by Mark Tufo
Casper shook his head and pushed his plate away, suddenly losing his appetite. “I don’t get you, Rog. We could get caught. And then what? Miller’s a tough old bastard. He’d just as soon shoot us as have us arrested. He’d bury us in his flowers and nobody’d be the wiser. Hell, nobody’d miss us.”
“Ain’t gonna happen, little buddy.” Rog opened his jacket and flashed the butt of a pistol. “I used some of old man Miller’s money to get us a little bit of insurance.”
Casper’s eyes widened as he saw the pistol and he sat up a little straighter. “Roger, what are you doing with that? You know they’d bury you under the jail if’n they caught you with that.” He lowered his voice even more. “They’s a difference in robbery and armed robbery.”
Roger chuckled. “Yeah, like fifteen years difference.”
“And if you happened to hurt anybody with that thing, then it’s attempted murder. They’d throw the book at you, Rog. They already don’t like you.”
“I don’t give two shits what they like and don’t like,” Roger spat, biting off another mouthful of the greasy pizza and chewing with his mouth open. “They can kiss my hairy ass right where it puckers.”
“You’re taking this too far, Rog. You need to just let it go. I thought we was going to start fresh. Maybe try to flip a few dime bags and make it.”
“I’m tired of that penny-ante stuff. I’m ready to make some real money.” Pizza grease ran from the corners of his mouth as he spoke. “And the real money is sitting right there in his office. It’s behind those clear plastic display things and once I set that torch to them, they’ll all be ours. As much as we can carry.”
Casper shook his head at him. “But who would we sell it to? Nobody out there will touch it. Miller was the only one interested in the hot goods and even he would only pay—”
“Who gives a shit? We’ll take it out of state!” He glanced around to see if anybody had overheard them. He ducked his head and lowered his voice. “Them idiots on the TV that run that pawn shop buy shit all the time. We’ll take it to them.”
“I dunno, Rog. I watched that show a few times. They don’t seem so stupid. Seems like they always sniff out the phonies.”
“They figure out the fakes. This shit ain’t fake. It’s just a little warm is all. And Miller knows it’s already stolen, so he can’t report it. We just tell them TV jokers that it was hand-me-downs from within the family. A collection from our grandpappy’s or something. They’ll buy it cuz they’s stupid.”
Casper kept shaking his head. “I dunno, Rog. I don’t like it. Too many things could go wrong. Somebody could get hurt and I don’t want to—”
“You turning yella again?” The meanness returning to his voice.
Casper fought the urge to cringe and instead held his head high. “I ain’t yella. But I ain’t stupid either.”
“Good.” Roger grinned. “Then you see the logic of my thinking. We’ll be sitting pretty in no time.”
Casper sat back again and sipped his soda. “I still don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either, Cas. But unless the old man comes to his senses and decides to just make right with us, it’s the only option we got left, ain’t’ it?”
Casper studied Roger a moment before finally nodding his head. “I guess.”
“Damn right, you guess. When have I ever steered you wrong before?”
*****
Jerrod Miller rode the horse as though it was rented and he was going to get every cent worth from it. He brought the thoroughbred in at a full gallop and pulled the reins so tight that the bit bruised the horse’s mouth, jerking the animal’s head back and nearly causing it to rear. He slid from the saddle and tossed the reins to the stable boy barking for him to make sure he brushed it down good and make sure he oiled his saddle before putting it up. The stable boy did his best to try to soothe the animal as he led it into the barn and to the stalls, sweat dripping from the beast. its muscles quivering from the abusive ride.
More than once, the hands at the ranch cursed Miller for his mistreatment of the stock there, and this time was no exception. More than a few sets of eyes followed him as he stomped up to the house for his shower before supper.
Miller went in through his study, his eyes casting a longing gaze across his collection as he slipped in through the door off the patio. He ran his hands across the statues and allowed himself to linger just a moment and take in the beauty of the old west memorabilia before heading back to his bedroom for a quick shower. When he opened his office door, the pungent smells of onions, peppers, and garlic hit him. His stomach grumbled with anticipation. He didn’t know exactly what Maria had in store for him this night, but he knew that her cooking was fattening him up and he truly enjoyed it.
He stepped into his bedroom and dropped his dust covered, sweaty clothing to the floor and walked into his shower. He punched the buttons on the wall and was instantly hit on all sides with stinging hot water. Placing his hands against the shower wall, he lowered his head and let the hot water pour over him, rinsing away the dry Texas dust and sweat. After a few moments of letting his skin warm, he reached for the shampoo and began his ritual. Beginning with his hair, he lathered and rinsed, then lathered an oversized rag and scrubbed his body until he felt his skin tingle. Once he was rinsed clean, he punched the button again and grabbed his towel from the rack. He stepped out of the shower and into the oversized bathroom and to his favorite sink where his toothbrush and razor sat waiting for him.
He poured a little water into the lathering cup and began working up a good foam. He looked up at the steamed mirror and froze once again. Staring him in the face was the word once more…tendrils of muddy water running from the freshly written letters.
His hands shook as he stared at the word that wasn’t there just a moment before and he set the cup back down on the granite countertop. He pulled another hand towel from the stack and wiped the steam formed film, erasing the word and its muddy lines from the mirror. When he pulled the towel back, it was no longer white, but smeared with brown as though he had dragged it through mud.
Jerrod slowly lifted the towel to his nose and sniffed the towel. It smelled of soil, dampened with a fresh spring rain. He felt a cold chill run up his spine as he folded the towel and he wiped at the mirror again. He looked at the towel and there were only slight brownish stains this second time. He folded the towel a third time and wiped again, this time the towel came away clean and his own reflection stood staring back at him.
He heaved a sigh of relief and dropped the towel to the floor. He continued to stare in the mirror and shook as he considered the ramifications. Either he was losing his damned mind or somebody was playing tricks on him. He knew that the word wasn’t there in the mirror when he first assumed his position to shave, yet in the time it took him to lather up a foam in his shave cup, it had appeared.
Jerrod picked up his shave cup and applied the foam to his face, his hands having developed a slight tremor. He tried more than once to shake it off, but the fear had taken root. He rinsed the cup and turned it over to dry, then picked up his straight razor. He stared at it, trembling hands, the light reflecting off the blade as it shook in his fingers.
He shook his head and laughed to himself, then lifted it to the lower edge of his sideburns and dragged the blade downward, removing the whiskers from his face. He turned on the water to rinse the blade and laughed again at his own silliness. Surely it was all in his mind. He lifted the blade again and dragged it down the other side, clearing the entire side of his face before rinsing the blade. The more he shaved, the steadier his hands became.
By the time he had nearly completed he was feeling much better, having nearly convinced himself that the whole ordeal had just been a figment of his overactive imagination. Then his foot brushed the towel in the floor and his eyes darted down to the brown stained terrycloth bundled haphazardly at his toes. He paused and stared at it a moment. When he glanced back up to the mirror, he was holding the
shaky blade to his throat…he saw his reflection drag the blade across his throat, digging the blade deep into his own flesh, slicing muscle and tendon, blood gushing forth and spraying onto the wall beside him. He saw the front edge of his windpipe as it became exposed and the tiny droplets of blood as the air from his lungs exploded out of his windpipe spraying the blood across the mirror in a fine spray. He saw his eyes bulge out in shock and fear that he could do such a thing to himself, and without remorse or care to his own well-being.
Suddenly Jerrod Miller found himself standing at his mirror staring at his own reflection, having finished his shave, the horrific image having vanished from his vision. He all but threw his razor into the sink and fell back from the counter, slipping on the tile floor and falling back against the opposite wall, crying out as he slipped.
As he hit the ground, both hands flew to his throat to quell the flow of blood that was not flowing. Slowly he pulled his hands back and was shocked to find a tiny tinge of pink on one finger. His breath coming in gasps, he slowly got to his feet, the towel wrapped around his middle having fallen to the floor. He cautiously approached the mirror and stared at his reflection.
He had accidentally nicked his neck while shaving, a tiny red dot of blood welling up on the side when he craned his neck to the side to see. Running the water and splashing it across his face, he rinsed his face off and dried it with a towel and double checked his reflection.
“Are you okay, Mr. Miller?” Maria asked, trying to avert her eyes to his nakedness.
Jerrod turned slowly and stared at her. “Am I bleeding?” he asked in a strange voice.
“I’d rather not look.” She held her hand up, covering her eyes.
Jerrod acted as though in shock. He kept turning and staring at the mirror. “Am I bleeding though?” He approached her and got very close. “Here? On my neck, am I bleeding?” he asked again.
Maria pulled her hand away and kept her face turned high. She turned her eyes toward his face and lowered it toward his neck. “Sí. A tiny bit.”
“Just a little?”
“Sí. You should use a septic stick.” She started to turn to leave when he grabbed her arm and turned her back toward him. “Please, Mr. Miller…”
“Is it just a little?” he exclaimed more than asked.
“Sí! Just a nick!” She pulled away from him and all but ran from the bathroom. When she got outside the bathroom, he heard her say, “I hear you yell from the kitchen and I come check on you. You should cover yourself.”
Jerrod stared at the door and then looked down at his nakedness. He nodded slowly and walked back to where his towel had fallen. He bent down and picked it up and wrapped it around his waist once more. He turned and looked at the mirror and saw his razor in the sink. He went through the motions of cleaning it and putting it away. But even upon stepping out of the bathroom and dressing, the vision of slicing his own throat never left him.
22
The Medical Examiner, Dr. Guffey knocked lightly on the door of the County Coroner, Colonel Alexander Murphey. Technically, Colonel Murphey was the M.E.’s boss, but only politically. The man had little to no training in the field of forensics but he answered to the other politicians, so Guffey had to answer to him. Dr. Guffey listened at the door and knocked again lightly.
“Come!” the colonel barked.
Dr. Guffey entered carrying the cases he requested and noticed the Colonel stepping back into his office from his private lavatory. “Ah, Doc, glad you’re on time.” The Colonel smiled, but Guffey knew it was a politician’s smile. “I’ve got a lot of people asking me questions I can’t answer, you know.”
“I’m sure.” Guffey set the case files down on the corner of his desk. Colonel Murphey looked at the case files as if Guffey had just laid a human heart on his desk.
“What’s that?” He pointed, his distaste obvious.
“The files you requested.”
The Colonel stared at him as if he’d lost his damned mind. “I didn’t want the actual files, doctor, just some kind of write up or brief or…something.”
Guffey raised a brow and cocked his head to the side. “You don’t want to go through the cases themselves?”
“Hell no. I couldn’t make heads or tails from the medical mumbo-jumbo in there.”
“Then why did you ask for them?” He was suddenly irate for having had to carry them all the way up to the man’s corner office.
“I didn’t ask for the actual case files,” he explained, “Just the information that’s IN them.”
Guffey plopped down in the chair opposite his desk and stared at him wide eyed. “The information is IN the case files.”
“I know that. And I want you to dumb it down for me and give it to me on a sheet of paper.”
Guffey stood and opened a case file. “There’s a findings report…” he glanced at the man and sighed. “A ‘summary’ of findings, in layman’s terms, stapled to the inside cover of each case file.”
“Oh!” The colonel seemed much happier as he fell back into his high backed leather chair and propped his feet up.
He pulled out a pair of spectacles and put them on and opened a case file. It was just then that Guffey realized why everyone called him the colonel. With his reading glasses on, he looked just like the ‘Colonel’ from the fried chicken place. Complete with the whiskers and white hair…except for the pleasant disposition.
Murphey thumbed through the different files and shook his head. “There’s nothing here about actual evidence, or who did the killings.”
“Not my job.” Guffey shrugged.
Murphey slapped the files shut and slammed the top down on his desk. “Well it apparently isn’t the sheriff’s job either. He’s come up cold or isn’t talking.” He glared at Guffey. “Do you know which it is?”
Guffey chuckled and stood up to leave. “He isn’t withholding information, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
“Then he’s inept,” he said offhandedly.
“Not likely.”
“Then why isn’t he sharing information?” Murphey’s eyes narrowed on the M.E.’s.
Guffey smiled and shook his head. “For one thing, he doesn’t have to share information with you. You’re an elected nobody. You just fill an office and rub elbows with people. You’re…a figure head.”
“How dare you!” he bellowed.
“Really?” Guffey shot back. “Fine. Then turn to the middle of any one of those case files and tell me what my notes actually mean.”
Murphey glared at the man for a few long seconds, his face slowly turning red. Guffey’s smile spread as he turned and started for the door. “That’s what I thought.” He opened it to leave. “Have somebody return those when you’re done. That’s county property.” He shut the door behind himself and could hear Murphey throwing a hissy fit behind the closed office door as he walked down the wood paneled hallway toward the elevators.
*****
Amber Meeks had tried every stolen password she could think of and still hit a brick wall. She refused to give up on cracking into the sealed records of the two minors that had been killed and it had become a personal mission. She sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. She allowed her mind to wander, thinking seriously about Judge Carter. His passwords were always simple and sounded suspiciously like names, but not the names of people. Perhaps pets or…horses!
She pulled up the records for Judge Carter’s properties and just as she suspected, he owned a forty-five acre horse ranch just outside of town. She tapped her pen against the edge of the keyboard and her eyes shot back and forth as she thought to herself.
She went to the county listings of contact numbers and found the ‘white’ list for Judge Carter, his personal numbers where he could be reached in case of emergency. She scrolled through the numbers and scratched off his cell, his home, his wife’s cell and found two remaining numbers that she couldn’t identify. Using a reverse lookup program, she determined that one of the numbers wa
s another cell phone. She surmised it must belong to another family member, perhaps a son or daughter that she wasn’t aware of. The last remaining number was indeed a landline. She took a deep breath and punched the number into the phone.
She waited nervously while the phone rang. It took a bit, but a heavily accented voice answered. “This is Deputy Meeks with the Wood County Sheriff’s Office, is Judge Carter available?” She tried to sound official and prayed that the judge was still at his office.
“No, ma’am,” the voice answered. “This is the stables.”
“Yes, I understand that, I’m just having trouble tracking his honor down, and this does concern his horses. Perhaps you can help me,” she stated rather than asking.
“Okay,” the voice said tentatively. “But I only work the horses.”
“I understand, and I won’t take much of your time.” She spoke quickly. “Are all of Judge Carter’s horses accounted for at present?”
There was a pause on the line, as though the employee didn’t quite understand the question, or wasn’t sure of why it was being asked. “Sí, all of the horses are here where they belong.”
“Are you positive?” Amber went through the previous passwords, “Candyapple is there?”
“Si, I just put her away a moment ago.”
Amber felt a smile creeping across her voice as she continued. “Okay, what about Gambit and Dreamcatcher?”
“Sí they are both here too. One is being exercised and the other is being brushed down,” he replied nervously. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m asking,” she said in a very authoritative voice, “because Judge Carter himself asked the sheriff’s office to make sure his horses are accounted for.” She lowered her voice and assumed the tone of someone much friendlier, “But between you and me, we can’t really afford to waste the manpower sending someone out to look at a bunch of horses, if you know what I mean? I mean, you do a good job taking care of the horses, right?”