Death in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Damn straight!”

  “When’d it happen?”

  “Not a quarter-hour ago. Nina went off to work. I went in there …” He hitched his thumb in the direction of the indoor outhouse. “When I come out the girl was gone an’ my gun with ’er.”

  “Anythin’ unusual happen this mornin’? Anybody stop in or call?”

  “Might’a been a call—don’t know. I never answer the damn thing.”

  “Anythin’ else missin’? Shells or food or money?”

  Grandpa huffed an’ puffed over to the drawer where he kept his spare shells an’ hauled it open. “Shells,” he wheezed. He patted his back pocket an’ nodded like he was reassured. “You’ll have to ask Nina ’bout money. She ain’t took nothin’ else a mine.”

  the last straw

  One more missin’ person was the last straw. I broke every speed record set in Boone County gettin’ back to my office, an’ by the time I pulled up in front of the town hall, I’d called Martha to have her check with the Boones an’ her good old girl network for the missin’ girl. Nina was the only one in the post office when I stomped in.

  “Where’s Angie?”

  “Well, good mornin’ to you, too, Homer.”

  “Angie.”

  “I left her home today, bein’ as how our back room is still occupied so she cain’t lie down or use the facilities. Tole her I’d give her two dollars a hour to keep a eye on Grandpa.”

  “That the truth?”

  Nina looked insulted an’ disgusted. “I ain’t even gonna dignify that with—What’s wrong?”

  “She run off an’ took Grandpa’s twenty-gauge with her.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “My words exactly. Where would she’a gone?”

  “Back home?”

  “I checked. They said no.”

  “Well.” Nina frowned. “How far could she git with no wheels?”

  “She prob’ly hitchhiked.”

  “With a twenty-gauge?”

  “You’re right. She prob’ly just hijacked a ride.”

  “This ain’t no time for jokin’, Homer.”

  “Who said I was?”

  Then Nina changed the subject suddenly. “When’s that fella gonna get his cat outta my back room?”

  “Doc said they’d let him out tomorrow.”

  “Good, ’cause that room’s gettin’ pretty ripe.” She must’ve noticed I was gettin’ a bit put out, ’cause she added, “Don’t worry, Homer. She’ll turn up.”

  I went back to the office an’ called Martha back, after which I called the reverends Elroy an’ Burton, Father Ernie, Lucy at Motel Six, Merlin at Best Buy, Charity Nonesuch at the Truck Stop, an’ the manager at Saveway. Nobody’d seen Angie Boone. Naturally I called the state cops next, to put out a All Points Bulletin. I gave the dispatcher a description an’ said, “She’s wanted for grand larceny an’ she’s armed. Might even be dangerous.”

  “You been having quite a few missing persons down there in Boone County, wouldn’t you say, Deputy? What do you attribute that to?”

  “Alien abductions. Sergeant Underhill around?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Dan was chucklin’ when he come on the line, so I guessed the dispatcher must’ve shared my alien theory with him. “Deputy Deters,” Underhill said, “I was just fixin’ to call you ’bout that last set of prints. I got some good news and some bad news.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The good news is, one of that last set of prints you sent in matches one we found in the Escort you pulled outta the ravine. Bad news—none of the prints you came up with so far is on file anywhere. But when you find a suspect, you got a good start on makin’ a case.”

  “What about the finger I sent? You get a match on that?”

  “I was wonderin’ when you’d get around to askin’.”

  “I ain’t s’posed to have to ask. You’re s’posed to call an’ tell me if you found somethin’ out.”

  “Well, ATF asked me to keep it quiet.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “You got a point. Seems your victim was an ATF agent—one George Arnold.”

  “Well, what do you know?”

  “Sounds like you knew him.”

  “Only his ghost, mebbe. He’s one of the persons I been missin’ of late.”

  “You think all these missin’ persons are connected?”

  “You think the Pope’s Catholic?”

  “When you get it all doped out, let me know. It has the beginnings of a heck of a tale.”

  Ash Jackson’s truck

  “Homer,” Rye said, over the phone, “I think we found the truck.”

  I didn’t have to ask which one. Ash Jackson’s was the only truck missin’ I knew of. “Where?”

  “Half a mile short of the Truck Stop.”

  “Don’t touch nothin’. I’ll be along directly.”

  The truck was sure enough where Rye said, nosed into the bushes far as it would go off the road. Rye was circlin’ it like a kid checkin’ out the presents Christmas mornin’. He could scarcely wait for me to git outta my car.

  The reason it was ditched was obvious—two flat tires. Even apart from the tires, the truck was pitiful. Ash’d always kept it clean, inside an’ out, but it was full of mud an’ fast-food wrappers. On the outside, it looked like one of those off-road yahoos had used it to plow a field. You could hardly see the color for the mud.

  So we took pi’tures an’ dusted it fer prints. I put on latex gloves an’ went through the glove box an’ under the seat; I found the keys. The only thing remotely interestin’ was a few fingerprints on a box of Trojans. I put the Trojans in a evidence envelope, an’ called Dwayne to come haul away the truck.

  ATF turns up agin

  Walkin’ into my office was like déjà vu—times three. Three men in suits, one of ’em sittin’ at my desk, all with shades an’ attitudes. I said, “I ’spect you got your reasons for bargin’ in here like you own the place.”

  The one in my chair showed me his federal ID an’ said, “ATF.” He was wearin’ a gray suit an’ flat-heel shoes.

  I said, “Yeah. So?”

  “We want your file on that John Doe homicide you reported.”

  “You mean ATF agent George Arnold?”

  That set ’em down a peg.

  “What do you know about it?” the one in the brown suit axed.

  “I know someone killed him an’ dumped his remains in a ditch.”

  “Effing state cops,” Brown Suit said.

  The third man had on a blue suit, I guess so civilians could tell ’em apart. Brown Suit grabbed the front of my uniform—just like a bad guy in the movies—an’ said, “We don’t have time for games.”

  I stared at his hand ’til he let go. “Who writes your dialogue?”

  He looked ready to punch me out, but Gray Suit told him, “That’s enough.” To me, he said, “We would appreciate your cooperation.” It looked like his jaw hurt to say it.

  “Well, when you put it like that, what kin I do for you?” I pretended I wasn’t the only one standin’—in my own office.

  “We really need to see your file on the case.”

  I shrugged. I noticed the cat whisker I’d closed in the file cabinet drawer was missin’. They wouldn’t’a axed for the file if they’d been able to locate it. I fished it out of my OUT tray, where I’d left it earlier, an’ dropped it on the desk in front of Gray Suit. He skimmed it an’ glanced at all the pi’tures. “What’d you do with the negatives?”

  “I forget.”

  He stuffed the file back together an’ stood up. “Well, when you remember, put ’em in a safe place. We’ll be back.”

  I was glad I’d thought to make copies of the file. I said, “Don’t forget to bring a court order.” I waited ’til he was clear of the desk, then sat down an’ put my feet on it. When the first one was out the door, I said, “Bye the bye, there was a fella in here last week callin’ hisself Arnold.”

&
nbsp; That got ’em. They stopped an’ turned ’round together, like a small flock of pigeons. Gray Suit said, “What did you say?”

  I repeated myself.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Kinda like you. Male Caucasian, six-two, two-hundred pounds, mid-forties. He had on snakeskin boots, though.”

  The three of ’em looked at one another. “What did he want?” Gray Suit axed.

  “Said he was lookin’ for Ash Jackson.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t say. Told me to mind my own business.”

  “Where do we find this Jackson?”

  “Can’t say. Ain’t seen him lately. ’Course with so many folks out lookin’ for him, it’s no wonder he’s made hisself scarce.”

  “What would you guess this impostor wanted with him?”

  “I dunno. Maybe Ash owed him money.”

  the state cops lose their car

  I might’a made some headway in some of my cases if more didn’t keep poppin’ up all over. I’d no sooner got rid of the three ATF stooges than the state police dispatcher got on the air to announce a mutual aid call. I was s’posed to come to their aid for a change, to the Seven-Eleven at County C an’ the highway.

  When I got there, Dan Underhill come huffin’ outta the store an’ slid into the passenger’s seat.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Grand theft, auto.”

  “Whose?”

  He got real red, an’ I suddenly got the pi’ture. “Let me see if this is how it went?” I said. “You stopped here for coffee …”

  He didn’t say yes or no, but I took it for “yes” that he got redder.

  “You left your car runnin’ an’ unattended—just for a second—while you went inside …” I glanced at him.

  He was lookin’ straight ahead, an’ I thought he just might break his jaw, it was clenched so tight.

  “When you come out, it was gone.”

  He muttered, “Smart-ass.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Golly, Mr. Dillon, you ain’t even broadcast a description of the car yet! He’s prob’ly outta state by now.”

  “The SOB’s got a radio. Anything broadcast’ll tell him just what we’re doing.”

  “That’s true, Kemosabe, but it’ll tell all the good guys, too.”

  He reached for my radio, but I beat him to it. “Allow me.” I described the missin’ vehicle in police lingo—never said it was a police car, just unit number so-an’-so. Then I axed was the bear-in-the-air hibernatin’ today?

  “No,” he said. “It’s up there.”

  “Good. Hang tight a sec.” I took my keys outta the ignition an’ got outta the car. He was gonna follow, but I told him to wait. “Lemme see if the clerk gives me the same story you got.”

  The clerk was a well-padded young thing with Coke bottle–glasses, studyin’ the latest portable soap opera like her grade in life depended on it. When she looked up, I give her my brightest smile an’ said, “Mornin’, darlin’.”

  Her eyes got big as saucers.

  “I’m lookin’ into a major crime was just committed, an’ I wonder if you could give me some assistance?”

  It took her a minute to work all that out, an’ she seemed like she was goin’ into shock. Finally, she said, “Anything, Sheriff.”

  “You seen anyone hangin’ ’round here while the state trooper was in?”

  “The one that lost his car?”

  “That one.”

  She made a face told me Underhill hadn’t been diplomatic. “No. He already axed me that.”

  “Anybody been in here tryin’ to bum a ride today?”

  “Just a kid. He left before the trooper came.”

  “You tell the trooper about him?”

  “No. He didn’t ask.”

  “What’d this kid look like?”

  “Looked like one of the Jackson clan.”

  “I’d be obliged for what else you kin tell me.”

  “He wasn’t buying nothing, just hanging around. Looked like he was fixing to steal something soon’s I turned my back. So I threw ’im out.”

  I give her another smile an’ said, “You don’t know how much you helped. I certainly am obliged.” When I tipped my hat, I thought she’d swoon. I decided it’d be safer to make my phone calls somewheres else.

  hot pursuit

  I’d fergot my cell phone, so I got back in my car an’ drove to the next pay phone down the road, at a fillin’ station. It was one of those convenience phones you don’t have to get outta your car to use. I wasn’t keen on leavin’ my car runnin’ with the keys in, an’ givin’ Dan Underhill the chance to leave me on foot. My first call was to the mission school, to confirm Skip Jackson was missin’. He was. The Reverend Mr. Moody tole me in no uncertain terms that I could keep him if I found him, though near as I could tell, his worst infraction had been “setting a horrible example for the other boys.”

  The state helicopter, meanwhile, was crisscrossin’ the area. So my second call was to the state police dispatcher. I explained that, since the car thief had a radio, the best way to get him was to feed him misinformation ’bout the pursuit. “Tell the ‘bear’ to stay with him, whatever we say we’re up to, an’ we’ll be able to trap him without our radios.”

  I could tell by his sly grin, Underhill was with me, even before he said, “You all right, Vergil.”

  Boone County’s got just two kinds of car thieves. Some steal to get a car or for the money they can make sellin’ it. That sort mostly heads for the local “midnight auto parts” to unload their booty or get a quick-change to a horseless carriage of another color. The rest just “borrow” whatever wheels rolls their way an’ leave ’em when a better prospect’s left unattended.

  We checked on the first possibility first. The proprietor’s a old geezer, a bit loopy from too many years sniffin’ paint fumes. He claimed he hadn’t seen our missin’ car. He was so quick offerin’ to let us tour his place, I guessed he really hadn’t. We looked ’round anyway. There was enough suspicious odd parts to justify a search warrant, but none of them looked like it came from a police car.

  When we got back in the cruiser, Underhill said, “He’s probably got to the city by now, got it chopped up already.”

  I said, “I ain’t so sure. The clerk said she saw one of the Jacksons hangin’ ’round. Tell ’em to swing by Mama J’s an’ have a look-see.”

  “A car thief s going to stop on the way out of town to visit his mother?”

  I shrugged. “He might if he was only twelve.” I didn’t tell him about the thoughts I’d entertained at twelve of joyridin’ in a cop car. Luckily, none of the then-deputies had been fool enough to leave his keys in.

  Just then, the radio come to life, the “bear-in-the-air” reportin’ in. “Attention all units. Suspect ve-hi-cle’s headin’ out on County C. Now he’s turnin’ south. Yee-haw! We done trapped him! There’s no other road out!”

  I weren’t so sure. I’d never found it, but judgin’ from all the times Ash give me the slip when I was tailin’ him for speedin’, there had to be a back road. I grabbed the radio an’ said, “Ten-four. Headin’ east on C.” Then I turned on my ’mergency lights an’ turned west.

  Underhill said, “What’n hell are you doin’?”

  “Practicin’ guile an’ deception,” I tole him. I turned south on Winesap an’ floored it. Usin’ the radio, I told the troops, “Deputy Deters, turnin’ in Ash Jackson’s drive.”

  “We got ’im now,” the helicopter pilot yelled. “Puttin’ down on the drive. I got it blocked.”

  I slowed to turn onto County D as the chopper pilot let out a string of cuss words that’d made Ash Jackson blush. “He lost him,” I told Underhill.

  The pilot yelled, “Son-of-a-bitch just took off across country—under the trees. I lost him!”

  “Do tell,” Underwood said. He was eyein’ my speedometer—a tad under ninety. I noticed he’d
buckled his seat belt. When I reached for the radio, he said, “Let me.”

  “Next time.” I keyed the mike an’ started callin’ out location reports: “Unit Twenty-eight, ready at County D an’ Winesap.” “Unit Four, ten-eight at Westerly’s drive.” “Unit Eighteen, standin’ by at County D an’ Breech Road.” Every time I changed unit numbers, I threw my voice off a little so I sounded like someone else. I was hopin’ it would seem to our car thief like a whole posse was blockin’ his escape routes.

  Underhill grinned, then noticed the speedometer an’ went white. Up ahead, I could see the dust cloud raised by somebody drivin’ cross-country, comin’ up on the roadway. The car itself was outta sight already.

  Some real state trooper come on the air to announce he had County D blocked east of Goode Swamp.

  “Well, get ready,” I told him. “This old country-boy car thief ain’t stupid enough to go to ground in the swamp. He’ll be comin’ your way.”

  Then the chopper pilot reported he had the stolen car in sight, an’ no fewer than three other troopers came on to tell him not to “for-God’s-sake” lose him again. Things were lookin’ up.

  But then, Murphy’s Law bein’ S.O.P., there was a screech of brakes, an’ the cop that was blockin’ County D screamed into his radio, “He’s done a one-eighty! He’s headin’ west again!”

  I figgered I had about one minute, given my speed an’ his. I grabbed my mike an’ yelled into it. “Posse, hold your positions. Keep all them side roads blocked. If he’s goin’ anywhere, it’s gonna be Goode Swamp.” Then, ’cause I couldn’t ’member all the unit numbers I’d made up, I let out a series of ten-fours in different voices.

  We come up onto the railroad overpass just west of Goode Swamp Road, an’ I laid a double line of rubber stoppin’ the car on top of the bridge. Just east, I could see the stolen squad headin’ at us, with a state car hangin’ on its rear bumper, an’ the “bear” hoverin’ overhead. I swung my car ’round, sideways to traffic, an’ stopped it square across the bridge, driver’s side facin’ east. A bicycle couldn’t’a squeezed past either end. An’ there was no way to go ’round the bridge. I told Underhill he better get out an’ take cover.