I studied him out of the corner of my eye. He was still behaving in a strange manner. “How come you got so nervous up there, Drover?”
“Well, gosh, Loper was mad and . . .”
“Yes, but if you didn’t do anything wrong, why should you get so antsy about it? You weren’t by any chance feeling guilty, were you?”
“Well . . . maybe I was.”
“I see.” I began pacing. “And why were you feeling guilty, Drover? Just tell me in your own words.”
“My own words. Okay. Let’s see. Guilty. I don’t know.”
“Are those your own words?”
“I think so.”
“Then think a little deeper. Why were you feeling guilty about something you didn’t do?”
He rolled his eyes and twisted his head to one side. “Well, I always feel guilty, Hank. Every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is feel guilty.”
“There must be a reason for it.”
“Well . . . I mess up a lot. Do you suppose that could be it?”
“I’ll ask the questions. You give the answers.”
“Oh. All right.”
I waited and waited. Nothing. “Well?”
“Sure turned out to be a pretty day, didn’t it?”
I paced over in front of him. “You’re being slippery, Drover, but I’m afraid that won’t wash. I’ll ask you again. Why do you feel guilty every morning when you wake up?”
“Well . . . I think of all the things I can mess up during the day and . . .”
“Yes? Go on.”
“. . . and it makes me feel awful. Then when I mess up for real, I don’t have to worry about it.” He looked at me with a simple grin on his mouth, as though he had just said something wonderful.
I stopped pacing and went nose-to-nose with the runt. “That makes no sense at all, and furthermore, it has nothing to do with The Case of the Vanishing Chickens.”
“Oh.”
“I want to know why you were acting so guilty when Loper was talking about the murders.”
“Well . . .”
I sensed that I was very close to a confession. It was time to bore in with my toughest questions and break down his resistance. I had a suspicion that three or four questions would wrap the case up.
“Is it possible, Drover, that there’s a side to your personality we don’t know about? That on very short notice, you can change from being a simple buffoon into a chicken killer? That you have a secret craving for chicken meat? And finally . . . what are you staring at?”
“You’ve got four little circles of hair sticking up on your back.”
“What?” I bent my neck around and looked at my back. Sure enough, I saw four little circles of hair sticking up. “Oh. That’s where the horses bit me. I was attacked by the entire horse herd a while ago.”
“Oh my gosh!”
“I was working traffic, barked a pickup into the horse pasture, and the horses jumped me. If you’d been up there helping me, it never would have happened.”
“Oh gosh.”
“But you were hiding in the machine shed . . .”
His head began to sink. “Yes.”
“. . . after you saw Sally May coming down to the garden.”
He began to cry. “It’s true.”
“You ran to save your own skin and left me alone.”
“Yes!”
“And you cowered in the machine shed while I was being mauled by thirteen dog-eating horses!”
“Yes, I did, Hank!”
I looked down at him. My questions had reduced him to jelly. “So you admit your guilt?”
“Yes!” He was bawling now, and the tears were dripping off the end of his nose. “It was all my fault, and I feel so guilty I can hardly stand it!”
Sometimes I’m frightened by my own interrogations. I mean, when a guy can break a suspect down with just a few devastating questions, reduce him to tears in a matter of minutes—that’s awesome. There’s no other word for it.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Drover. I hadn’t wanted to give him the full load of devastating questions, but I’d had no choice. I didn’t want to watch him cry, so I walked off a little ways and waited for him to pull himself back together.
I mean, I had won. I could afford to be decent about it. I had gotten a confession out of him and had pretty muchly wrapped up . . .
HUH? Wait a minute.
I whirled around. “Hey Drover . . .”
He had disappeared.
I had a confession, all right, but a confession of what?
Chapter Ten: A New Twist in the Case
Iwent looking for Drover and checked all his usual hiding spots: the machine shed, the calf shed, the haystack. He wasn’t there. The runt had given me the slip—and maybe he’d done it in more ways than one.
As I’ve said before, Drover is a special case. Just when you’re convinced that his head is filled with sawdust, he comes up with some slippery move that has the markings of intelligent behavior. It certainly makes a guy wonder.
But slippery moves or not, he remained a prime suspect in the investigation. When you’re going up against Hank the Cowdog, you can run but you can’t walk. It takes more than a few tricks to throw me off the trail. I made a mental note to keep my assistant under surveillance.
I drifted through the corrals, figgered while I was down there I might as well make my rounds and check things out.
I went past the calf shed and slipped through the warped door of the hay barn. As usual, it was dark and smelled of alfalfa hay and . . . hmmm. Near the northwest corner I began picking up a new reading. In just a matter of minutes I had analyzed the smell, separated out the many variables and possibilities, and narrowed it down to one source: skunk.
Very interesting. In fact, VERY interesting. Point One: It’s a well-known fact that skunks have an appetite for eggs and chickens. Point Two: They’re smell enough . . . small enough to enter a chicken house through the little door. Point Three: They have sharp teeth and are quite capable of killing a chicken. Point Four: Having killed the chicken inside the chicken house, they are stout enough to drag the body outside. Point Five: I don’t think there is a Point Five, but four’s plenty.
This discovery had just by George blown the case wide open. I couldn’t have ordered a set of clues that would have worked better than these. Everything fit the M.O. All at once I had a scent, a motive, and a suspect.
Well, I didn’t exactly have a suspect. A quick check of the premises revealed that he was no longer there, but in his scent I had irreguffable proof that he HAD been there, and not so very long ago—say, last night, just after he committed the first murder, and this morning, just before he committed the second.
Yes indeed, things were moving along very well. I slithered out the door and gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the glare of the afternoon sun. A plan began to form in my mind. I had one last witness to interrogate, and then all I had to do was wait for darkness to fall. If the killer struck again, I would be waiting for him.
I trotted through the front lot, through the side lot, through the wire lot. I passed the old green outhouse, ran up the hill, and made my way to the chicken house. I found my witness in some weeds near the storage tank, chasing grasshoppers. J.T. Cluck, head rooster, just might have some information I could use.
I came up behind him and waited for him to see me. He was so absorbed in his grasshopper business that he didn’t notice me. Finally I got tired of hanging around. I mean, I have better things to do than wait for a dadgum rooster.
“Hey!”
His head shot up. He squawked, flapped his wings, and jumped off the ground a good ten inches. “Bawk! Help, murder! Oh, it’s only you.”
“That’s right, it’s only me, if that’s the way you want to put it. I’ve got some questions to ask
you.”
“All right, fine, because I’ve got some questions to ask you too.”
“Who goes first?”
“I’ll go first.”
“All right, and I’ll go second. Shoot, and don’t waste my time with gossip or insignificant details. And I don’t want to hear about your worthless sons.”
He jerked his head and fixed me with one of his yellow eyes. “Who said my sons were worthless? Just point him out to me and I’ll thrash the lying scoundrel!”
“You’ve said it. Every time I’m around you, that’s all you can talk about.”
“It’s all right for me to say that, but anybody else who says it is going to get thrashed. I have some fine boys.”
“Good.”
“Elsa has done a wonderful job raising them.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“And if they do act a little worthless now and then, it ain’t her fault.”
“Of course not.”
“Because she done her part.”
“What’s your question?”
“What? Oh, my question, yes.” He glanced over both shoulders and moved closer. “How much do you know about grasshoppers?”
“Not much.”
“Well, let me tell you something. I don’t ever recall seeing a crop of grasshoppers that could jump as far as these, and I’ve been studying grasshoppers for many years. If you ask me, there’s something strange going on around here. I think maybe this climate’s changing, makes the grasshoppers harder to catch. It won’t be long until we all starve to death.”
“Maybe you’re getting too old. Had you considered that?”
“Huh? Too old? Who said that! Let me tell you something, mister. I may be getting a little age on me, but that’s only because I ain’t as young as I used to be, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“Okay. Are you through?”
“Naw, I’m just getting warmed up.”
“No, I think you’re through. It’s my turn.”
He glared at me. “Kind of grabby, ain’t you?”
“Just doing my job. Now, I’ve got some questions.”
“Fine. Ask me anything, anything at all. Ask me about grasshoppers or indigestion, I’ve had terrible heartburn lately.”
“I don’t care about indigestion.”
“That’s the whole trouble with this younger generation, they just don’t care about anything.”
“I presume you’re aware that two of your pullets have been murdered.”
“ Of course I’m aware of it. What kind of fiend do you think I am?”
“I’m working on the case and I need some facts. You got any facts for me?”
“Yes sir, I sure do.” He tapped me on the chest with his wing. “Fact Number One: If you don’t get enough gravel in your craw, you’re going to get heartburn. Elsa’s been telling me that for years, but I get so busy with other stuff that I can’t remember to peck gravel, just can’t be bothered with it.”
“Never mind the gravel. I want facts about the murders.”
“What murders? Oh, those. You know what I think?”
“No. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I think we’ve got a fiendish, bloodthirsty, killing murderer on the loose, is what I think. Who else would kill a couple of pullets?”
“I’ve got a lead on a skunk. You smelled any skunks lately?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Who can smell a skunk in a filthy chicken house? I have to live in filth because these danged kids . . .”
“Have you seen any skunks? Have you seen anything . . .” All at once I noticed the shape of J.T.’s drumsticks. “Let me ask you something, J.T.”
“Go on, ask me anything. My life’s an open book, I got nothing to be ashamed of.”
“When a chicken gets older, does the meat lose its flavor?”
“Oh yes, very definitely, and that’s why nobody ever eats old roosters, see. Yes, we get a little age on us and that meat turns tough and stringy. You’d just as well try to eat a roll of binder’s twine.”
“I see.”
“Very tough, very stringy, not much flavor. Now with an old hen, you can take and boil an old hen with some dumplings and she’ll turn out all right. But an old rooster, no sir.”
“I see.” I ran my tongue over my lips. “And . . . pullets? What about pullets?”
“Oh, they’re just about the best eatin’ around. Now you take this meat up here around the chest. On a pullet that meat’s nice and tender and juicy and . . .”
“And larruping good?”
“Yes sir, larruping good, that’s what they tell me.”
“And uh, how about the uh . . . drumsticks on a pullet?”
“Just excruciatingly good. Tender as a woman’s heart, juicy as apple pie . . .” He blinked his eyes and stared at me. “What’s wrong with your mouth, son?”
“Huh?”
“You got water coming out of your mouth. You’re drooling all over yourself.”
I turned away and wiped my mouth. “No, that’s not drool. It’s uh . . .”
“Sure looked like drool to me. Turn back around here and let me look at that again.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not drool. It has nothing to do with drool.”
He dropped his voice. “You can’t fool me, son.”
Very slowly I turned my head around, until our eyes met. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, you can’t fool the head rooster. You’re drooling at the mouth, and I know what that means.”
“Oh yeah? Well uh . . . what does it mean?”
I could hear my heart pounding in my . . . well, in my chest. For some reason, I dreaded his next words.
J.T. leaned toward me and whispered, “You’ve been eatin’ grasshoppers!”
Just for a moment I felt dizzy. Then it passed and I took a deep breath. “How did you know that?”
“Simple deduction and years of experience. Grasshoppers spit tobacco juice, right? Which means they chew tobacco, right? Which means that when you eat a grasshopper, you’re eating his tobacco juice, right? Well sir, that tobacco juice makes a guy drool at the mouth. I know because I’ve done it many, many times.”
“It’s very clever of you to figure that out.”
“And I’ll tell you something else.” He put his beak right in my face. “That stuff will give you the most incredible heartburn you ever had in your life. Now take my advice and don’t go slippin’ around eatin’ grasshoppers anymore.”
I wiped my mouth and regained my composure. “As a general rule I don’t take advice from chickens, but in this case I’m going to make an exception.”
“You could do a lot worse, believe me.”
I started backing away. “Well, I think I’ve . . . uh . . . learned something from this interrogation, and if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
“See you around, son.” He waved a wing. “And don’t forget your gravel—every morning and evening.”
Chapter Eleven: The Sting Stings the Wrong Guy
My interrogation of J.T. Cluck confirmed what I had already begun to suspect—in order to catch the murderer, I would have to do a stake-out of the chicken house.
In case you’re not familiar with the technical language of the security business, to “stake out” a place simply means that we set up an observation point in a high crime area and wait for the villain to strike.
It’s a very handy technique, but I should point out that we don’t go to the stake-out until we’ve done a thorough investigation and have a suspect in mind.
At sundown, I found Drover down at the gas tanks and told him what I had in mind.
“Do you have a suspect?”
“I have several suspects, Drover, including some names you would recognize.”
“Oh my gosh! I’m sure glad I’m not . . . Hank, I’m not on the list, am I?”
“At this point in the investigation, I’m not at liberty to say any more. Why?” I arched my brows and met his gaze. “Are you feeling guilty again?”
He began to fidget. “Well . . . yes, I am, but I don’t know why I should. Do you ever feel guilty?”
I looked away and began to fidget. “Some- times I . . . I’d better be going, Drover. In a couple of hours we should know something, one way or another.”
“You don’t want me to go with you?” I shook my head. “Oh my gosh, I hope I don’t walk in my sleep.”
“Yes, this would be a bad night for that. Well, so long, Drover.” I started away, but he called me back.
“Hank, are you a suspect?”
I looked at him for a long time, then smiled. “Why do you ask a question like that?”
“Oh, it was just a crazy idea that popped into my head.”
“The answer is yes, it was a crazy idea. So long.”
After watching a brilliant sunset, I set up shop in some weeds exactly ten paces north of the chicken house. This gave me an unobstructed view of the door, so that no one could enter or leave without being seen.
By nine o’clock darkness had settled over the ranch. The chickens had gone to roost and their house was quiet except for an occasional coo or squawk. In the darkness and silence, I waited. And for some reason I felt uneasy.
I had never worked a case quite like this one, where one of the suspects included . . . well, Drover, for instance. Even though I had found evidence that cast suspicion on a certain skunk, I couldn’t ignore Drover’s guilty behavior. Nor, for that matter, could I entirely rule out . . .
One of the marks of your blue ribbon, top-of-the-line cowdog is that he must know the truth, and he’s willing to follow a line of evidence even when it leads into a dark pit of . . . knowing the truth is not always pleasant, don’t you see, especially when it reveals . . .
I had to find out who was behind the chicken house murders, even if it meant . . . I had to know, that’s all. It was my job, but that didn’t make it easy or pleasant.
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Page 6