by Mark Reps
"You find his hand anywhere?" asked Doc. "He seems to be missing it."
"Over here," said Deputy Steele.
The doctor slowly brought himself to an upright position.
"Let me give you a hand, Doc," said Deputy Funke.
Doc Yackley brushed aside the offer.
"Is that some sort of pun, son?" asked Doc Yackley.
Delbert scratched his head as Sheriff Hanks chuckled.
"Just a little gallows humor, young man," added the doctor. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."
"Don't worry, Doc. I won't. I never worry about nothin'," replied Deputy Delbert.
Deputy Delbert and Sheriff Hanks shined their flashlights on the severed hand, an unnecessary act as the sun had risen well past dawn.
"That's a human hand all right. A left one."
Upon hearing Doc's explanation, Deputy Delbert glanced down at his palm, then the back of his own left hand. He repeated this gesture several times before finally extending his arm and holding his hand directly in his line of vision with the severed hand in the background.
"Yup, a southpaw all right. And I see a ring on the third finger."
Doc reached forward and carefully scraped particles of dirt and sand from the severed hand.
"With an inscription."
He reached into his coat pocket and removed a pair of bifocals.
Sheriff Hanks and his deputy leaned forward as Doc brought his face to within inches of the excised hand.
"Let's see here. This is written in Latin."
"You read Latin, Doc?"
The savvy old country doctor winked at the sheriff.
"I suppose I'm going to have to if I want to know what this damn ring says."
"No foolin', Doc. You can do that? You can look at another language and read it?" asked Delbert. "Now that is really something."
"Helps being a doctor. Lot of our secret stuff is written in Latin and Greek."
"Oh, I see," replied the deputy. "That makes a heap a sense."
"Now let me see. The inscription reads 'Ordinis Sancti Barnabae Vat Astronomicis Observatorium Basilicam Sancti Petri'. I would say that translates roughly as Order of St. Barnabus, Vatican Astronomical Observatory, Basilica St. Peter. There's a picture here, too."
Doc Yackley squinted, moving his head a bit closer to the ring. After a moment he took off his glasses and cleaned them on his untucked and rumpled shirt.
"There, that oughta make seein' things a bit smoother."
Returning the cheaters to his face, Doc scrunched his cheekbones back and forth, allowing his glasses to slip down to the tip of his nose.
"Yes, much better. I see a picture of a building. Hmm, looks sort of like an old- fashioned tower up on a hillside in front of a church. Likely the Vatican Astronomical Observatory."
The rising sun now fully illuminated the eastern slopes of Mount Graham. Coming from the direction of town, Sheriff Hanks eyed the hearse from Shepner's Funeral Home making its way down Route 366 toward the death scene.
"Never a welcome sight, is it?" said Doc Yackley, observing the sheriff honing-in on the death wagon.
"Nope, never is."
"Doesn't seem to be much of a need for a full-blown autopsy. I'll take some blood and tissue and do a routine once over. Is that okay with you?" inquired the doctor. "I mean with the birthmark and the colostomy bag, odds are one in a million the body could be anyone else."
"Colostomy bag?" asked Sheriff Hanks.
"Father McNamara had stage four colo-rectal cancer. He was in the end stages of life. He had a month at best. He was headed for hospice care real soon."
Zeb and Doc exchanged a glance that spoke to the hidden fear all people have. What would they do under the same circumstances?
"Out of respect for his position at the church, it'll be fine if we let Shepner's do their business and leave it at that," replied the sheriff. "I think the cause of death is pretty damn obvious. No sense making things any worse for his congregation by delaying the funeral."
"I guess that settles it. I'll take some blood samples and get my medical report to you later this morning. The official cause of death looks like suicide unless that trucker over there has a different story."
Doc Yackley pointed to the porch where the distraught trucker continued his manic rocking.
"Why don't you come along, and we'll have a little chat with him? That way he only has to tell the story once and hopefully I can be done with it, legally anyhow," suggested Zeb.
"Let's get crackin' then," said Doc. "I'd like to grab a bite of breakfast before I start my rounds at the hospital. Better have Delbert snoop around a little more before they load up the body. Father McNamara is missing both his shoes and his left foot was severed just above the ankle. And don't forget the hand. Make sure Shepner's gets it."
"Oh, crap," moaned Delbert, "more missin' body parts. Gad, I hate touchin' that kinda stuff. Gives me the creeps."
Deputy Delbert Funke half-heartedly began to look around for the shoes and missing foot of the priest as the hearse driver and his assistant came scrambling up the small knoll with a stretcher.
Sheriff Hanks and Doc Yackley slowly made their way toward the Mount Graham Market and the traumatized trucker.
"I already gave him a light sedative, ten milligrams of Valium, to calm his nerves. Poor son of a bitch was pretty shook. He should be okay to talk, unless the Valium fogs him out."
Grumpy Halvorson and the truck driver sat on the porch chairs sipping coffee. The trucker stared off into space, mumbling incoherently as he swayed rhythmically to some unheard beat.
"Doc, that shot you gave him made him a little goofy, so I gave him a little good morning cactus juice to straighten him up. I figured the sheriff would want to have a word or two with him. Fella' says his name is Billy Joe Thomas. Operates his rig out of Yuma."
"Thanks, George."
"Billy Joe, my name is Sheriff Hanks. You already met Doc Yackley."
"Sheriff Hanks, pleased to meet you. Doctor Yackley, whatever you gave me sure helped to calm down my jits."
"I'm glad it helped," smiled Doc. "Been kind of a rough day for you."
"You can say that again."
A wave of pity came over Zeb. He knew that killing a man, even accidentally, was a shocking burden that would lessen with time but never go away.
"I need to go over a few things with you," began the sheriff, "for my official report. You feel like talking?"
"I suppose. It's gotta be done sooner or later."
At the mention of the accident, the trucker increased his nervous swaying.
"Why don't you start by telling me what happened," said the sheriff.
"I wasn't speeding. And I wasn't over on my driving time. You can go right ahead and check my log. I swear I wasn't even tired."
"Uh-huh. Go ahead and tell me what happened," said the sheriff.
"Not much to tell really. It was so weird, almost like it happened in slow motion. At first, I thought I was seeing things. You would have too. I mean it isn't every day you see something like that."
"What did you see?"
"I was heading west on three-six-six, doing about sixty-three, sixty-four miles per hour, not so fast that I didn't have complete control of my rig. Anyway, back up that way..."
The trucker weakly lifted a shaky arm and pointed down the road.
"...where the highway begins to rise up a coyote scampered across the road. I watched him skulk off into the desert. I remember thinking the little critter looked mighty scruffy. When I looked back up, right over there where the road peaks and then goes down into that little depression, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. At first, I couldn't believe I was seeing what I was seeing. It didn't make any sense in my mind. Right there in the middle of the road was a man dressed all in black."
The trucker became mute as he stared at the accident site.
"Pardon me, Sheriff, but I was seeing it all over again. The man was dressed a
ll in black except for a white collar around his neck. I think it was a white collar. Time slowed down. It was crazy. He was sitting in a rocking chair, smack dab in the middle of the road. Can you believe it? How does something like that come to be?"
The trucker sipped from the coffee cup cradled gingerly in his unsteady hands. His head tipped forward after taking a drink. He began to weep softly.
"There was nothing I could do. There wasn't time to swerve. I tried to turn out of the way, but it was too late." The driver paused as tears welled in his eyes and his voice became a choked rasp. "I hit him with my right front bumper. He flipped right out of the chair and came flying through the air. His face smashed against my windshield. The whole thing felt like it was happening to somebody else, like I was watching a movie."
Grumpy Halvorson whispered under his breath. "Jesus."
"Take your time," said the sheriff. "I know this is difficult."
"Thank you," said the trembling man. "Like I said, the whole darn thing happened in slow motion. That's how come I can remember so good. When he came crashing in against my windshield, he just stopped there, pressed up against the window. I didn't want to look because his face was all mangled and twisted. But I couldn't help but look."
The sheriff, Doc and Grumpy remained quiet as the man took a moment to regain his composure.
"His arm was crunched up under his chest. He was holding onto a book. I could even read the words on the cover. HOLY BIBLE. So strange. He was holding a Bible in his hands. What with the Bible and the black clothes and his collar, I knew he was a priest. It's got to be some kind of an omen."
The trucker's face carried the fearful, forlorn grimace of a condemned man.
"Take it easy there, Billy Joe. No one here is passing any kind of judgment on you."
Sheriff Hanks' reassurance eased the trucker's angst.
"I'm a good man. I don't go to church regularly. I used to be a good Catholic, but I gave it up to become a real Christian. I know I'm going right to hell for killing a priest. No two ways about it. Everybody knows you go straight to hell when you kill a priest. It's one of God's most basic laws."
"This wasn't your fault," interrupted the doctor. "Try not to torture your mind."
"Too late for that. I'm a condemned man."
"Try and take it easy," said Doc.
"I can't take it easy because what happened next really freaked me out and made me realize this was the work of the devil."
"What was that?" asked Sheriff Hanks.
"The priest kept a hold on that Bible like he couldn't let go even in death. His face was up against the glass right there in front of my eyes for what felt like an eternity. And the Good Book, there it was, still clenched in his grip. I think I hit a pot hole then or slammed on my air breaks or something and whammo, he goes flyin' off the windshield...and then..."
Some unspoken thought caused the man to begin sobbing hysterically. Grumpy handed him some Kleenex.
"Take your time," the sheriff counseled.
"...I got so scared that I put Old Betsy in the ditch."
"Old Betsy?"
"My rig is my Betsy. I named her after my grandmother."
"I think we ought to leave him be for a while."
Sheriff Hanks knew by the tone of Doc's voice that this suggestion fell under the category of doctor's orders.
"Why don't you get a room at the Trails West Motel? Call your family. Get some rest. My deputy will give you a ride over there."
"Thank you," muttered the trucker, holding his head in his hands.
"I'll stop by later after you've had some time to rest. If you think of anything else, tell me then or give me a call."
Sheriff Hanks handed the man his business card.
"I didn't mean to kill him, Sheriff. It was an accident, honest."
"Tell him, Zeb. So his mind can rest," said Doc Yackley.
"Tell me what?" asked the bewildered trucker.
"If what you're telling me is the truth, and at this time I don't have any reason to believe you aren't, his death wasn't your fault."
"What? Of course, this was my fault. I killed him."
Sheriff Hanks placed his hand on the confused trucker's shoulder.
"I'm fairly certain we're going to rule Father McNamara's death a suicide."
"A priest can't commit suicide," said the trucker. "It's a mortal sin."
"I'm afraid this one did," said the sheriff.
"Does the priest have any family nearby?"
"A lot of friends, a good lot of parishioners, but not any relatives that I know of," said the sheriff.
On the road back to town, a quarter mile or so from the death scene, early rays of sunshine glinted off something just to the side of the road. Sheriff Hanks immediately recognized the abandoned station wagon that belonged to the dead priest. He examined the car briefly and called for a tow truck to haul it to Zip's garage for closer examination.
4
"Good afternoon, Jake."
"Helen, you're looking as lovely as always. You still hitchin' your pony to the same old wagon?"
Helen Nazelrod, secretary extraordinaire to Sheriff Hanks, blushed needlessly at her old boss, former sheriff Jake Dablo's kidding compliment.
"Of course I am, Jake, you know that," she said. "Thirty-one years and still going strong."
"Well if things ever change, be sure and let me know."
"You'll be the first, I assure you," said Helen. "Other than your usual nonsense what brings you around the sheriff's office? You're not looking for your old job back, are you?"
"No, nothing like that," laughed Jake. "I've got my hands full working with the county these days. Between the planning commission and shaking dice over at the Town Talk, I hardly have any time left over for myself."
"Well, I'm sure we could always find a position for you around here if you're ever looking for real work."
"Thanks, Helen. I'll keep that in mind. Is the sheriff in?"
"He's pretending to do some paperwork that I already did for him," said Helen. "Go right in. I doubt you'll interrupt his concentration."
Helen and Jake exchanged winks as the former lawman strolled into the familiar surroundings of what had been his office a decade earlier.
"Top of the morning, Jake."
"Zeb, you look a little boxed in behind that desk. Buried in paperwork, eh?"
"Up to my eye teeth in it. Have a seat. I can use the break."
Zeb pointed to a timeworn chair directly across from his desk.
"I always liked this old thing, but I don't think I ever had an opportunity to sit in it back when I was sheriff."
Jake patted the soft leather of the oversized chair as he made himself comfortable.
"Shouldn't you be out fishing or something on a fine day like this?" asked Zeb.
"People go fishing to escape," said Jake. "I don't have much I need to get away from these days."
"So, what brings you around then? Is this a social visit or is something on your mind?"
"That's a good way of putting it. I guess you could say that something is sort of on my mind, something you ought to know about. It's probably nothing, but, then again, might be something."
"Spit it out, Jake. I'm all ears." Jake smiled at the self-deprecation. Zeb did have ears that stuck out a bit more than most.
"Like I said, maybe it's something and maybe not. One of those things I have a funny feeling about. Nothing I can pinpoint exactly."
"Certainly not like you to beat around the bush, Jake. What's this got to do with?"
"The county planning commission," replied Jake.
"How do you like being a bureaucrat, anyway?"
"The job isn't so bad. Keeps me up on what's happening in the area, but it does take a lot more of my time than I thought it might."
"That right there is a reason to go fishing."
Jake's failure to laugh at his little joke told Zeb something serious was on his former mentor's mind. Zeb put his paperwork down, leaned ba
ck in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
"What's up? State rules and regs getting to you? Or is old man Farrell driving you nuts?" asked Zeb.
"Farrell has his ways. He's a bit on the secretive side. He operates a bit differently than most other folks do."
"A bit underhanded from what I hear," said Zeb. "Even maybe what you might call shifty?"
"Crafty might be a better word," said Jake.
The men exchanged knowing smiles through poker faces.
"So, what's up?" asked the sheriff.
"The planning commission has a meeting tonight."
"Nothing unusual about that, is there?"
"Normally I would say, no, there isn't. But this is a different situation."
"How so?"
"Our scheduled meeting is on the first Thursday of every month."
"Just like clockwork," said Zeb. "Like the good public servants you are."
Around Graham County people made no bones about their belief that the job of the planning commissioner was little more than a rubber stamp for the county, or worse, for businesses that profited at the expense of the citizens or the environment. The negative attitude mostly had to do with real estate developers who had nothing but a quick buck on their mind. Locals had more than once seen scam artists buy up huge chunks of worthless desert land and resell it in parcels to unsuspecting dupes right under the noses of the commission. Jake had volunteered for the commission knowing he had an uphill battle to make it a dignified organization.
"You said it. Like clockwork, always like clockwork," said Jake. "That is why this seems odd to me. Tonight's the fourth Tuesday of the month. John Farrell called me last night to tell me about it."
"I guess he's got the right to call a meeting if he wants to. After all, he is the chairman."
"Yes, he is, and that's all well and good. But when he called, he specifically asked me not to mention the meeting to anyone."
"Has he ever asked you to keep mum before?"
"Never."
"Did he say why he wanted to meet tonight?"
"No, he didn't, and the whole damn thing smells rotten. The county planning commission meetings are open to everyone. Our charter says the general public has to be notified of all meetings, unless it's an emergency."