Buddies

by Kip Cassino

  The evening before, Pauley had followed the same route he always took to his job. His path meandered through side streets and alley ways, since Pauley unconsciously attempted to avoid other people as he walked his twenty-block journey. Even though it was a warm summer night in Grand Junction, he wore a heavy, hooded sweatshirt to obscure his face from any passersby. He made the journey without incident, and arrived at the back door of the Banner Burger restaurant a little before seven in the evening, just as the sun was going down. The place would stay open until midnight. Then Pauley and another worker would clean and prep the kitchen for the next day’s business. They’d dispose of any leftover food and garbage, empty and clean the grease trap. Pauley would normally be back at the trailer by three in the morning. He’d take a shower before going to bed, to scrub the odor of his job from him.

  Pauley liked the work at Banner Burger. Since it was located near the Colorado Mesa University campus, the place drew customers far into the evening. There was little “dead time.” Back in the kitchen, he was blocked from the view of diners―and the other workers as well―by walls and machinery. Orders for food flashed on a computer monitor placed at eye-level. He filled the orders, labeled them with a number, and slid them through ramps to the order stations. Even though he heard most of the noise and was aware of the activity around him, he was insulated and alone.

  The store manager, a recent college drop-out, had been horrified when the dentist who owned the franchise presented him with Pauley. “He’ll frighten the customers,” the young man said. “Hell, he scares me.”

  The dentist carefully explained that Pauley was a disabled vet who needed a break. He also had years of food service experience, was willing to work cheap, and would take the graveyard shift nobody else wanted. Over the weeks that followed, the store manager and the rest of the Banner Burger staff began to depend upon Pauley. He worked very hard, never complained, was always on time, and kept the small kitchen spotless. Even though his speech was slow and halting, he understood everything he was told and always seemed to try his best. If he weren’t so damn ugly, the store manager thought, he’d be employee of the year.

  Little changed at work for Pauley on the night he missed his meds. Others on that shift would remember that he seemed to work more quickly than usual, and that he may have talked faster and more lucidly than before. By two a.m. the place was locked up for the night, and Pauley began his walk home. He was not feeling normal by then―far from it. Thoughts darted and seethed though his mind, as if he’d been frozen and was now thawing. He moved quickly, more quickly than he had for a long time. He looked around and noticed things he’d never seen before, during the scores of times he’d walked this same route. It was as though the dull world around him was suddenly coming alive.

  In the back of his mind, Pauley knew the reason for his new perceptions. The meds he took slowed him, and now that brake was gone. There had been other times like this, he recalled―other times in other places when he’d been released from the fetters of his drugs. In the past, the Captain had always found and coaxed him back to the slowness he’d grown to call normal. Would that happen tonight? Pauley hoped not. He liked the way he was beginning to feel.

  Pauley heard a shuffling noise behind him. He stopped, and turned to see a pair of dogs following him up the alley he’d entered. They’d been attracted by the strong food odor still clinging to his clothes from work, he guessed. As the animals drew closer, Pauley leaned forward to pat the leader―a large, heavy, short-muzzled dog―on the head. The dog snarled in warning, then lashed out to bite him. Pauley pulled back his hand, barely avoiding injury. He straightened, and saw that the dogs were trying to encircle him. Both emitted low, menacing growls. He understood that he was in danger. He needed a weapon.

  He realized he had one. He’d seen his knife on the trailer’s counter earlier, and used it trying to pry open the cabinet that held his meds. He’d been unsuccessful, but on a whim decided to take the Ka-Bar with him to work. He would use it to get at some hard-to-reach places that needed cleaning. Besides, he liked having the knife. I reminded him of the days when he’d been whole, of his pride when he was a Marine. He had slipped the scabbard through his belt before he left the trailer.

  Pauley backed up to a high wooden fence. He grabbed a nearby trashcan’s lid with his bad hand, and reached to unsheathe the Ka-Bar with his right. Now armed, he crouched slightly, watching his approaching assailants. His glittering eyes caught the moonlight. He hoped the large dogs would see their danger and move away.

  The dogs did not retreat. The leader silently launched itself at Pauley, jaws agape. Pauley blocked the beast with his improvised shield. As it fell, he sliced it open from stomach to throat with the seven-inch blade of his knife. In the meantime, the second dog lunged at his left arm, sinking its teeth into the cloth of his sweatshirt. The dog pulled, trying to drag him to the ground. Pauley dropped the trashcan cover, leaned toward the dog, and lifted his arm with all of his strength. When the dog’s neck was raised, Pauley sliced through it with the Ka-Bar. Blood spattered, black in the darkness of the alley. The light in the big dog’s eyes faded. It fell on its side, whining liquidly. Most of the sleeve to Pauley’s sweatshirt remained seized in its jaws.

  Pauley leaned against the fence, hands on knees, breathing heavily. He looked at the hulks of the beasts beside him, and knew he’d been lucky. The dogs had been dangerous, and meant to maul or even kill him. Without his Ka-Bar, he might not have survived their attack. He wiped the remaining blood on his knife over the still flank of the dog nearest him, returned the weapon to its sheath, and moved away. He felt elated by his victory for a little while, but soon the reality of what he’d done confronted him. He’d killed dogs―probably somebody’s pets gotten loose. They’d be found. Authorities would look for the one responsible: him. He had committed gross cruelty to animals, no minor offense. There were no witnesses to prove he had been attacked. He had to get home and tell the Captain. The Captain would know what to do. Where was his friend? A vast mood swing swept through him. Elation became confusion and depression. Suddenly, he felt very frightened, profoundly fatigued. He began looking for a place to hide, a place where he could safely rest.

  As he walked down a neighborhood street on his way to the Banner Burger, the Captain noticed police activity in an alleyway he passed. Fearing the worst, he walked toward a parked police car. “What’s going on, officer?” he asked the cop who stood beside it.

  The cop eyed him suspiciously. “You got business here?” he asked.

  “Just trying to find my dog,” the Captain said, looking around.

  “Well, we got two here. Dead as doornails,” the cop said. “Somebody butchered them with a big knife. Tore the guts out of one. Owner is really pissed.” He motioned to the nearest in a pair of sheet covered shapes. “Look at the other one, if you want. If he’s yours, you can sign a complaint. When we catch this clown, he’ll get jail time.”

  Stepping over to the shape, the Captain squatted and lifted the sheet. The dog beneath it was large, had probably weighed fifty pounds or more. The mouth showed mean fangs. It also showed a large piece of ripped sweatshirt, which could have been Pauley’s, held between them. Dropping the sheet, the Captain rose, shaking his head. “Not mine, thank God,” he said.

  “Good,” said the cop, now leaning into his squad car to answer a radio call.

  The Captain walked away quickly, continuing up the alley away from the gruesome scene. It could have been Pauley, he guessed. The wound looked right. He tried to remember whether the big knife was back at the trailer or not. If Pauley had been involved, he would be somewhere between here and the trailer, the Captain decided. He’d probably be sleeping. He had to be found quickly, then both of them had to get out of Grand Junction.

  He found his friend more than a block away, asleep in an empty woodshed. He’d looked inside because the shed’s door was ajar. There lay Pauley, dead to the
world, his good arm shielding his eyes. The left sleeve of his sweatshirt had been ripped away. The Captain’s worst suspicions were confirmed. He knelt over his buddy, shaking his shoulder. “Pauley,” he said gently. “Wake up. Wake up, Marine. Time to get up.”

  Pauley’s eyes blinked open, widened. “Captain!” he exclaimed. “Where have you been? I missed my meds all day yesterday. I got attacked by dogs, I think. Unless it was a dream.”

  The Captain pulled Pauley to his feet and walked him from the shed. “I got arrested, Pauley,” he told his friend. “The cops threw me in jail. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you, but it’s O.K. now. Look, I brought your meds with me.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out the big brown pills, and handed them to Pauley. He gave him the can of soft drink as well.

  Pauley took the pills in his hand, laid them on his tongue, opened and sipped the cola. He felt a pang of sadness as he did. He knew he needed the pills, and that bad things could happen if he didn’t take them. Still, he had felt so good last night. He finished the can, carefully placed it in a nearby trashcan, and walked with the Captain back to the trailer. He was sure they’d have to leave this town now and go someplace else.

  Chapter 8

  Grand Junction, Colorado

  August, 2017 The Day of the Captain’s Release from Jail

  Prell and Cardiff had been in Grand Junction since mid-afternoon. Briefed beforehand, the Grand Junction resident agent had met them at the airport, and arranged for a government car to get them around town. She guided them to a motel, where the men checked in and deposited their bags. Then they hurried to the police department.

  A tall, heavy detective named Brickell met them in the building’s lobby. “You’re too late,” he said. “Your suspect was released before noon. He left a local address. If you want, we can go over there and see if he’s still around. My guess, he’s skipped town by now.”

  “What makes you say that?” Cardiff asked.

  “I interrogated the guy yesterday,” Brickell said. “He came off as too smart for his own good―a know-it-all, if you get my drift. Had an answer for everything, you know what I mean? Another low-life drifter. They blow through town every day. Nothing but trouble.”

  “We’ll follow you in our car, if that’s all right,” Prell said. “We’re parked out front.”

  Brickell nodded. In a few minutes they were travelling up a littered back road through the entrance to a dingy trailer park. Their guide parked his squad car beside a rusty brown, fifties-era single-wide. He got out of his car and walked to meet them. “Took the squad to shake some of these citizens up,” the Grand Junction cop said as he approached. “Half the folks here probably ran off when they saw me coming.” Brickell grinned widely, as if enjoying a large joke.

  “This is a bad part of town?” Cardiff asked.

  “It’s the worst part of town,” Brickell said, “this and a couple more parks like it. Half of the trailers don’t even have plumbing. These people live in them anyhow. We get lots of calls from here. I know the place like the back of my hand. Here’s the unit you’re looking for,” he said, pointing to the trailer in back of his squad car. He began walking toward it. “Hell, I think I made a bust in this one, a year or so back,” he said over his shoulder.

  Prell and Cardiff looked at each other, then followed Brickell. It was a little after four, on a sun-speckled late summer day. A large group of residences might be expected to be quiet, but this trailer park was absolutely still. There was no noise from children, motors running, human activity of any kind. The place had a hushed silence. “Eerie, ain’t it?” the local cop said as they joined him at the trailer’s door. “Don’t worry, though. Folks here’ll get active, once we’ve left.” He climbed a rough wooden step and pulled on the door, which then swung open. “Anybody home?” he called into the unit. He turned to face his visitors. “I think your boy has flown the coop,” he said. “I figured he would.”

  “Can you put some crime scene tape around the door?” Prell asked. “We’ll get a search warrant and go through the place. There may be some latent prints, something else he’s left behind.”

  “I’ll do that,” Brickell said, as he turned back toward his squad car. “I’ll help you get the warrant and bring some techs over to dust the place as well.”

  “If Taws has left town, which way do you think he went?” Prell asked. “He’ll be on foot. He doesn’t have a car.”

  “He might have made it to the bus station,” Brickell said. “We can swing by there on our way back to the station. My guess: he’s headed east. He can lose himself in a big town like Denver. What do you guys like him for, anyhow?”

  “We think he’s travelling with a partner,” Prell said. “We’re looking at them for a string of murders. The BOLO went out a few weeks ago. If you’d seen it earlier, we’d have Taws in custody”

  “This isn’t a big town,” Brickell said. “A BOLO from that far away could get lost in the shuffle. I’ll see what happened when we get back. Murder, huh? That’s heavy shit.” He got in his car, slammed the door, and left. Prell and Cardiff followed in their government vehicle.

  After returning to police headquarters, the task-force members waited while Brickell worked on a search warrant and tried to find out what happened to their “be on the lookout” bulletin. “Traced that BOLO,” he said when he returned to his desk. “It got stalled in the dispatcher’s office. These things happen. Got your warrant, though. When do you want the crime scene techs sent out?”

  “As soon as you can make it happen,” Cardiff said. “While we’re at it, any prints you got or photos you took of Taws while you had him will be useful. We’re still working with a twelve- year-old description.”

  Brickell nodded, and made a call. He looked up from his desk when he was done. “O.K.,” he said. “The crime scene crew is on its way. You can go with them if you want. I’m going to have to leave you guys for a while. We got a big investigation going on.”

  “What’s happening?” Prell asked.

  “Nothing that would make a difference in a bigger place,” Brickell said. “Two dogs got killed last night, in an alley uptown. They were good-sized brutes. Whoever did it used a real big knife with an odd blade. Cut one damn near in half, and slit the other one’s throat. Some kind of cult thing, maybe. The owner’s real upset, and he’s a city councilman.” He shook his head.

  Prell raised his eyebrows. “A big knife, huh?” he said. “Do they know what kind?”

  “I’m sure they’ll check it,” Brickell said. “Why do you care?”

  “A big knife, a Ka-Bar, has been used in all the murders we’re investigating.” Prell said. “That’s why. Leo, you go with the crime scene crew. See what the trailer gives up. I’m going with Detective Brickell here, to look at some dead dogs.”

  Back at the trailer park, Pauley and the Captain proved Brickell wrong. They hadn’t left town at all. Instead, they’d hidden in another trailer nearby―an empty unit the Captain broke into easily. They had watched the police search their former home from a window less than thirty feet away.

  Evening had settled over the trailer park. Pauley now rested in his sleeping bag on the invaded trailer’s floor. The younger man was exhausted. The Captain sat at a worn Formica counter, trying to decide what to do next. The police were actively looking for him now. He could see that. Why they were, how they’d identified him, didn’t really matter at this point. What mattered was the box it put him in, and Pauley as well. Neither the roads nor the bus station were options any longer. He’d be identified and apprehended, and so would Pauley. He’d already counted the money in their kitty―the cash they’d been able to lay aside since arriving in Grand Junction. It totaled less than one hundred dollars, not enough for decent bus tickets anyhow. The Captain concentrated, weighing possibilities, estimating risk. They had to get to Denver, he decided. It was a big enough city to cloak them for a few days, while h
e worked to move them a greater distance. The Captain had regretfully determined that they must leave the west, where he and Pauley had traveled invisibly for a decade, where both were comfortable. Instead, he would take them east. In a few hours, when Pauley awoke, they would finalize their desperate plan.

  Chapter 9

  Grand Junction, Colorado

  The Day After the Captain’s Release from Jail

  Del Sweeney hurried his considerable bulk to the apartment’s entry way, drawn by the doorbell’s jarring ring. He carefully peered through the spy-hole in the door. Seeing nothing suspicious, he released the deadbolt and the chain, cracked the door open, and looked out to see if a package had been left. As expected, a cardboard box sat in the hall, just beyond his reach. He opened the door wider and leaned out to pick up the box. That’s when the Captain clubbed him with the makeshift sap he’d improvised from a bar of hand soap and a pair of heavy socks.

  Jumping over his unconscious victim, the Captain dragged him into the apartment and locked it once again. It wasn’t easy work. Sweeney weighed over three hundred pounds. Even so, after a few minutes the porcine telemarketer lay in his living room, bound securely with cord brought along for that purpose and gagged with duct tape.