by Bob Knapp
Judge Newsome's bloodless smile joined Fowlkes’ in grim agreement. Michael Hanover was a dangerous man.
27
Setup
The next morning started out well enough for Fowlkes. He patrolled the area of the county along Route 2, checked out Boat Club Drive to the waterfront, chased some teens from Country Club Road, then stopped at Millie's Cool River Café.
In the afternoon Helen handed him the West Virginia State Police report on Crabapple's death along with his afternoon cup of coffee. More than two months had passed since the death; the forensics lab had not considered the investigation a priority. Until now, the death had been deemed an obvious accident.
The medical examiner's report on Crabapple's body was much like Fowlkes expected—broken neck and clavicle, abrasions and contusions. Several days had passed before a hiker discovered the corpse. Heat had taken its toll, making a precise date of death difficult to determine, though in the medical examiner's opinion, there was a seventy-five percent probability that it occurred on July 12.
The state's analysis of the railing was what worried Fowlkes. It stated that more force had been required to separate the rail from its post than Crabapple alone could have supplied. The nails had been loose in the rail but still firmly set in the post. Only with a hammer or crowbar could Crabapple have, in his weakened condition, severed the rail from its anchor. The State Police concluded that a second party had been present and that Crabapple had been murdered.
Fowlkes couldn't afford to have the state prying into the case any further. Jumping into his patrol car, he sped to his Jug property atop the bluff and climbed the steps to the porch from which Crabapple had fallen. A cross work of two-by-fours nailed to the porch posts stood in place of the missing rail. Looking down the steep hillside at what Crabapple had called Satan's Slope, Fowlkes grinned. Satan's Slope—the man was a seer.
Returning to the steps on the west end of the porch, Fowlkes was awed by the sight of the evening sky. The sun burned the dust in the drought-cursed air to a crimson red. It reminded him of the two monstrous red rocks that looked like devil's horns rising from the Jug Handle's streambed. He turned to look down at the Jug. He mused on the spigot, the little waterfall turned on by the devil to fill his tub in the creek. Then there was the large concave rock, the Devil's Palm that had worked on Hanover for him. Fowlkes grinned as he imagined Candy and Hanover entwined in its hollow. Nearby was Dead Man's Curve from which León had gunned the car before striking Mehrhaus. That little act had made the ground where he now stood his. And now he looked down on Satan's Slope that had eliminated Crabapple. Surely, forces greater than he had plans for him to own Mehrhaus's property—with a casino standing in place of this little house. What did he care from whence those sources came? He would not—could not—be defeated. Momentum, and someone greater, was on his side.
Now he needed a scapegoat and the choice was obvious. Hanover. Hanover's influence in Madison County was too great, anyway. Fowlkes nodded. Eliminating Hanover would produce a threefold benefit: it would remove a major obstacle to the resort; it would allow unfettered access to Becky, and, most importantly; it would remove the one person who suspected he was involved in Crabapple's death.
Fowlkes’ previous investigation at the Crabapple home had produced a Hanover grocery receipt. He smiled as he recalled the date on the receipt, July 12, the same date as in the coroner's report. Everyone knew Hanover delivered Crabapple's groceries. And Crabapple had few visitors. The receipt would place Hanover at Crabapple's house on the day of his death.
What about a motive? Hanover was liberal with credit to his store patrons. Many customers owed money to the store—Crabapple's debt was probably substantial. The store's bookkeeping records would reveal how substantial.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor would say, “Mr. Hanover attempted to collect payment on the debt owed him by the deceased, Mr. Crabapple, at the Crabapple home. The two men stood by the porch railing, which overlooks, as Mr. Crabapple called it, Satan's Slope. They quarreled over the obligation and Mr. Hanover, in a fit of anger, pushed Mr. Crabapple against the rail, which gave way. Mr. Crabapple plunged to his death. This was a deliberate attempt at second-degree murder. Had it been an accident, Mr. Hanover would have reported it immediately, perhaps even rushing down the slope to try to save Mr. Crabapple's life.”
“Your Honor, the Madison County jury finds Michael Hanover guilty of second degree murder!”
Fowlkes was happy with this scenario. Tomorrow, he decided, he would present Judge Frederick Newsome with a copy of Hanover Store's Crabapple account and the dated grocery receipt as justification for a warrant for Hanover's arrest. But first, would invite the judge to examine his liquor cabinet at his mansion. Judge Newsome was always up for a shot or two. And a gift of bourbon—Elijah Craig 18 Year Old and a few “dead presidents”—should seal Judge Newsome's agreement with the propriety of the accusation.
* * *
After returning to his office in Madison City from the morning's refreshments with Judge Newsome, Fowlkes picked up his telephone and dialed, then waited for it to be answered.
“Slim, this is Sheriff Fowlkes. Something important is about to happen at the Hanover Store. Better send one of your Valley View reporters over at five o’clock.” Fowlkes chuckled. He liked to rib Gates about his one-man operation.
28
Fugitive
Hanover’s Store was always busy in the late afternoon, especially on Fridays—payday. But this day was exceptionally busy. Hanover wasn’t feeling very well; he had been having difficulty sleeping. Because of the drought, the wholesale cost of foodstuffs had risen substantially, especially fresh produce. He wanted to hold the line on his store prices. Many of his customers already had difficulty paying their bills.
And then there was Becky. She had been so beautiful. Still was. And had been everything a man could ask for—supportive, considerate, hardworking, loyal, loving—but suddenly took a 180 degree turn, just when things got hard.
There was a lull at the counter while a number of customers shopped in narrow aisles crowded with groceries, hardware items, clothing, over-the-counter drugs, you-name-its. They squeezed around farm and garden implements jammed along the back wall. Hanover sat down on a high stool, leaned back against the wall behind the counter and took a deep breath. His head throbbed.
Outside, four car doors slammed shut almost simultaneously. Another wave of customers, Hanover thought. He peered through the entrance doors and saw a squad car that belonged to the Madison County Sheriff's Office. The thought of Fowlkes caused him to seethe.
* * *
Sheriff Fowlkes was pleased that the three deputies he had assigned to this arrest—even Waxter—had arrived on time. As Fowlkes stepped out of his car, an old ‘67 Mustang slid into the parking lot, throwing gravel and sending up a cloud of dust.
“Right on the money, Slim,” Fowlkes called through the Mustang’s open window. He grimaced as dust settled on his polished squad car.
Fowlkes watched Gates extricate himself from his rusty pride and joy that leaned perpetually to the left because of its owner's 450 pounds. A smashed and oily sofa pillow, once a flowery spring green, lent some support to what remained of the driver’s seat. Fowlkes grimaced as wads of paper and spent soda pop cans fell out of the car before Gates closed the door. Grabbing notepad and pencil, Gates chugged over to Fowlkes. Chugging is what Slim did when he was running.
“What’s up, Sheriff?” asked the reporter, wheezing slightly. “I don’t see anything.”
“Just hold your horses, it won’t be long now. Stand over there behind your car. No use taking any chances.” It was all Fowlkes could do to hide his disdain for this disheveled mountain.
Fowlkes waved his arm in a circle over his head to direct his three deputies to their positions. John Brady, his most experienced deputy, was sent to a door near the rear used to accept deliveries. The only other exit was the double door at the front, which
Fowlkes manned with Chet Waxter. Fowlkes wanted to keep an eye on Waxter. Orlando León was assigned to the left front corner of the building and Big Al Cummings to the right front corner, nearest the main entrance. A tow truck hauling Hanover's SUV was leaving the lot. Fowlkes was not taking any chances. Hanover would not escape.
Securing the perimeter of the store wasn’t difficult. The store had once served as a two-apartment house, a one story whitewashed block affair with a gabled roof and an attic dormer facing the rear. A glass double door and a long horizontal window had been installed at the front.
It was a win-win scenario. Hopefully, Hanover would try to escape and would be shot and killed. At worst, he would be peacefully arrested and be held in jail without bail. Newsome had already agreed there would be no bail.
* * *
Bill Rawlings handed Hanover his payment as Fowlkes entered the store and walked to the counter. Waxter stood guard outside the front door.
“Michael Hanover, you are under arrest for the murder of Howard Crabapple,” Fowlkes said and readied his gun hand. He gave Hanover plenty of room, hoping he would make a run for it.
Hanover's jaw dropped. His hand involuntarily closed into a fist around the bills.
His mind raced. Fowlkes is trying to pin the murder on somebody. Make himself look good. He hates me. Do anything to get rid of me. Anything! This is his excuse. If he throws me in jail, even into his car, he'll make sure I'm dead. Maybe by tomorrow.
Hanover's athletic reflexes took over. “See you later,” he said, then began handing two of Rawlings's packed grocery bags to him, but instead heaved them at Fowlkes who instinctively caught them, rendering it impossible for him to draw his sidearm. Hanover dove into the room behind the counter, slammed the door and barred it shut. Fowlkes vaulted over the counter and threw his shoulder into the door repeatedly. The door did not give.
Fowlkes ran back outside. “We got Hanover trapped inside with a bunch of customers. He'll have to come out sometime. Take him down, dead or alive!”
* * *
Hanover heard Fowlkes bellow. I was right. Fowlkes wants to carry me out on a gurney draped with a sheet. He set it up so I would resist arrest and he could shoot me. He's slick, but he's not getting everything he wanted.
Hanover's head pounded as he pulled down the steps from the ceiling and climbed quickly into the sweltering attic. With considerable effort, he pulled the steps up behind him. The attic swam in front of his eyes. Clutching a rafter, he went to his knees to avoid the low ceiling, and slowly crawled around stacked boxes of detergents, paper towels and other non-perishables toward the dormer window that faced the rear. Hanover pushed open the window, pausing as a stream of fresh air cleared his head. His view to the left was partially obstructed by a large holly tree growing against the wall. Seeing no one, and by clinging to the windowsill, he lowered himself outside to the roof. In a crouch he made his way to the roof's edge, then jumped to the ground. As Hanover dropped, he glimpsed the movement of a uniform through the leaves of the holly. The ground's impact stunned him and he fell, face down, with his left wrist bent back beneath him. As he stood, he saw the barrel of a revolver pointed at his head.
Hanover sighed. This was it, then. His eyes met those of Deputy John Brady.
“Hello, Michael,” Brady said and pressed his lips together. “Sorry about this. Now get next to the wall and lean against it with your forehead.”
Hanover groaned and held his head. “John, how's your wife? She getting around any better?” His head cleared with every second.
“She's improving. Taking a new medicine. Look, Michael, I hate this. I'd rather chitchat, but I got to do my job. Now put your hands behind you.”
Hanover turned his head against the wall to watch. Brady's gray hair reminded him of years past, how, when he had been small, Brady had held out his hand and had said, “shake.” More often than not, Hanover found a dime or a quarter in his palm. He noticed the paunch extending over the deputy's belt, fed by Coors during years of visits at Millie's Cool River Café.
Brady stepped forward; his right hand pointed the gun at Hanover while his left reached for the handcuffs behind his back. A cloud of tear gas seeped from the cracks around the back door of the store.
Hanover saw Brady's head and eyes shift away as he reached back to grasp the shackles. Brady caught a whiff of gas and coughed. Cat-like, Hanover sprung from the wall and grabbed Brady's gun hand. He brought it down hard on an upraised knee. The weapon squirted to the ground behind the deputy. The older man lunged for the gun. Hanover tackled him, stopping him dead. Brady cried out as his ankle twisted.
Scrambling to his feet, Hanover snatched the sidearm from the ground on the run and quickly outdistanced his hobbling pursuer. Glancing over his shoulder, Hanover saw his old friend limp toward the store with his empty holster flapping at his side, hacking from the gas. Why did it have to be Brady?
Hanover reached a white fence, vaulted over it and slipped into the trees beyond. He kept moving.
His feet were running, but he hadn’t noticed where they were taking him. The ground, the grass, the trees were like a watercolor painting caught in a storm. Instinct rather than reason kept him in wooded areas. His breath came in gasps, but fear drove him on. He was oblivious to the burning in his chest and the pain from his wrist.
After more than a mile at a near sprint, he slowed his pace. Not until then did he notice his left arm held close to his body protecting his damaged wrist. His right hand still gripped the revolver.
Where could he go? His house would be under surveillance. He didn’t know whom he could trust, including Becky.
He thought of Fowlkes’ charge. “Under arrest for the murder of Howard Crabapple.” Hanover never in this world thought he would be on this side of the law. He had acted stupidly. Now he was a fugitive. A fugitive! His racing heart gave a sudden lurch.
Fowlkes and his deputies had come after him at the store. Even John Brady. John and his wife had his elderly mother to look after and needed this job. He had been a deputy for twenty-five years. If only the town had elected John as Sheriff.
They were Hanover's friends, including Waxter and León—or so he had thought. They had come to the store countless times. He had “put it on the tab” whenever they were “running a little short.” Would they have shot him?
It was Fowlkes. Fowlkes was Satan himself! He had twisted their minds.
A group of homes lay ahead. To avoid them, Hanover veered west, toward Route 2. Another wood awaited him on the other side of the road and, seeing no vehicles in sight, he dashed across.
He hit the loosely stoned berm on the far side of the road, lost his footing and plunged headfirst down the embankment. His face and the hand gripping the revolver scraped against the stones and sunbaked earth. Stunned, he lay there for several seconds. Gradually, he gathered his legs under himself. Panting as he struggled to his feet, he realized he could not continue at this pace. He hurried in a crouch down the remainder of the embankment, away from the road, through tall grass and to the far side of a broad tree. No one passing on the road would see him there. He needed to rest, to take stock of his situation. He sat back against the tree, the revolver in his hand resting across his abdomen.
Slowly, he became aware that his knees, hand and the side of his face were burning. Nothing serious, just some abrasions from the tumble down the bank. He brushed a few small stones from his face and hands and wiped his face with his handkerchief. There was a little blood. His wrist shot searing pain up his arm when he flexed it. Using one hand and his teeth, he bound the handkerchief around it as best as he could.
Exhaustion hit him. The emotions and exertion of the last half-hour flooded his body. Had he been running for hours? Pain hammered his skull. A darkness, far exceeding the darkness of night, drifted down upon him as his eyes closed. He stretched himself out in the grass behind the tree, aware of nothing.
* * *
Nearly a mile away a deputy sheriff halted his crui
ser at the side of the road. An old Chevy pickup with two hounds riding in its bed stopped behind the patrol car. The pickup's driver, a lean man with shaggy salt and pepper hair sticking out from beneath a McElroy Mine Company ball cap, let down the tailgate. A pair of baying Redbone hounds leaped from the pickup bed to the ground. The man under the McElroy cap immediately leashed them and then walked them to the deputy. The law officer stooped and brandished a grocer's apron for the hounds to sniff, then encouraged the dogs to search the adjacent field. They pulled the leashes taut and set off into the field, pulling their charges behind them.
Doc and Pepper were regarded as the best coonhounds in Mills Valley. This was the first time they had been asked to hunt a man.
29
Coon Hounds
“I still think they oughta run.” Memphis Smythe lifted his McElroy Mine cap and ran his fingers through his hair. The man he addressed was Deputy Sheriff Big Al Cummings. Memphis settled his cap back onto his head and picked up his Marlin rifle, automatically checking its night scope. The hair beneath his cap still stuck out in all directions. “They ain't no blood hounds. Doc and Pepper runs when they hunts and hunts when they runs. That's all they knows. They think a leash is for them little dogs taking a walk.”
Cummings managed to smother his laugh. “It's almost night. How we going to know where the dogs are, what they're up to?” He couldn't help but torment Memphis. He glanced at him and saw that he was working his jaw.
“Okay, but I bet they thought I was wiping their noses with that store apron of Michael's,” Cummings added. “Don't get me wrong, Memphis. I'm happy you're letting us use them.” Pulling Doc to him, he patted the dog's deep red coat before unsnapping the leash as Memphis released Pepper. The dogs barked, bounded away, and were lost to sight in the tall grass.