed by coroner, Doc Ben Prichard. It was a small, but efficient. On one side the Forensic Unit had the rudimentary lab, computers interlaced with Colorado Bureau of Investigation; on the other side was the morgue. Doc Prichard’s office was in between the two departments. Forensics adjoined the Sheriff’s Department, and the D.A.’s Office. As Royce entered, she considered how that made it very convenient. And certainly, it expedited test result, and evidence reports.
“Sheriff,” Doc Prichard cleared his throat as he welcomed the sheriff. “Come on, let’s go into my office. The hospital sent over the bullet fragments, and the x-rays. As I’m certain you’ve already been made aware, two shots were delivered by a 9mm pistol. I’m guessing maybe Heckler Y Koch, or SIG. The first bullet entered his shoulder – top torso area, followed by the bullet that entered the base of his right skull. Bullets and fragments were retrieved. The lower, base skull shot deflected the bullet from entering a full impact. And that saved his life.”