With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  “Come here you knucklehead. Come here Otis,” Sheriff Lupo called, taking the big dog between his hands and rubbing his neck and ears. Otis responded by extending his long tongue in an attempt to lick the Sheriff’s face. “You being a good boy, huh, you gonna catch the bad guy?”

  “You wanted to see me?” Guest inquired.

  “Yeah, a friend of mine that teaches over at the University wanted me to speak to one of her classes, but with this investigation ongoing, I just can’t free up any time. I’d like you to take my spot and address the class on my behalf.”

  “Me. Why me? I’m no speaker. What would I say? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Why don’t you send Breland, he likes to talk.”

  “I’ve already made up my mind and you can take Otis with you. You’ll need to be there tomorrow morning and tell Mrs. Wild I said hello. Arlene will give you the particulars and don’t screw up. I don’t care if you talk about this stalker investigation but you know what’s classified and what’s not. Use your head. You’re smart. That’s why you’re going and Breland is not,” the Sheriff instructed his youngest recruit.

  “Just use your head,” she said, under her breath, on the way to Arlene’s desk. “Just wonderful. Just absolutely wonderful!”

  “What was that Deputy Guest?” Arlene asked.

  “Oh, the Sheriff wants me to cover his butt tomorrow over at the University, some speaking assignment. You got the location and time?”

  “Sure do,” handing a slip of paper to the young officer. “It’ll be fine. Good looks, a way with people, eager to please,” she said petting Otis on the head. “And of course you’ve got some good qualities too Natalie, so don’t sweat it.”

  “You’re too kind, thanks. I guess Otis and I will hit that section out by the river this morning, bunch of little farms and country homes. Thought we’d do some more interviews and see if the folks out that way know anybody with a bike that matches the description Deputy Breland gave us.”

  “You be careful out there and report in regularly, okay?”

  “I got Otis here, he’ll take care of me,” Natalie said, feeling her K-9 friend rubbing his side along her lower thigh.

  Deputy Guest, with Otis, parked their unit just off of Knight Academy Road in the northeast section of the county. A number of side roads led off of this main blacktop that accessed small acreages, farms and country homes. Her intent was to walk as many of these rural subsidiaries as she could fit into the day, interviewing the locals, hoping for a lucky break.

  With only a short time under her belt with the Sheriff’s office, she had learned that the work was 95% blood, sweat and tears and 5% luck. Today she knew that the same would hold true. Otis’ excitement showed as they started their walk to the first hidden driveway. Natalie knew it was bad form to let him just run, but on these long, hot walks, with only a few homes in a one mile stretch, she let him off the leash so he could explore and work his talented snout.

  The young officer clicked the mic on her shoulder and checked in with headquarters, giving her location and intent, confirming that she’d report in at the end of each dirt road. Her companion zigzagged in and out of the burrow pit on either side of the road, his nose locked to the ground.

  “Otis come!” she commanded. No response from the dog, but she could see him stopped in the ditch, tail wagging. “Otis come!” she again commanded. Otis pounced forward into the brush and a half dozen grouse lifted into the air, wings flapping wildly as their bodies wobbled through the air, landing in the same ditch a few hundred yards down the road.”

  Satisfied with the job he was doing, Otis ran back to Natalie expecting a treat for a job well done, there was none. The two walked down the road, taking in the unexpected calm and beauty that existed in the country community. An old timer on a tractor rumbled toward her through a newly turned-over field, his shirt unbuttoned and removed from his shoulders but still tucked in, allowing it to blow in the breeze, flapping like a flag around his waist. His tanned arms, face and neck were a deep leathery brown, and his chest so white it hurt Guest’s eyes to look at him.

  “Mornin' Depidy, what brings ya out ar way?” the old man yelled, exposing his tobacco stained teeth and trying to get himself heard over the sound of the tractor. He removed the bandana tied around his neck and mopped the sweat from his face, then returned the material to his wrinkled neck.

  “Just interviewing some folks, trying to get some information about the break-ins we’ve had lately. You know anything about those?” she yelled back, straining her voice to be heard.

  “What’s at yer saying? Can’t hear ya sa good,” he again bellered back at her.

  Deputy Guest motioned for him to turn off the tractor, twisting her wrist as if turning a key, “Turn if off, will ya?”

  “Oh, yup sure, no problem,” and the machine was silenced. “Didn’t catch what ya said dere, ya lookin’ fer break-ins?”

  “Sort of. We’re trying to see if anybody has any information that could help us catch this guy that has been doing all the break-ins lately. We think he lives in the country so we’re going door to door doing some interviews. You know anything that might help us.”

  He sat back, leaned over the side of the tractor and spat a wad of chew from his mouth, wiping the bit away from his chin with his sleeve that dangled at his side. Otis pulled to check out the stuff that landed on the earth but his master restrained him. As if in deep thought, the old guy looked up, squinting into the late morning sun, rubbed his chin, then spat again.

  “I don’t reckon I kin hep ya, we ain’t had no trouble out hea, got good nabas and it’s pretty quiet most da time. Dats a fine animal ya got dere, what’s his name?”

  “Oh yup, he’s a good boy alright, name is Otis.”

  Instinctively the dog knew they were talking about him and he sat, cocked his head to one side, and let out a whine, before lying at Deputy Guest’s feet, ears up and alert.

  “You don’t happen to know anybody round here that rides a motorcycle do ya? You know the type for riding off road, call ‘em dirt bikes?”

  “I got mysef one a dem dere four wheelas, most farmers got one of dem fer changing pipes and such, but don’t know anybody got a dirt bike,” he said, spitting again to the ground, a couple of drops blown back by the wind, landed on his white belly, leaving a dark stain.

  “Thanks for your time, I’ll let you get back to work. If you think of anything or see someone on an old dirt bike, give us a call.”

  “Sho will offica, have yersef a good un.”

  The pair proceeded down the rutted dirt road, stopping at each house, asking the same questions and not getting any additional information. At the end of the lane she called in, gave an update to the dispatcher, and headed back to the unit. She did this a couple of more hours until she reached Range Road 232 where she parked the unit and released Otis from his cage at the rear. The K-9 ran to a dip in the road and lapped up a quick drink of water that had collected there. Guest was also starting to feel tired, hungry and thirsty.

  “Okay boy, this is the last road before we head back for some chow.”

  He ran to her side, knowing exactly what she had said. There only appeared to be a handful of homes down the rural road but it was hard to say, some of the homes were tucked away in concealed locations, with years of tree and foliage growth to hide the structures. The first home they encountered was well maintained with a grass front yard that was trimmed, a circular driveway with a Toyota SUV parked before the entry, and a swing set on the side of the house, with a few bikes leaning up alongside the garage door. She could see farm equipment, a tractor, and various other tools of the trade, stored and well cared for, beyond the backyard in the barn area.

  The owners were in their thirties and were happy to talk with the Deputy while the children played with Otis in the yard. They had little to report, the people of the lane had lived there for years and they were friendly with all of them. There was one guy, about their age, that lived on his own, a few ho
uses down, that stayed to himself. His parents passed away a number of years ago and left the farm to him. They knew he’d sold the farm and just kept the house and a few acres, must have made pretty good money on the farm, though, because they didn’t think he worked.

  “Have you noticed anything unusual with him the past couple of weeks,” the officer inquired.

  “No, everybody here just minds their own business, can’t even remember the last time I talked to him. I’ve seen him come and go a little bit in his van but that’s about it.”

  “Do you know if he owns a motorcycle?”

  “Can’t say that he does, but I could be wrong. Almost everybody's got a quad though, like those over there,” he said, pointing to some knobby tired, four wheeled vehicles, sitting on a trailer on the side of the lot.

  “So I’ve heard,” she replied.

  “Could you give me his name so I can follow through on some of this?” she asked.

  “Sure, it’s Lester...a, honey, what is his last name? It’s slipped my mind,” he said, speaking to his wife.

  “Cummings,” his wife said.

  “Yeah, that’s it, Cummings, Lester Cummings. Nice enough guy, just likes to be left alone. I heard him doing a bunch of shooting the other day, over by the river. Think he’s got a range over there. His dad was quite a shot.”

  “Thanks, you’ve been helpful, hope you enjoy the rest of your day. Come on Otis, let’s get a move on.”

  There was no one home at the next place, but the neighbors had indicated that they were a retired couple that leased out their land and spent a lot of time visiting their extended family. Another quarter of a mile down the road the pair came to a section of the ditch bank that was particularly overgrown, a mailbox stood at the end of the dirt drive, weeds as tall as the support. Well before reaching the drive, Otis jerked free of the leash and charged the mailbox, barking and growling, going crazy with the scent around the site.

  “What you got boy?” the handler said, taking the leash and leading him down the drive to the small country home. Otis continued smelling the ground before them, weaving side to side, yipping, and straining the leather strap that Deputy Guest had wrapped around her hand. An older model, silver van, sat at the end of the drive, next to the side of the house. The grass in the front area had turned to seed, and what had survived, was long, and interspersed with dandelions and other weeds. Otis sniffed his way around the van and returned to Natalie at the front door.

  Lester had heard the commotion coming up the drive and closed the bookshelf, putting his 9mm in the back waistband of his pants, a light jacket hiding it from view. From the bathroom, he peered through the narrow opening in the curtains, to see the officer approaching the front door. If they had anything on him they would have responded in force, not a lone officer with a canine. He stood, sure she couldn’t tell he was watching her, and waited to see what she would do. The dog was acting more overly excited than Lester would have liked to see, he’d never hurt a dog before and didn’t know if he had the will to do it. The doorbell rang. Lester saw it coming as she raised her hand to the bell, but it still startled him when the buzzer sounded in the hallway outside the bathroom. He ignored it, both the second and third time she rang it as well.

  She finally gave up and he could see her moving to the side of the home. He couldn’t let her near the barn but he was sure he’d closed it when he’d stashed the bike after his hell-bent ride. He moved to the back of the house and found a vantage point where he could see what she was up to. The dog led her down the trail, away from the barn, but to the fishing shed and the gun range. When she was out of sight, he pulled the gun from his pants, slid the action back, taking a shell from the magazine and loading it into the chamber, then returned it to the small of his back.

  He exited the back door and trotted down the path to the shed.

  “Hey, can I help you? What’s up?” he shouted, making them aware of his arrival. “Is there something I can help you with? This is private property back here.”

  Deputy Guest saw him approaching and took a firm grip on Otis, with the quick release just under her thumb. “Mr. Cummings?” Otis growled and barked at the stranger.

  “Yeah, I’m Lester Cummings, what’s going on?”

  “I rang your doorbell a couple of times, what took you?”

  “I was in the bathroom, is that a crime? Thought it was the neighbor kids playing a joke or something.”

  “Neighbors said you were down here doing some shooting yesterday. Can I ask why?” she asked, watching his eyes carefully.

  “I come down here a couple of times a week and shoot a bit, got a 9mm my daddy left me that I enjoy shooting cans with,” he said, pointing at the refuse of perforated cans lying on the ground nearby.

  “I see. Well, we’re just doing some interviews trying to get some leads on the recent rash of break-ins near the base and thought we’d see if anybody over this way could help out. We think our man is a farmer, or country raised, and rides a motorcycle,” again, looking at his eyes as she spoke. “You don’t happen to have a bike do you?”

  “Wish I did. Been saving up to buy a four-wheeler, almost everybody round here's got one, looks like they’d be fun. But, naw, never had much use for a motorcycle,” he lied.

  “Do you mind if I look around a little bit. My dog here is acting a little jumpy and I’d like to see why,” she pressed her luck.

  Lester put his hand on his hip and turned, blocking the view of the other hand, in case he had to quickly draw the 9mm and fire. “Go ahead, this is where I do my shooting and fishing, hence the shed. Everything else is up in the barn, although not much there anymore since I sold the farm, just the lawnmower and a few tools.”

  “Thanks, appreciate it. Do you know anybody around that does ride a dirt bike? A yellow one?”

  “Can’t say that I do, but I’ll keep my eyes open for ya’ll,” he again lied.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll just let Otis do some snooping, and I’d appreciate it if you’d return to your home and I’ll talk to you there in a moment.”

  “Oh sure, no problem.” He turned and walked back to the house, sat on the back porch and waited.

  A short time later the officer and dog returned up the path and approached Lester.

  “Officer, I’ve got an appointment in town and need to be on my way. Is there anything else I can do for you before you have to leave?” The pressure of the gun made him feel powerful and able to dominate the situation.

  “I’d like to take a look in the house, and barn as well, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Actually, it’s not. I do have to run and I just don’t have time to show you around everywhere, perhaps you could make an appointment and we could do it in the next day or two.”

  She knew he was up to something and had been lying from the minute she met him, but was unsure of what to make of his behavior. “So let me get this straight. You are denying me access to your house and barn, is that correct?”

  “Don’t you have to have a warrant or something? I mean this is private property and you can’t just go around searching people’s homes without some kind of an affidavit. Isn’t that right?” he said, once again moving his hand to his waistline.

  “You are right there, but if you give me verbal permission we can avoid the hassle of a warrant, so if you’ll just consent to that I’ll take a look in the barn.” She took a couple of steps towards the barn.

  Lester jumped from his position on the porch and cut her off. Otis lurched at him, growling and barking. Natalie restrained him but did put her hand on her service weapon.

  “Whoa, whoa take it easy. I think I’m within my rights to ask you to leave if you don’t have a warrant. I’ve been cooperative and let’s leave it at that. If you want to come back later with a warrant, I’d be happy to let you look in every nook and cranny there is, but not without that warrant. This is my private stuff and you are violating my privacy, so I’m going to ask you to leave one more time.”
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br />   “Deputy Guest respond, over,” her portable unit squawked.

  She took her hand off the weapon and keyed the mic, “Guest here, over.”

  “Natalie, Sheriff Lupo wants you to respond to a call from an old guy that you spoke with earlier in the day. Says he’s got some information you may need, something about some questions you asked him earlier. Could hardly make him out when he called, but there’s a message on your voicemail, can listen to it when you’re back at your unit. You got that?”

  “Roger, will see what it is and let you know.”

  “Alright, Mr. Cummings, we’ll be leaving for now, but I don’t doubt we’ll be back to take a closer look with a warrant.”

  “I’ll anxiously await your return,” he said sarcastically, and watched the two walk down the dirt driveway, taking a left, heading back to the service road, his hand caressing the cold grip of the Beretta.

  Lester waited a few minutes before he leisurely walked to the end of his drive, stepped out beyond the mailbox to get a better look down the range road, and confirmed that the curious deputy was gone. Her random visit sent a jolt of reality through the thief, his mind active as he ran to the barn. Evidence? What evidence did he have that she may have seen? He was careful the other day to fill his pockets with the spent brass from the .38, should have only been 9mm at the range. He knew he had the paperwork on the Beretta, so there was nothing they could do with those shell casings. He wondered if she’d taken the time to call in the plate on his van, again legally owned, but he didn’t know if it had been reported as a suspicious vehicle. There was one thing he did know, however, the motorcycle had to go. He had plenty of cash to replace it with a newer, bigger one, but there was a degree of sentimentality to the old bike that almost brought him to tears as he wheeled it out from the barn, pushed it up a plank, and into the back of the van.