by Bobby Cole
Ollie Landrum was Sumter County’s first black sheriff. He was a county fixture now that he’d been in office nine years. Ollie had been a football hero at The University of Alabama—he’d blown out his knee beyond repair during a home game, ending his pro hopes. He’d been a deputy just a few years when the sheriff retired. The Alabama fans in the county showed Ollie how much they appreciated his football prowess in a landslide election to sheriff. He had married his college sweetheart, a lady who had dedicated her life to helping educate the poor about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Western Alabama leads the nation in SIDS, and she was consumed by her task. There were plenty of poor folks in western Alabama. She tried to educate them by day, and Ollie arrested many of them by night. Ollie and his wife hadn’t slowed down long enough to even consider having children.
The sheriff had fallen asleep on the couch watching Law & Order: SVU. He loved that show. New York City had the action, the serious crime. On the show, there were no boring driver’s license checks like he was forced to do weekly.
Even asleep, when the phone rang, Ollie knew it was Martha. This better be good, he thought, pulling himself off the couch. He glanced at the clock, cleared his throat, and said, “Hello.”
“Chief, Mick Johnson needs you to call him at his house. He says it’s urgent,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. She lit a menthol cigarette.
Rubbing his eyes, he asked, “Did he say what it’s about?”
“No, Chief, he just said it’s important,” she responded, ever the professional.
“OK, I’ll call him, and Miz Martha, please call me Ollie or Sheriff; don’t call me Chief,” he begged for the umpteenth time, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.
“Yes sir.” She gave him the phone number.
Ollie had been to Birmingham that day to play golf in a charity tournament at the Greystone Country Club. His football legacy made him an in-state celebrity. He was exhausted from the day’s events and the not-so-small amount of alcohol he had consumed on the sly. Golf simply wore him out. It must have been the sun. He slowly walked into the kitchen intending to microwave a cup of coffee. But he sat down on a barstool and picked up the cordless phone.
“Mick. Ollie. What can I help you with?” he asked in his most official voice.
“Ollie, I got the strangest phone call from a friend of mine about an hour ago. I couldn’t understand all of it, but he said it was an emergency.”
“What’s his problem?” Ollie asked with a yawn.
“Well, he’s from Mississippi; his name’s Jake Crosby. I got him into the Bogue Chitto hunting club. I assumed that’s where he was calling from. We got disconnected, so I rode out there. And…well…it’s weird…all the lights were on in his camper and the door was open, but he wasn’t anywhere around.”
“Is that the place that backs up to the big area of wilderness along the Noxubee River on County Road Sixteen?”
“Yeah, that’s it, but listen…when I got home my pants were covered in blood…fresh blood.”
“Blood?” Ollie became fully alert. “Could it have been turkey blood?”
“Well…I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose, but there was a bunch of it.”
“Have you tried his cell again?”
“Yeah, I tried, but that area’s got awful reception. I couldn’t get him.”
“I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes, and you can follow me. I’m gonna call R.C. and get him on out there. He stays out in that part of the county,” Ollie explained, studying the kitchen clock.
“I’ll be ready.”
Ollie hung up the phone and pondered the possibilities. He needed details. This situation was much more interesting than his typical daily duties. He would call his most trusted deputy, R.C. Smithson. R.C. was a little eccentric, but Ollie could depend on him. He dialed the number. It was ringing when he put the receiver to his ear.
“Yes, Chief.” R.C. answered on the second ring.
“Quit calling me Chief, and how did you know it was me…you’re too much of a tightwad to have Caller ID.”
“You’re the only person who ever calls me at this hour.”
“Listen. Something serious may have gone down at the clubhouse at the Bo Cheeter something or other hunting club.”
“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for big—”
“Shut up, R.C., and listen,” Ollie interrupted and paused. R.C.’s trivia drove him crazy.
“A friend of Mick Johnson’s from Mississippi called him and said something about some kind of emergency. Mick thinks he was at that camp, and he lost communication with him. I’m about to roll and pick up Mick. I’ll be there in thirty to forty-five minutes. Go secure the area. See what you can find out. Be careful. We already know there’s a bunch of blood near the camp house. Don’t violate my crime scene if there is one, you hear?”
“Okey-dokey.”
“Quit saying ‘okey-dokey’…and get goin’. Call me on the radio if you see anything.” Ollie sighed deeply.
“Yes sir, boss,” R.C. said then hung up. He used the remote to turn off the TV. He had been watching a movie on his pirated HBO package.
R.C. Smithson was not unlikable. All he wanted for a career was be a deputy. He was single. He played video games at all hours of the night and read fly-fishing magazines, though he’d never held a fly rod. Two years ago, he’d met a dancer at Danny’s Strip Club in Birmingham; he now considered her his girlfriend. They had never been out on an actual date. Their “dates” were always at Danny’s, except once when she met him at the Waffle House and they ate pecan waffles as she told him about her crack-addict husband. She dreamed of being a Playmate. R.C. dreamed of going with her to photo shoots. Twice a month he went to see her dance and give her a couple hundred bucks, one dollar at a time. He talked about her like they had been married for years. Her name was Chastity. R.C. loved her huge fake boobs.
He was rolling down the road four minutes after hanging up with Ollie. He knew exactly where to go. I was born for this, he thought, flipping on the car’s radio.
R.C. slowed the police sedan to a crawl as he pulled through the camp’s opened gate. He turned off the Rush Limbaugh rebroadcast and forced his senses to full alert. He could see the lights of the camp through the trees and immediately stopped to radio Martha O’Brien that he had arrived.
“Bo what?” she asked.
“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for ‘large creek,’ but actually the Chickasaw Indians used it in their language as well,” he expounded, proud of his plethora knowledge.
“Whatever. R.C., you be careful now,” she responded.
“Ten-four.”
R.C. eased his cruiser into the camp. He parked on the gravel, got out, and walked toward the camp house. He shone his five D-cell flashlight in all the shadows, finding nothing that roused any suspicions. Because the camper lights were on and the door was open, he decided to check it out first.
After peeking in the side windows, with his right hand on the butt of his holstered weapon, he twirled the flashlight over, then with the end of it knocked on the side of the camper. “Deputy sheriff…anybody home?”
Nothing but silence. Without touching anything, he carefully looked inside the open door. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home?” he repeated, then stepped just inside the doorway. The warmth from the heater was inviting. He stood over it a few seconds while casting his gaze around the interior of the camper. Everything looked perfectly normal. Two people had been sleeping inside. One was obviously a child, probably a little girl.
Outside everything also looked in order. R.C. walked back and forth through the yard searching for anything out of the ordinary. Careful of his steps, he methodically grid-searched the area in front of the camper and camp house. Then he saw it. Pools of dark blood that trailed back to the parking area, then ended. There was plenty of it. What in the hell? he wondered. I need to string some tape. The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up. With his pistol drawn, R.C. approached the camp house front porch.
“Deputy sheriff…is anybody here?”
More silence. This was unnerving. He wasn’t accustomed to so much tension. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home!” R.C. stepped onto the porch. “Sheriff’s department!” he yelled, hoping nobody answered. The moment R.C. peered inside the camp house, he was drawn to the Playmate calendars, partly obscured by innocuous swimsuit calendars. He had hit the pinup mother lode. He studied each one, comparing them to Chastity. Time stood still…until his radio crackled suddenly with Ollie’s voice.
“I’m here, Chief,” he replied while studying, in great detail, Miss November 1999. “There’s definitely fresh blood in the yard…and lots of it, but no one’s here,” he added, shifting his attention to Miss October 1999.
“I’ll have Miz Martha call the hospital to see if anyone has come into the emergency room.”
“Ten-four. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
R.C. radioed Martha. While he waited for her response, he perused the calendars. Chastity is as hot as any of these girls. Maybe hotter.
“R.C.?” his radio crackled loudly.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, grabbing the shoulder mic.
“The ER’s had two folks in earlier this evenin’. One was a stabbin’ from down by the river. It was over a fishin’ hole. One guy kept gettin’ too close to where the other was catching some crappie. Stabbed him in the leg. He’s OK. Told the doctor it was an accident. They’d been drinkin’. Apparently the fish are bitin’.”
“Well, a good crappie hole is pretty valuable,” R.C. responded, nodding his head.
“And the second was a burn victim. Grease got too hot while she was frying chicken livers. Caught the cabinets on fire. Her hands got burned swattin’ the fire out.”
“Ouch!” he added.
“Does that help at all?”
“Yes and no…but thanks, Miz Martha,” he replied while admiring another calendar.
R.C. heard vehicles, so he stepped outside. The sheriff arrived first in his Ford Expedition with Mick Johnson behind. They parked behind R.C.’s cruiser and got out.
“Find anything new?”
“No, Chief. I can show you the blood, though.”
Ollie glared at him for the “Chief” reference. “R.C., hang on. Mick, let’s start at the beginning…and don’t leave out any detail, no matter how small,” Ollie said, leaning against R.C.’s patrol car.
Mick told his story. Ollie and R.C. glanced at each other from time to time, trying to mentally put it all together.
“Show me what you found, R.C.”
R.C. showed Ollie the pool of blood and how it trailed off, careful not to contaminate the area. The sheriff walked around, looked in the camper, and then walked toward the camp house. He was working several theories in his mind. He really needed daylight. The grass is so tall it would hide any evidence—if there’s any. He considered calling Jake Crosby’s family to see if they had heard anything from him. He hated to sound any false alarms. He’s just as likely to be at a bar somewhere, drunk. He knew a lot of guys used hunting as an excuse just to get out of the house. He’d ask Mick later if that was a possibility.
The three men walked into the camp house. Ollie and Mick sat down on bar stools. R.C. otherwise occupied himself.
“R.C., R.C.! Pay attention. Quit lookin’ at those calendars!” Ollie yelled across the room.
“Chastity’s as hot as any of these girls,” R.C said with pride.
“What do you think about this situation?” Ollie asked.
“There’s not much to go on. The blood bothers me…but it could be any number of things. No one’s checked into the ER that fits this scenario. I don’t know, boss.”
“Mick, do you think a jealous husband could have been chasing him?” Ollie asked, trying to think of the wildest scenario.
“I seriously doubt it. Nothin’ less than Charlize Theron would get Jake’s attention…Charlize Theron in a camo swimsuit maybe…he’s happily married, or certainly appears to be,” Mick replied.
“Charlize Theron has not been in the area; I would know,” R.C. said, smiling.
“Jake is a pretty levelheaded guy. He doesn’t get into trouble. I just wish I could have heard him better,” Mick added, growing anxious.
“And I’m pretty sure he’s got his kid with him,” R.C. added nervously.
Ollie sat quietly, weighing his options. He didn’t have the manpower necessary to launch a full-scale manhunt, even if it was necessary—which at this point it wasn’t—and he hated to call in any other departments on a false alarm at this hour. He had done that before and sworn he wouldn’t ever again. He placed his face in his hands. He needed to make a decision. He needed some sleep.
Morgan was looking forward to having the house to herself. She had the perfect evening planned. She rented two DVDs at Movie Gallery. Then she went by the liquor store to purchase a bottle of Barefoot California Merlot. Morgan tried not to be self-conscious in the store. She prayed her Sunday School teacher wouldn’t see her. West Point was such a small town, and Jake always bought the wine.
Not wanting to cook, she called Domino’s for a pizza packed with mushrooms and anchovies. Jake hated mushrooms and anchovies. After eating the medium-size pizza, she piled on the couch to watch Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give. The title of that movie described Morgan’s life. Something had to give. She had material things, but she wasn’t happy. She needed more; she wanted more. I’m entitled to more. She had decided to leave Jake—she just had some details to work out. Their marriage had grown to be so boring and predictable.
“Of all the trust-fund babies I dated, I end up marrying a broke guy who listens to NPR and loves the Weather Channel?” she said aloud with no small amount of disdain.
After the movie, Morgan decided to sit in her Jacuzzi, drink wine, and read a self-help book. She was enjoying the light-headedness and lack of responsibilities. Around midnight, with a slight buzz from the wine, she went to bed.
West Point was such a safe little town; everybody was lulled into a false sense of security. Morgan never even thought of turning on the alarm system. And since Scout was always raising Cain at the deer standing under the feeder Jake had behind the house, she was desensitized to Scout’s barking. She didn’t pay attention to it tonight, either.
Ethan “Moon Pie” Daniels, a longtime friend of Johnny Lee and Reese’s, lived in Tupelo, Mississippi. Moon Pie was making a drug run to Starkville—“Stark Vegas” as he called it—when he got Reese’s call.
Moon Pie owed Johnny Lee a big favor. Two years earlier Moon Pie’s live-in girlfriend Sheree had been cheating on him with a guy she’d met on the Internet who lived in Jackson. Moon Pie encouraged Johnny Lee to rough him up—send him a message. Moon Pie made sure he was seen at the Tupelo Fire Ants football game—a solid alibi. Sheree knew he had done it. The police suspected it, but could never connect him to the crime. And the computer geek in Jackson couldn’t send any more e-mails because he lost all the fingers on his right hand. Johnny Lee had done Moon Pie right. That’s what friends do, he thought.
Moon Pie couldn’t believe Johnny Lee was dead. He would do his part to reap revenge. The house was easy enough to find. The lots in the area were large, wooded, and very private. Piece of cake. Surveying the scene, he noticed a new Jeep Grand Cherokee that was probably used to haul kids to school. The driveway was big enough for several vehicles, and since only one car was there, he knew the woman was probably alone though she might have a kid or two in there. He hoped not. He wished he had more planning time. He could see a fancy fishing boat, and it was certain to have rods and reels worth stealing. Moon Pie loved to fish, but he hated to pay for good tackle. He’d check the boat on the way out.
As Moon Pie slowly approached the house, a large dog barked halfheartedly. Moon Pie had anticipated a dog. Dropping to a knee, he acted as friendly as he could, but the dog didn’t buy it. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a hot dog he’d just bought at the Quik Mart, broke it in h
alf, and tossed half to the dog. It stopped barking, smelled the bait, and then ate it. He waved the rest of it and tossed it only a few feet in front of him. The dog slowly approached, still very suspicious. She was accustomed to men in camouflage coming up to the house at all hours. Usually she got fussed at for barking. But this guy had food. Torn between protecting the house and eating a delicious hot dog, the wiener won. She then escorted him up the front porch steps.
Peeking in through glass in the front door, Moon Pie could see an illuminated alarm keypad. All the lights were green. He smiled. This is too easy. Then, something wet and cold touched his hand. Moon Pie jumped. Quickly looking down, he saw the black dog sitting, wagging its tail.
Jake drove like a bat fleeing hell down the old road, hitting small trees the entire way. He had already knocked the mirrors off one side of his truck. He was in the beginning stages of panic. He kept telling himself to calm down and think. As he approached the top of a ridge, he slowed down to try his cell phone.
“I can’t believe I can’t get a signal,” Jake said with disgust as he threw the phone down and looked in his rearview. He couldn’t see any lights following them. Visibility in the deep woods was less than a hundred yards.
Jake turned off the truck, then stood outside to listen. He couldn’t hear anything. Maybe they weren’t coming? Maybe he and Katy had gotten away? He had no idea how far he could hear, but it should be quite some distance. Katy was busy pulling on her pants as Jake climbed back in. She looked nervous, but he was keeping her busy.