A Mammoth Murder

by Bill Crider

  “I thought you two would have solved the crime for me by now,” Rhodes told Claudia. “Surely you must have some theories about what happened.”

  “We’d like to think it was a Bigfoot. He killed Larry Colley because Colley was invading his territory. Then he killed Ms. Kennedy.”

  “Why would he kill her?”

  “We’re working on that,” Claudia said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Let me give you a crime-solving tip,” Rhodes said. “You know you’re in trouble when your best theory pins the murders on Bigfoot.”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  Rhodes had to admit that he didn’t. He was saved from elaborating by Jan, who came back to the Aviator and said that she had enough pictures. So they left the store to go to the site of the mammoth dig.

  They went to the site from the correct side of the bridge, so they didn’t have to cross Pittman Creek. Tom Vance was the only one there. Rhodes assumed that no one else had signed Bolton’s waiver yet. Vance was working on the canopy he was going to put over the dig to protect everyone from the August sun.

  He didn’t seem to mind talking to Claudia and Jan about what he was planning, so Rhodes decided to leave them there to get some background material while he looked at the camp house.

  “Have you had any trouble with feral hogs?” Rhodes asked Vance as he was getting into his car.

  “Feral hogs?” Jan said. “What feral hogs? Nobody said anything about feral hogs.”

  “You can tell them about the hogs,” Rhodes said to Vance, and then he drove away, smiling.

  Rhodes hadn’t wanted Claudia and Jan with him while he evicted the campers on Bolton’s land. You never knew when someone might get a little rowdy, and Rhodes didn’t want any civilians getting hurt unless they deserved it. He was pretty sure that Jan and Claudia didn’t deserve it, but he wasn’t so certain about the campers.

  Rhodes was glad to see that there were only a couple of tents near the woods. He’d been afraid that there might be more. They were close together, so he figured he could save time and give his little speech only once.

  When he stopped the county car, the first thing he saw was Bud Turley’s Jeep. Bud was standing not far away.

  “I can’t believe this,” Rhodes said as soon as he got out of the car. “You know better than to have people camping out here, Bud. This is Gerald Bolton’s land. And a crime scene.”

  “I tried to tell them that,” Bud said. “They wouldn’t listen.”

  Rhodes looked around, but he didn’t see anyone else. “Who’s this they you’re talking about? And how did they find out about all this in the first place?”

  “I told them,” Bud said. “You can’t keep it a secret when there’s a Bigfoot sighting.”

  “There hasn’t been any sighting,” Rhodes said.

  “I talked to Chester Johnson. He says he saw something.”

  “He didn’t see anything. He was just spooked by finding Colley.”

  “That’s your version,” Bud said. “Chester’s pretty sure he saw and heard something. It could have been Bigfoot.”

  “So you called every Bigfoot hunter in the state to let them know.”

  “No, I just put a notice about the sighting on the Internet.”

  “Even worse,” Rhodes said. “Well, we can’t do anything about it now. You’re just going to have to get your friends out of here, and you need to tell the rest of them holed up at the Western Inn that this is private property. It’s also a crime scene, and it’s off-limits to Bigfoot hunters.”

  “You’re letting Vance dig up bones.”

  “That’s different. He’s not in the woods, and he’s not causing a nuisance. And he has permission from the landowner, which you don’t. The people who own these tents are trespassing. Now where are they?”

  Turley took off his welder’s cap and wiped the top of his shiny head. He put the cap back on and said, “They’re in the woods.”

  “You shouldn’t have let them go in there,” Rhodes said. “It’s dangerous, and you know it.”

  For some reason Turley looked startled. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, then opened it again. “How could it be dangerous? You claim there’s no Bigfoot in there, so they don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I said there was no Bigfoot, but I didn’t say there weren’t any hogs.”

  Turley laughed. “They’re not afraid of hogs. They have their rifles.”

  “Yes,” Rhodes said. “And your friends with rifles are more dangerous than the hogs are. A lot more dangerous than Bigfoot, too.”

  Turley opened his eyes wide, as if that idea had never occurred to him. “They … uh, they’ll be careful.”

  “Sure they will,” Rhodes said.

  He could see only one vehicle besides the county car and Turley’s Jeep. A big Dodge Ram pickup, black and dusty, was parked behind one of the tents.

  “How many hunters are here?” Rhodes asked.

  Turley still looked a little upset. He said, “Just two. There might be some more later.”

  “There won’t be any more,” Rhodes said. “I’m going to have a look at the camp house where Colley was supposed to have been working. I shouldn’t be gone more than half an hour. When I come back, I want these tents gone, and I don’t want to catch you or any of your Bigfoot-hunting friends here again. If I do, you’ll get to spend a while in the friendly confines of the county jail.”

  Turley’s face reddened. “You don’t mean that.”

  Turley was wearing his concealed-carry vest, and Rhodes could see that there was a pistol in one of the inside pockets.

  “I do mean it,” Rhodes said. He hoped Turley wouldn’t do anything stupid, like reach for the pistol. “And you’d better believe it. So go find your friends and get these tents down. Half an hour.”

  “I … I can’t go in there.”

  “You can, and you will,” Rhodes said.

  He didn’t bother to listen to Turley’s response. He just got in the car and left.

  Glancing at the rearview mirror, he saw Turley standing there, watching the car, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  As Rhodes remembered it, Bolton’s camp house was a little more elaborate than the words implied. Staying there wouldn’t be at all like camping out in one of the tents that Turley’s friends had set up. Though the house had only one big room, there was a sleeping loft with real beds, and it was furnished with a couch and comfortable chairs.

  Bolton had arranged to have electricity run to the camp house, and Rhodes didn’t even want to ask what it had cost him to do that. An air conditioner stuck out of a side window. Rhodes seemed to recall that there was a TV set inside, and even a chemical toilet in a little area that had been walled off from the main room. There was also a small refrigerator.

  Bolton had paid to have a well dug in the back of the house, so there was water for washing dishes in the little kitchen area on one side of the room. You could even drink the water in a pinch, but it wasn’t recommended.

  All the comforts of home, Rhodes thought, but the place had been allowed to run down after the family reunion and the disappearance of Ronnie Bolton.

  There was a fence around the house, leaving a yard all around, but it was overgrown with weeds. Rhodes parked near the gate and got out. He could see some cattle grazing about a hundred yards away, but they didn’t appear to have any interest in him.

  The house was shaded by oaks and elms. Rhodes pushed open the gate and walked to the house through the weeds and the rotten branches that had fallen from the trees.

  He stood for a minute on a concrete porch that was level with the ground. A couple of rusted metal lawn chairs sat beside the front door. Rhodes could see some signs that Colley, or someone, had been at work on the house. A couple of boards had been replaced near the front window, and the entire door facing was new and unpainted. Rhodes could smell sawdust and wood. The screen door was also new, shiny and unrusted.


  The house wasn’t locked, so Rhodes went inside. The air conditioner wasn’t on, and the air was stale and hot. A ceiling fan hung down in the middle of the room, with a cord danging from it. Rhodes pulled the cord and the fan came on, stirring the hot air around.

  Rhodes didn’t know what he expected to find in the house, but whatever it was, it wasn’t there. The only jarring note was the power saw that sat in the middle of the floor by a toolbox. Then again, even if they didn’t belong in a living room, the saw and toolbox were just part of the equipment Colley had used for his repair work.

  There was an unemptied trash can under the sink, but that was no surprise, either. Rhodes already knew about Colley’s poor housekeeping. Colley had brought his lunch with him, and Rhodes saw plenty of fast-food wrappings in the trash.

  The exposed rafters under the high ceiling were lined with mounted deer antlers. For years there had been deer in Big Woods, and there still were, but not nearly as many as in times past. The hogs were seeing to that. They ate the fawns and chased the grown deer away.

  Baseball caps hung from quite a few of the horns, as if someone had thrown them there and left them. The antlers and the caps reminded Rhodes of the skunks in Bolton’s house: another meaningless accumulation, unless you were the owner.

  Rhodes climbed the ladder that led to the low-ceilinged sleeping loft. It wasn’t an easy climb, as the ladder went straight up from the floor, so he didn’t go all the way. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to stand up. He would have had to search the loft in a crouch.

  When his head was high enough to see above the floor of the loft, he noted that there was nothing there except four beds and one old chair. He climbed back down, looked around the big room one more time, then went outside.

  It was hot, but the porch was in the shade and there was a light breeze, so Rhodes sat down in one of the rusty lawn chairs to think things over. He had that same feeling that he’d missed something, that something he’d seen inside the house had a connection to the murders. Maybe if he sat there and thought about it, it would come to him.

  He’d been in the chair for less than a minute when he heard rifle shots.

  14

  RHODES BRAKED THE CAR TO A FAST STOP NEAR THE TENTS AND jumped out. The dust cloud that had trailed behind him from the camp house rolled over him and past him as he looked for Bud Turley.

  Turley wasn’t there, which meant that he was in the woods, which was where the gunshots had come from. Rhodes ran down the path and into the trees.

  He hadn’t heard any more shots, but that didn’t mean there had been none. Closed up in the car and bouncing along two dry ruts with weeds slapping at the car’s sides, he might not have been able to hear them.

  Before Rhodes had gone twenty yards into the trees, he saw Bud Turley coming toward him at a lope. Rhodes moved off the trail and waited for him.

  Turley didn’t stop. His eyes were wild, and he hardly even glanced in Rhodes’s direction. Rhodes called his name, but Turley ignored him. So Rhodes turned and followed him out of the woods. Since there didn’t appear to be anyone, or anything, chasing Turley, Rhodes took his time.

  When Turley reached his Jeep, he leaned against it breathing hard. By the time Rhodes got there, Turley’s breathing was still ragged, and his eyes were still wild.

  “What happened?” Rhodes said.

  “I don’t know,” Turley said. He took off his cap and wiped his head. His hands were shaking. “I didn’t want to go in those woods, but you made me. I was looking for the fellas you told me to find, and somebody started shooting at me.”

  “There’s nobody else in there except your friends,” Rhodes said.

  “If they were my friends when they got here, they’re not now, not if they’re shooting at me.”

  “I told you your friends would be dangerous with those rifles. You get people stirred up about Bigfoot, they’re likely to shoot anything that moves.”

  “You’re the one that sent me in there.” Turley took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You must have wanted me to get shot.”

  “If I’d wanted you shot,” Rhodes said, “I could have done it myself. Your friends should be more careful.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t them. Why don’t you go and have a look for yourself. You’re the sheriff. It’s your job to investigate when somebody gets shot at.”

  Rhodes hated to admit it, but Turley actually had a point. It was indeed a part of the county sheriff’s job to make sure that idiots didn’t kill each other by accident. However, now that Turley was back at the tents, he was out of danger, a fact that Rhodes pointed out to him.

  “That doesn’t make a damn bit of difference, and you know it,” Turley said. “They shot at me!”

  His voice shook with anger. He was more disturbed than Rhodes had first thought.

  “And it’s your fault,” Turley said.

  “Don’t blame me,” Rhodes told him. “And don’t say it’s my fault. It’s the fault of your buddies, the idiots with the rifles. Now how are we going to get them out of there?”

  Rhodes could see that while Turley didn’t object to the word “idiots,” he did object to the “we.”

  “That’s your problem,” Turley said. “It’s not my job.”

  “You’re the one who brought them here,” Rhodes said. “You have a responsibility.”

  Turley didn’t reply. He just stood by his Jeep and looked at Rhodes.

  Rhodes looked back.

  After a while Turley said, “I can’t go back in there. I just can’t. I don’t want to get shot.”

  Rhodes couldn’t say that he blamed him.

  “At least you can see the problem,” Rhodes said. “You can see why those two, not to mention all those other Bigfoot hunters who’ve checked into the Western Inn, need to get out of town and let things settle down here. If they don’t, someone’s going to get hurt.”

  “They won’t like that idea. They think Bigfoot’s in these woods, and that he killed Larry. They want to find him. Some of them have been waiting for years to get a chance like this.”

  “That’s too bad,” Rhodes said. “Because you’re going to have to convince them that they’re wrong about Bigfoot and about this being a chance to find him. I’ll get those two out of the woods, but you’ll have to do the rest.”

  Turley shook his head as if he didn’t believe Rhodes could do it. “How are you going to get them out?”

  “Like this,” Rhodes said.

  He walked over to the Jeep and started to honk the horn. He kept on honking until he was sure the men in the woods must have heard it.

  His only mistake was forgetting what generally happened when cattle heard a horn honking. Often a rancher would honk to call the herd when he wanted to feed them, so when Bolton’s cattle heard the Jeep’s horn, they responded by starting toward the sound. Before Rhodes had stopped honking, the entire herd that Rhodes had seen near the camp house had come into sight, all of them ambling in the direction of the Jeep. Rhodes didn’t mind the cattle, but they might cause some problems if they stepped on the tents.

  On second thought, he didn’t care what happened to the tents. He honked the horn a few more times.

  “Maybe they don’t hear it,” Turley said. “They’re pretty deep in the woods.”

  “If the cows can hear it, your buddies can hear it,” Rhodes said, honking the horn again.

  As slow as the cattle were, they arrived at the Jeep before Turley’s friends. They surrounded the tents and the vehicles, nosing around, looking for food, mooing when they didn’t find it.

  “I hope they don’t go in the woods,” Rhodes said. “Your friends might shoot them.”

  Turley didn’t respond. He stayed close to his Jeep and tried to keep the cows from licking the sides. They weren’t going to do any damage to the front of the Jeep or the headlights, thanks to a heavy-duty brush guard that was protecting them.

  Finally Rhodes saw two men coming along the path in the woods. They were both car
rying rifles, and as they walked along one or the other of them would look over his shoulder back down the path.

  When they came out of the trees, they walked over to Turley, who introduced Rhodes as the sheriff.

  “This here’s Charlie and Jeff,” Turley said.

  The two men nodded to Rhodes. Both wore faded jeans and T-shirts. Jeff’s shirt was emblazoned with a picture of Dale Earnhardt Jr. and the number 8, while Jeff Gordon was smiling from the front of Charlie’s shirt. Both Jeff and Charlie wore NASCAR pit caps. Jeff’s was a red and white Earnhardt that sported the Budweiser logo. Charlie’s was purple and gray. It had the number 24 on it, and it advertised DuPont Motorsports. Neither man said anything to Rhodes, and they didn’t offer to shake hands.

  “The sheriff says we gotta leave here right now,” Turley told them. “He says we’re trespassing on private property and you’ll have to take down the tents and leave.”

  The men stared at Rhodes with silent disdain from under the bills of their NASCAR caps. They looked so much alike that he thought they must be brothers, with their pointed, unshaven chins and their lank hair hanging out from under their baseball caps. The bills of the caps were pulled low so that Rhodes could hardly see their eyes. He didn’t like that.

  “We can’t leave,” one of the men said. His jaws worked in a rhythmical movement as he chewed what Rhodes supposed was tobacco. “There’s a Bigfoot in there, for sure. We spotted him a while ago. Ain’t that right, Jeff.”

  “Sure is,” Jeff said. “We took a couple of shots at him. We’d a-got him if he hadn’t been able to run so fast. That sucker can really move. No wonder nobody’s ever got a picture of him.”