The Sweet Taste (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Chaos. Old mattresses and some broken down sofas were littered with papers and empty cans. Hot air escaping through my fist hole was no more fragrant than the bikers' yard. I wasn't sure I wanted to go further.

  The whole idea was dumb anyway. What could I find in there? Jello Gorse's weak spots wouldn't be Magic Markered on the club's bulletin board.

  I walked deeper into the yard, noticing that it backed right to the river, although briars cut the view and getting through would not be easy.

  A motorcycle leaned on its kickstand and I stepped closer to have a look.

  With a screech fit to petrify, an apparition rose smack in front of me.

  Staring eyes passed unfocused through mine. A mouth missing teeth gaped and arms flailed, clothing twisted and wild, matted hair flew in many directions.

  A new stench assaulted my nostrils, and I instinctively shoved the thing away.

  Startled to the core, I almost ran. I am sure I would have cleared the fence and the briars without noticing them. Fortunately, my shove slammed the creature across a junk pile, staggering it, and giving me an essential instant to recover.

  What I looked at was just another biker. A freaked out, wild-eyed, caricature of all the frailties an individual could possess and still straddle a motorcycle. He was dirty and he was ugly. He slobbered, and when he spoke his voice was keyed too high. Spit flew in my direction, and I kept my arm extended out front in case he charged. The biker was also small, which returned my courage in a rush.

  Pitched in a high, womanish voice, the man said, "OK, you got me. I ain't trying nothing, man. I ain't trying nothin'."

  And he wasn't. He leaned backward against a junk pile and tried to focus on me. Great, but what did I do now?

  Before I could speak, my captive erupted. Strung too tight on dope, I supposed. Words poured out of him.

  "You surprised me is all. I didn't hear you coming, man." His head shook and tears ran down his cheeks.

  "I didn't have nothin' to do with it. I just seen it is all. I knew you'd find out sooner or later. Man, I was getting out right now. I wasn't never comin' back. Oh man, am I arrested?"

  Arrested? What in hell was he babbling about? I still hadn't gotten my mouth open when he started again.

  "Jello will kill me for sure. Oh god, I knew he'd find out. Don't let him get to me, man."

  Jello? I got serious.

  Here I was trespassing on the other guy's turf and plainly scaring him witless. I should probably have muttered something and gotten out while the hophead was still blubbering. Jello's name, as they say, piqued my interest.

  I slapped on my old army face, looking grim and serious. I spoke military clear, as cold as marble, and said, "I am Sergeant Perry. You are under arrest."

  The guy wilted like lettuce in hot grease. From a thousand TV programs, I could recall most of Miranda, but I changed it for the occasion. The old Perry brains were finally getting into gear.

  "You have a right to remain silent, but anything you say to aid the arresting officer will help you in a court of law.

  "Do you understand your rights?" He did.

  Smooth Gene, but now what? He waited for me.

  I looked him over more calmly. He sweat heavily, and his eyes were still vacant. Probably he was on something unmentionable. Was that why he was so sure he was caught? Paranoia?

  I chose to begin as a hard cop. "OK, your driver's license—get it out."

  He fumbled out a leather wallet the size of a book, chain looped to his belt. He dropped a few papers and cards before he found the license. I snuck a look while he policed up his droppings.

  The card said he was Kenneth D. Bunds. His address was in Mechanicsburg. I kept the license and again shoved him against the junk.

  I faked it. "All right, Bunds, we know most of it. You fill in, and I'll remember it in court."

  I tried to ignore my embarrassment. I sounded like a 1960's television program.

  Bunds, it appeared, wished to unburden. He talked and I strained to discover what we were discussing.

  The biker said, "I was smoking a joint, out in the old office where I wouldn't have to share it. I seen what happened through a hole where the dry wall was busted through.

  "I swear, Jello looked right at me more'n once, but there weren't no harm, till they...." Bund's throat worked and he avoided words. "Then I got scared and slid out of sight. I didn't dare move for fear Jello or the other guy'd remember I was there."

  "I didn't dare come out at all. I stayed hid while everybody rode out. I was riding behind a guy so I didn't have a bike standin' out front. My old machine always needs fixing." He waved vaguely at the motorcycle on its kickstand.

  "So?" I hoped I looked fierce.

  "So, Jello and the guy I didn't know, 'cause he ain't ever been back, buried her. I watched and snuck out after they were gone."

  My skin crawled, the hair on my neck bristled, and I began to sweat. What horror had I walked into here? I was suddenly afraid, scared the way you get at night in a graveyard. I tried not to show my emotions and bluffed for time.

  "You only watched?"

  "Honest to God, Officer, I wasn't in on it. It was Jello and the other guy. Jello held her and he laid on her too long. Squeezed her air out, I figured. She was dead, so they buried her. That's what I saw, honest to God."

  I tasted bile, and I think my own eyes got a little out of focus. I wracked my brains trying to figure what to say next. One thing was most obvious, so I went for it.

  This time I chose friendly cop.

  "Look, Ken," I came on as Sergeant Reasonable, "we aren't after you. It's them we want. We know they did it. All we want from you is where she is buried."

  Bund's story sounded as though a murdered girl was buried here in the yard somewhere. He claimed to have watched, so the grave had to be close. But, if it wasn't in the yard, I might never get anyone to look long enough to find it. If Bund told me where, I had all I needed.

  I watched Bund's eyes. Did they flicker too often toward a junk pile behind my elbow? Maybe. I became conciliatory.

  "Ken, we can work together on this. You save us a lot of digging, and we go to bat for you with the D.A.

  "Hell, Ken, you know how it is. We can call you an accessory to murder after the fact, or we can consider you a cooperative witness. One way you go to the Pen, along with Jello Gorse. The other, you go free with good feelings all around."

  Then I turned hard. "I'm calling the rest in Bunds. They won't give you a choice. Show me the grave right now, or I'm through dealing."

  Bunds' finger pointed at the junk he had snuck a look at. If I hadn't been so keyed up, I would have saluted my performance.

  "Where, Bunds? I don't see anything."

  "See the low spot, where the ground's fallen in? Right under all the oil. Every time Jello changes oil he dumps it there." Bunds looked cunning. "I knew why he did it. He figured nobody would dig around in such a mess."

  I saw the dip in the ground. I believed it.

  I had Jello Gorse, and I had him cold. All I had to do now was get out of here.

  I looked at Kenneth D. Bunds. I looked long, as though thinking deeply. When the man began to squirm, I nodded, as though accepting my own idea.

  Again I was Officer Considerate.

  "OK, Ken, here's what will happen. Right now, you'll go home. I've got your name and address. Don't go taking off and you'll be all right. When we want you, we'll call and you can come in.

  "Here is your license. You won't be arrested, unless you tip off Gorse. You will be a material witness, which means we will see that you are protected."

  Bunds' head was bobbing furious acknowledgement.

  I jabbed a thumb at his bike. "This yours?" It was.

  "I'll hold the gate. You ride out, and don't come back. You'll know when we take Gorse. It'll be in all the papers. Stay away from him, keep your mouth shut, and you'll be all right."

  As Sergeant Perry I watched Kenneth D. Bunds ride away. Then I hiked o
ut of there as fast as I could without attracting attention.

  I wished I had thought to use a different name, but Bunds was so spaced out he probably wouldn't remember anyway.

  I shivered as I drove past the clubhouse. Horror had settled like a pall over the old service station.

  Hadn't Lori mentioned a Duncannon girl taking off with bikers? I wondered if she was the one buried under the junk pile.

  +++

  Chapter 11

  The night was long. My mind raced, powered by the horrid knowledge of murder. Not a distant, TV-heard-about killing, but murder right here in Perry County.

  I had gone to the Bikers' Club hoping for something, and I had found it. Oh man, had I found it. Jello Gorse was going down the tube, and I would be the shipper.

  I was uncertain of the best approach to the police. If I went to the substation and reported what I knew, I would become directly involved. Would Jello be granted bail? Would he hunt for me? Would his biker buddies do the job for him? Such speculations were not sleep inducing.

  I thrashed my bedding into a heap, dozed only to start awake, to again speculate interminably.

  The best scheme appeared to be an anonymous phone call, from a distant booth, disguising my voice. If no action were taken, I could call again and again, until Gorse was arrested.

  I finally slept, planning a short but clear telephone conversation that would convince the first time.

  I woke too early. Lost sleep left me groggy, with a sandy tongue. I washed, shaved, and milled about, somehow hesitant to get on with it.

  Why, I couldn't imagine. I had to report the crime, and I wanted to. Perhaps the reluctance was only a normal disquiet experienced by most about to confront authority.

  It was Friday. Better to report now than have it all come down on a weekend, when clerks and officers were absent or already committed.

  The day was bright and clear. Perfect weather for socking it to Jello Gorse.

  I piled into the Datsun and listened to the old engine's underpowered whine, well, within a few days I would pull Big Blue out of mothballs and ride high, where a man could see, with muscle enough under the hood to move like a road warrior should.

  The anticipation raised my spirits—until realization flooded through. It happens often that way. Quit worrying a problem and an answer surfaces.

  I was slow, distracted, and discontent because I still wanted to personally whip Jello Gorse until he caved in.

  Astonishing! Could I, even in secret, believe I could ever do that? No, but hope could linger powerfully.

  To hell with it. I would forego the sweetness of that revenge. Let the law drive the stake through the monster's heart. I could settle for providing the stake.

  I had just passed Doyle's lane when Jello Gorse cruised by on his big bike. For an instant I quit breathing. As unbelievable as it seemed, Kenneth D. Bunds had squealed, and Jello had come to get me.

  My mind cleared, and I knew that couldn't be. If Bunds had been crazy enough to confess to Jello, he still could not know who Sergeant Perry had been.

  I got my foot off the accelerator and let the Datsun slow. In my side mirror I saw Jello pass my lane and continue toward the dead end. Only Spider Seeber lived down there.

  Holy Hannah! There had been something to that tickle of intuition I experienced each time I had seen Seeber and Gorse together. They had something going after all. I wondered if they would come out together, and where they would go then. I backed off the road and cut the engine. Another idea was jolting my thoughts, and I wanted to work it around a little.

  The paranoid Kenneth D. Bunds had repeatedly referred to a biker that had been with Jello when the girl was killed and buried. Spider Seeber used to ride a motorcycle. I had been so overwhelmed by the idea of having the goods on Gorse that I had not pursued the identity of the other guy. Some investigator I had been. What I had ignored then, now loomed important.

  Another fact tied in. Spider had disappeared for about a year. He had not only given up biking, but I had never seen Spider near the Bikers' Club. Yet, he met clandestinely with Gorse, and now, here was Jello calling at Seeber's house. Verrrry Interestinnnggg.

  I had barely organized those thoughts when a Chevy van appeared from Spider's direction. I leaned a hand casually across my face and pretended to be looking the other way.

  The effort was wasted. Jello was driving. His eyes did not flicker my way.

  It was the first time I had seen Jello in an automobile. Gorse's huge body filled the cab, forcing him to hunch a little to see through the windshield.

  My hand had gone to the shift lever when Spider's truck popped into view. This time I wished I had hidden my car a little more thoroughly, but Seeber too seemed intent on where he was going.

  I had no choice but to follow Spider's pickup, if I passed, Seeber might give it thought. Right now I did not want either Spider or Jello to be aware of Gene Perry.

  Spider loafed along, apparently in no hurry. By the time we reached the highway, Jello's van was long gone. I could not know which way he had turned. Spider headed west, so I reluctantly went along. I was only half-heartedly interested in what Spider Seeber was doing, but my interest in Jello Gorse was intense.

  Perhaps the two villains would meet. I imagined some sort of drug pickup. Perhaps Gorse was delivering. I hadn't seen inside the van. Whose van was it? Seeber's most likely, although it had not been around during my scouting. If I could get enough idea of what they were up to, I might have another crime to hang them with.

  It had occurred to me that my evidence of Jello's guilt in the girl's death was thin. If the body lay under the junk, and I believed it did, who put it there would be Jello's word against Kenneth D. Bunds'. Gorse could just throw up his hands and say, "Who me? I don't know anything." Who would be believed, Jello or Bunds?

  It was the same with Spider Seeber, if he was the other guy. If they both pleaded innocent, which they surely would, it became them against dopehead Bunds. A weak case at best. Bunds knew where the body lay. Bunds might do the time, while Gorse and Seeber went away laughing.

  Traffic was light, and I had to stay well back. I closed up fast when Spider took the Newport exit. I needed to know whether he turned toward Newport or Liverpool.

  Spider went into Newport and turned right on Fourth Street. He made a second right into the IGA parking lot and wandered into the restaurant.

  I didn't want to be seen, so I pulled in as far across the lot as I could get. I made a quick dash into the IGA for a snack and a People magazine. Then I settled down to wait.

  Of course doubts interfered with my reading. Maybe nothing evil was going on. Gorse could simply have borrowed a friend's van. Was it only coincidence that both men had taken a day off work? To get a long weekend, a lot of people took Friday off.

  Common sense kept me suspicious. If I had not known about the dead girl, I might have ignored the meeting, but there were too many coincidences. These guys had to be up to something rotten.

  My expectation was that Gorse and the van would soon appear. Gorse would go inside or Spider would come out. Perhaps I could manage a look inside the van. Hell, maybe Jello just borrowed the van to haul his cycle. It might even be Jello's van. It could all be as innocent as church. I hadn't registered a dozen words from my magazine.

  Spider took a long time. It was eleven thirty before he reappeared, sucking on a toothpick and having a few last words with an acquaintance. Jello had not shown up.

  Seeber motored more swiftly back through town. He crossed the bridge and parked on the wrong side of the uphill, where car poolers left their vehicles. I had no good choices. I swung right onto old 22 and parked at the far end of the gas station's lot.

  I couldn't even see Seeber's truck from there. Reluctantly I backed around until I got it in view. To my astonishment, Spider was out of his vehicle and was scrambling up the steep side of the cut. He carried an armload, and I snatched my binoculars to get a closer look.

  Spider was lugging
what looked like a large hand-held radio. From his neck dangled a binocular case. I could feel myself tensing. Exciting things were about to happen. Had to be. No one climbed to Spider's overlook just for the view.

  It would be a decent lookout if you wanted to see down the river or across into Newport. You couldn't see much along old Route 22 and only to the top of the hill toward the new highway.

  Spider's position was peculiar for any purpose I could determine, but there he was.

  The radio? For talking or for listening, I wondered. Perhaps Spider had contact with Jello. I tried to remember if the van had displayed a large antenna.

  Spider edged from my view, and I relaxed a little. Time would tell, and I didn't want him training his binoculars on me or my Datsun.

  +++

  A few minutes after the noon siren, a state police car came sirening and flashing from the substation and powered across the bridge. Before his sound faded beyond Newport, a second prowl car tore through on the same course. Big accident over by Bloomfield, probably. Again things quieted, with no sign of Spider Seeber.

  I passed the time reading, occasionally glancing up to see if Seeber had reappeared. I was grateful the weather had cooled. The wait would have been vile during hot weather.

  Before twelve-thirty a motorcyclist blasted from up the river, down the old road. He did not even slow for the stop sign at the very dangerous intersection. If anything had been coming he wouldn't have had a chance.

  The machine went by me like a shot. The black clad figure hunched over the handlebars was unrecognizable, as was the equally black, road-equipped trail bike. I never understood why a rider would choose such an ugly, overpowered machine. Off road bikes gave a terrible ride. They were about as comfortable as straddling a trotting horse without a saddle.

  I was still thinking about it when another biker gunned out of Newport. The bridge decking is tricky because the open mesh, steel grid catches a motorcycle's narrow tires and can upset balance. The rider ignored the danger and shot across the bridge. He broad slid the corner and cannoned downriver as hard as his bike would go.