Tuna salad on wheat toast. She stared at where it lay on the counter. The boring little sandwich could be her last meal. She must have eaten thousands of them over the years. Of all the foods in the world, this was not what she would want for a last meal. Her stomach growled like an angry animal beneath her robe. She took the sandwich and ate it as she walked back to the bedroom.
She checked the phone at least a dozen times during the afternoon, making sure there was a dial tone. She slammed it down each time swearing to wring Jimmy's neck. In the end, she decided Jimmy didn’t have the smarts, or the guts, to double-cross her. He was probably just too inconsiderate to think she might be waiting for him to call. Typical male, he was probably waiting for his flight back. He would land and return to her like a dumb, yet loyal dog.
The phone rang twice that evening. Both times she answered it quickly anticipating Jimmy’s voice. The first was a wrong number. The second, a telemarketer that got an earful of Sarah’s rage intended for Jimmy.
For dinner, she made spaghetti and garlic bread. Sitting alone at the dining room table she watched through the window as the sun settled low in the western sky. All her hopes faded with the daylight. She began considering the possibility of Jimmy’s arrest. Whether in California for fraud or if he was caught trying to get rid of Mike’s body, Sarah would not know unless Jimmy called her from jail. Knowing a call like that would tie her to him; she hoped he wouldn’t reach out to her for help.
She turned on the local news and watched for a story of a man being caught with a body in his trunk. She wondered if a Hollywood fraud story would make the national news, or if the hometown tie of Jimmy would make it of local interest. She scanned the channels looking for news she didn’t want to see. What she saw was far from what she expected.
The film they ran of the crash site was horrific. Small fires covered the countryside for a half-mile. ‘No survivors’ was printed in capital letters across the bottom of the screen. She did not know what flight Jimmy had taken. She knew without confirmation this was the one. Poor Mike didn’t have a chance. If he had left her home alive last night he would have been part of the news now. Instead, Jimmy was the news. And only she knew it.
“Good-bye Jimmy,” she said to the television.
A profound sadness filled her over the loss of a man she knew little about, beyond his sexual likes and dislikes. The greater loss was knowing that there was no way to get the Hollywood contract signed and a check delivered without Allan knowing. They would be notified that Mike wouldn’t be coming and it could take months to sort out a new meeting. Yet, with the loss of Mike, and now Jimmy, Sarah felt an emptiness she would not have expected.
On the bright side, Mike would no longer be considered missing. As far as everyone was concerned, Mike Bishop was a passenger on that plane. There would be no missing person’s report, no one searching for the agent. Her worries about murder charges were now behind her. You can’t be a part of a murder if the victim died in a plane crash. No victim. No murder. Everything would be fine. That is, as long as Jimmy did a good job hiding the body.
Chapter 7
(The Body)
The crumpled body of Mike Bishop lay in the dirt along the short drive leading up to an abandoned factory. Obscured by the overgrowth of weeds, none of the passing drivers on the old highway had any idea of secret hidden there. The night was cool and cloudless. The only disturbance in the night was the occasional flash of headlights and moan of an engine.
Morning brought the promise of warmth. A slight breeze rustled the leaves in the trees above letting broken beams of light find the corpse.
Small armies of bugs and insects staked their claims and eagerly explored their find. Even as these tiny creatures, which Mike feared in life, settled in, small mammals began to take notice, inching ever nearer to sample Mike’s extremities. None of them were of significant size and scattered with the passing of every car roaring past on the highway. Some of the animals fought over small pieces of flesh as the sun made its slow trek across the sky.
A buzzard swept in and landed on the large motionless chest. It marched about declaring ownership. Before it could partake of its prize, a mangy dog raced up barking, scaring the bird away. The dog sniffed thoughtfully around Mike’s slack face and licked his cheek. Getting no response, man’s best friend moved down the length of the body until it reached the bare feet. The dog sniffed. Taking a pant leg in its mouth the animal began tugging and shaking in frantic spurts. This continued for a long time before giving up on whatever it hoped to accomplish. Before leaving, the dog unceremoniously raised a leg to the body.
The shadows grew long and only the bugs remained, crawling about looking for places to settle and hide from the oncoming cold of night. The sky darkened, first with clouds followed by night fall. The night sky was too dark to determine shapes and nothing challenged the darkness. No street lamps lined the road this far from the main city. A snake coiled its way around the calf before making its way up to the jacket. Its slender body disappeared into the pocket of the garment and settled there.
The next morning, the clouds broke and the sun showed itself again. The day threatened to be warmer than the one before. Traffic was light and no one even so much as slowed down for the nearly hidden road. About a half-mile away, two men rode bicycles at breakneck speeds passing each other every chance they got.
The larger of the two, with thick muscular legs, motioned to his friend to slow. He braked as well and moved to the edge of the two-lane highway. He came to the dirt road leading to the abandoned factory stopping far enough from the road not to be struck by an inattentive driver.
“Need to take a leak,” the man said to his friend who was looking to him for an explanation. He wrestled the helmet from his head and looped the chinstrap around the handlebar. With a practiced motion, he had the kickstand in place in an instant and dismounted the bike. He pointed the way he intended to go and left his friend with a half wave.
He dropped his shorts and prepared himself. The relief was fast and he could feel the muscles in his lower torso relax. He laughed at himself for waiting as long as he had. But a race was a race and it had been a good one. As he pulled his shorts back into place and worked to tuck his shirt into the waistband, he sidestepped and turned in an almost comical spin he was glad no one witnessed. Chuckling at himself, his eyes fell to the leg partially blocked by low bushes.
“Hello?” he said. “Anyone there?”
It was a stupid question. Of course someone was there. He could see the man’s leg, his bare foot. What he wanted to know was whether the owner of the leg was dangerous. He wanted to know what the man was doing this far south of town sleeping in the bushes. He considered returning to his bicycle and riding back to town without another word. He knew he couldn’t. Part of him would always wonder.
“Mister?” he said, stepping forward with soft cautious steps. Moving in an arch, he tried to close the gap between them without actually getting any closer. “You okay? You need a doctor or something?”
Coming up even with the gate, he could see where the man lay in the dirt behind and partially under the bushes. He could see the torn clothes and the dusty skin. He could see the face, looking up at the trees and clouds. And he could smell the rotting flesh. His stomach churned and he lost his breakfast against the chain-link of the gate. He turned away from the corpse and stumbled back down the road to the highway. His cell phone was in a pouch on his bike. He hoped there would be a signal where they were.
Chapter 8
(Det. Dave Parker)
Detective David Parker glared at his ringing phone and sipped from his coffee. Sitting in the booth of a fast food establishment with a half-eaten breakfast sandwich laid out on its wrapper in front of him, the unanswered ringing drew the stares of other customers. Never one to give in to peer pressure, he did not answer the phone because of the looks he was receiving. He answered because of the name that appeared on the caller id. Dispatch only called at seven o’cl
ock in the morning for one reason. Someone was dead.
“Parker,” he answered.
“We’ve got a body on Old Highway five, south of the airport,” the disembodied voice announced. The voice was what might be expected from a newscaster or movie star. Deep and smooth, the voice could draw you in, comfort you. No one hearing the voice for the first time would ever suspect the man charming them on the phone was short, pudgy and bald.
“Isn’t that county jurisdiction?” Dave asked.
“Yes, it is,” the voice answered.
“So they suspect foul play?” Dave asked.
“I’m calling you, aren’t I?” the man said.
“Where’s Philip?” Dave asked.
“I haven’t called Detective Smalls,” the dispatcher said. “He’s next on my list.”
“Tell him I’ll pick him up on the way,” Dave said. The dispatcher grunted and Dave disconnected the call. He stared at the blank screen of the television on the wall above his booth. He wondered how many other people, like him, lived their lives always on the go. He wondered if the victim had lived life that way. Now they lay dead on the roadside south of town. Dave thought aloud, “Coming or going?”
Each body told a story and it was Dave’s job, along with his partner, to determine what that story was and how it came to an end. He was good at it, listening to the stories of the dead. Not that they literally spoke to him. He left that to psychics and psychos. His talent was reading the evidence and uncovering the truth.
Dave pulled up to the curb in front of Philip’s building, an old warehouse converted into apartments. He had expected his partner to be standing there, waiting for him. He looked up at the third-floor windows that he knew lined one wall of Philip’s living room. There was no sign of the man. With a heavy sigh, Dave put the car in park and killed the engine. A moment later he was knocking on his partner’s door.
The door opened to reveal a muscular man in his thirties with no shirt. Dave envied the man’s muscle tone. He looked at Dave and said, “That was fast.”
“Twenty minutes is not fast,” Dave scoffed. “And at this hour you should be up and ready to go. I’ve been up for a couple of hours now.”
“I just finished a ten-mile run,” Philip said. “Thought I would do you the favor of taking a shower.”
Dave looked Philip in the eyes. “Yea, that’s probably a good idea. Just get some clothes on and let’s go.”
Philip retreated to his bedroom and Dave walked around the apartment. He had been there once before, shortly after the younger detective moved in. Formerly a clothing factory, it was spacious with bare concrete floors, brick walls and industrial high ceilings revealing all the plumbing, electrical wiring and air ducts most apartment buildings kept hidden behind sheets of drywall. The east windows had no coverings and Dave stood in front of them a moment admiring the view of the river and city skyline beyond. The west window had blinds installed that were closed. Dave assumed they were closed to block the evening sun. He separated the blinds and peaked through to his car below. Across the street stood a shoe factory complete with a row of defunct semi-tractor trailers. A truck was leaving the factory loading docks. As it pulled onto the road, Dave could hear the rumble of the diesel engines. He felt the floors vibrate beneath his feet.
“I don’t know how you live here,” Dave called to the bedroom door.
“I love this place,” Philip said, stepping back into the living room fully dressed. “Couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“No desire to live in a real house?” Dave asked. “You know. With a yard and fence?”
“And yard work?” Philip said. “I’ll pass. I have my exercise equipment, my big screen TV, surround sound; what more could I want?”
“A wife and family,” Dave said. “You really think you’ll ever get a woman, living here?”
“I get women,” Philip said.
“Hookers and chicks you pick up in bars don’t count,” Dave said. “I mean a real woman. Someone you could develop a relationship with.”
“That’s not what I’m looking for,” Philip said. “That’s your speed. Not that it did you any good.”
Dave shot his partner a look.
“Sorry,” Philip said. “I shouldn’t have said that. But seriously, Sheila has been gone for two years. When are you going to get back out there, find someone new?”
“Can we get to the scene before the grass grows over the body?” Dave changed the subject.
“What’ve we got?” Philip asked, knowing not to push. “Dispatch said you were coming to pick me up and hung up.”
“Body south of the airport,” Dave said. “That’s all I know. I just hope it hasn’t been there long. I really don’t need a mess like that today.”
They saw the flashing lights from two miles away and just followed the highway to their source. Dave flashed a badge at a uniformed officer as he ducked under the police line. They were directed up the dirt road leading into the trees. They walked the short distance to the chain-link gate where several men and women worked to gather evidence and take the photos that would later cover the detectives’ desks. The coroner was making a preliminary exam of the body, a middle-aged man. Later he would lay the body out on a steel table for autopsy, looking for a cause of death and possible links to a suspect.
“What’s it look like, Steve?” Dave asked.
“You know I can’t give you a positive answer until I get him on my table,” the coroner did not look up. “If I were to guess, I would say blunt force trauma to the right temple and strangulation. One of them probably knocked him out, the other finished him.”
“Determined,” Philip said. “Someone wanted him dead. Where are his shoes?”
“I haven’t seen them,” Steve said.
“You think the killer took them?” Philip asked.
“I’ve seen people killed for less,” Dave said.
“Oh, Christ!” the corner shouted, jumping up and away from the body, scrambling away like a frightened cat.
The detectives looked down and saw the long slender form of a snake slithering out of one of the pockets of the man’s sport coat. They both took a step back. The snake moved free of the pocket and coiled. There was a familiar sound from which the snake derived its name.
“Rattle snake,” Philip said. “What do we do now?”
Dave stepped forward, stooped down, took the snake by the tail and with a quick, smooth motion, threw it over the fence.
“Show off,” Philip said.
The coroner watched the snake slither away before hesitantly approaching the body again.
“What’s the problem now?” Dave asked.
“I hate snakes,” Steve said. “How do I know there isn’t another one in there somewhere?”
“Check his pockets,” Philip suggested.
“You check his pockets,” Steve countered.
“I’ll do it,” Dave said. He took a pair of surgical gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on. He straddled the body and bent down. He patted the body down concentrating on the pockets. He stood up straight and stepped away. “No more snakes. Now, can we get on with this?”
With a grunt, the coroner returned to his work. The detectives watched on as he slowly examined every inch of the victim to collect any lose evidence prior to moving the body. He opened the jacket and mumbled under his breath, “That’s interesting.”
“What’s that?” Dave asked.
“His clothes aren’t right,” he said. “He’s been re-dressed.”
“Re-dressed?” Philip asked. “You saying he wasn’t dressed when he was killed?”
“That is not what I am saying,” Steve said. “Although, if I were to guess, I would say he wasn’t fully dressed when he died.”
“How about I.D.,” Dave asked. “Any idea who he is?”
“There was a wallet found. Deputy Gravis has it,” Steve said.
“Where’s Gravis?” Dave asked.
The coroner’s gloved hand stretche
d out. “Over there somewhere.”
The detectives tuned in the direction the other was pointing and saw two men in uniform looking back at them. One watched the area taking in every movement, every face. He was on full alert in case something was to happen. The other, an older more seasoned officer held his focus squarely on Dave. Instinctively, the Dave knew this was Gravis.
He gave the body another long hard look before moving away to approach the deputies. Dave wondered why the killer would go to the trouble to redress the man without his shoes. Were the shoes the motive? A trophy? Serial killers often took trophies. Dave hoped they weren’t dealing with one of those.
“You Gravis?” Dave asked from a few feet away.
The deputy nodded. He stood erect in such a way that Dave decided the man was ex-military. His badge was polished almost as brightly as his shoes and there was a crisp crease down the front of each pant leg. Dave disliked the man the second he saw him. Philip disliked him the moment he opened his mouth.
“Suppose you city cops are going to want my case,” he said, without any hint of cordiality. “Assume you think you’re better than me.”
“You have something to I.D. the body?” Dave ignored the deputy’s comments and attempted to direct the conversation to what was important much like he would do if questioning a witness who strayed from the facts he needed to close his case. The deputy was not so easily daunted.
“This is my jurisdiction,” he said. “I was first on scene and I don’t appreciate you muscling your way in and taking over.”
“Listen, Slim,” Philip said. He often selected nicknames for people he didn’t like. And he used them for the rest of their lives. “We don’t want to be here anymore than you want us here. We were called in, I assume by your superiors, because we have experience with such things as dead bodies. Now we’re here and we’re going to do our job. So, give us what you have and go call your captain or sheriff or whoever. If we are called off, we’ll hand everything back to you and go home. Okay? Slim?”
The Widow's Husband Page 5