LITTLE YELLOW CORVETTE
For the third day in the row the sun had scarcely broke the horizon before Sam’s phone rang.
“You need to get over to Foster Motors,” came the monotone voice of Kendal Parks.
The all-business detective dispensed with the pleasantries most people feel they must exchange when waking someone from a sound sleep.
Wiping the sleep from his eyes, reality set in.
“Is it Bart?” Sam asked.
The sheriff, even in his semi-conscious state, wondered if their killer had taken out the ringleader. He wasn't sure whether he felt dread or relief when it came to Bart falling victim to the killer.
“No, he’s very much alive,” Kendal replied.
The detective's answer was confusing since he was telling the sheriff to meet him at Foster Motors. If Bart was still among the living, why was he being summoned to the car lot?
“Who’s dead then?” Sam asked. “Is it Stevie?”
“Well sheriff, to be honest, we don’t know,” Kendal replied. “I’ll brief you once you get here. Let’s just say it’s ... complicated.”
While Sam had hoped Castle County would go an evening without another slaying, he was realistic. The killer was becoming more brazen with each murder. With that in mind, Sam usurped the garage from his wife the night before and parked his cruiser inside the relative warmth of their two-car garage. The couple found out after buying the home several years ago that “two-car garage” is code for a garage which will barely hold one car and your junk.
Quickly making his way across town, it didn’t take long for Sam to see the reason for his third consecutive morning wake-up call as he pulled into the sales lot of Foster Motors. Sitting in front of the office was one of Bart’s favorite cars, his beautifully-restored yellow Corvette, a Stingray to be exact. Bart could be seen tooling about the town on most days. He liked showing off his toys and the 'Vette was his favorite plaything.
From what Sam had heard, Bart restored the car a couple of months ago along with his old friend, Stevie Grissom, who was somewhat of an expert when it came to classic vehicles. The pair were one of the few long-term friendships, from what Sam knew, which remained from the Red Dog days. The immaculately-restored Corvette was Bart’s pride and joy.
That was why Sam couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the shiny yellow classic with large red letters on its hood reading … Red Dog. So much for keeping it quiet, Sam thought as he got out of his cruiser. Several people were milling around looking at the spectacle. The number of gawkers included Cliff Chapman who was busy snapping pictures of the vandalism.
“I guess it’s on the record now huh?” the old newsman said as he walked up to meet the sheriff. “I’m pretty sure that’s not red paint on there.”
“I suppose not,” Sam sighed as he eyed the size of the letters which covered most of the long, shapely hood of the Corvette.
The reporter was right. The public appearance of the killer’s bloody signature message meant there was no more keeping it something only law enforcement knew. It was now public domain. The Red Dog Killer had announced his presence to the world.
“Thought of that girl’s name yet?” Sam asked. "I really need that name."
Sam figured the old reporter hadn't recalled the name but decided to ask anyway. Instead he was more captivated by the scene before him. The amount of blood needed to paint the car, if it were blood, meant whoever donated the crimson fluid was likely not still alive.
“I’m trying sheriff, honest, it just isn’t coming,” Cliff sheepishly responded.
Cliff was embarrassed by his sketchy memory. He had tried his hardest to pluck the name from the back of his brain. He went so far as to drink a six-pack the night before. He hoped the beer would relax him and allow him to recall the forgotten name. In the end, however, all the beer served to do was give him a buzz and leave him with a dull headache this morning.
“Well keep trying,” Sam said. “It’s important.”
Walking over to the car, the sheriff hailed Kendal who was taking statements from some bystanders.
“Before you ask, sheriff, the red on the car has field-tested positive for blood,” Kendal said.
“Do we have any idea who it belongs to?” Sam asked as he saw Bart standing at the door of his dealership watching him and his investigator talk. “I mean I don’t think you can go to the paint store and buy a bucket of blood.”
Rolling his eyes at the sheriff’s off-the-cuff comment, the ever by-the-book detective continued his briefing.
“Not for sure, but we have a good idea,” Kendal responded. “It seems Stevie Grissom went out for milk and eggs last night and never came home.”
Sam already assumed Stevie was the donor of the crimson paint. The sheriff kicked himself for not being aggressive enough during his meeting at Stevie's home. Had he pushed the nervous suspect harder the day before or at least brought him in for questioning, he may have gotten him to give in. With a little more prodding Stevie may have come clean and, in turn, still been alive.
“It looks like our killer decided to go public,” Kendal declared.
“Agreed,” Sam replied.
The sheriff's attention was drawn to the numerous bystanders watching what was going on at the car lot. Sam couldn't help but wonder if their killer was standing nearby. Perhaps the killer had returned to the scene of the crime.
“Any idea what time this happened?” Sam asked.
“Someone found it when the sun came up this morning,” the investigator replied. “Now, how long it was here before that is a mystery. I suppose it could have been anytime last night since they closed the lot at eight.”
Leaning in toward his detective, Sam quietly issued his orders.
“I want you to get someone with a video camera to film the scene here and make sure the person working the camera films the people milling around,” Sam directed the investigator. “Make sure to be smooth about it. If our killer is standing around, I don’t want to scare him off.”
Nodding to the sheriff, the detective walked over to his patrol car and pulled out the video camera he kept in his trunk.
“Hey kid, come here,” Kendal said, hailing Deputy Faulkner who was working crowd control trying to keep motorists moving along.
Some of the rubberneckers were causing a traffic hazard as they slowed while passing in front of the dealership to see what was going on. .
Explaining his assignment and warning him to be low key, Kendal handed the young officer the camera and walked back to the sheriff.
“Word’s got out,” Kendal surmised. “Rumor is already on the street this has to do with the last two murders. They’re saying it’s a serial killer.”
Sam realized common knowledge was wrong in this case. He understood what they were dealing with was not a deranged serial killer but was instead a revenge killer. Their murderer wasn't a thrill-killer nor was he doing it for fun. The killer, Sam believed, was out to set the score straight. For all he knew, the murders could have been planned for years.
For Sam the motive was obvious. It was the remaining targets that were unclear. Were there one or five? The one thing Sam knew for sure was that Bart was in the thick of what was going on. The question in his mind was whether Bart would be the next victim or if he was behind the string of murders. Frankly, Sam wouldn’t put it past him although bringing focus onto his front door step, so to speak, didn’t make sense if the businessman was involved in the slayings. Regardless, it was time to have a chat with the former sheriff’s son.
Excusing himself as the crime lab team pulled into the parking lot, leaving the crime scene in Kendal’s hands, Sam walked into the dealership office.
“Sheriff,” Bart said coldly as Sam approached.
“We need to talk,” Sam declared, not bothering to extend his hand to the businessman.
Bart motioned his guest to his posh office located in the back of the dealership. He immediately walked over to his small bar and grabbed
a bottle of liquor.
“Care for one?” Bart asked as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
“No thanks,” Sam replied.
“That’s what I figured,” Bart retorted as he closed the bottle and took a sip of his drink. “Sit down.”
“I think I’ll just stand if it’s all the same with you,” Sam replied.
The sheriff didn't believe in pretense since he had never liked Bart. The salesmen always seemed shady. Plus, there were too many rumors about Bart's connection with the criminal element. Sam knew that "where there's smoke, there's fire" so he figured the businessman was less than reputable.
“Suit yourself, sheriff,” Bart shot back as he took a seat in his large leather chair.
The businessman was not a fan of the sheriff, making their dislike for one another mutual. Bart didn't approve of the way Sam did his job. In Bart's eyes, no one could be a better sheriff than his father.
“So what can I help you with today?" Bart began. "I’ve got a yellow Corvette on the lot I’ll sell you cheap.”
Sam didn't care much for Bart’s flippant attitude since they were probably looking at a third homicide.
“I guess you can start by telling me what happened at the Red Dog that has someone killing your old friends one by one,” Sam said. "You do remember the old Red Dog, don't you Bart?"
Giving the sheriff a nervous grin, taking a loud sip of his drink, Bart ran his hand through his receding dark hair.
“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest what you’re talking about sheriff,” Bart said innocently. “All I know is someone trashed my prize hotrod. I hope you guys can bring this dangerous vandal to justice.”
“I think we both know what that is on your hood,” Sam shot back in an agitated tone. “I’m not a doctor but I’d have to guess that someone who lost that much blood probably isn’t with us anymore. By my way of thinking, your old buddy Stevie Grissom is probably the donor. You know, he's the guy who helped you restore your precious hotrod. Looks like to me someone’s trying to send you a message.”
Bart maintained his smile and leaned back in his chair.
“You know, sheriff, that a successful businessman like me makes a few enemies here and there,” Bart began. “Maybe someone is mad about paying for the undercoating - that’s a scam you know. Or maybe they didn’t get what they wanted in a trade. Bottom line is that could be anything messing up my fine automobile. It’s deer season for crying out loud. It’s probably deer blood some rednecks drained out of a poor doe after spotlighting last night. You’re seeing ghosts where they aren’t any.”
Sam delivered a steely glare as he stared down his host for a moment.
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Sam declared.
“I suppose so,” Bart retorted as he locked stares with the sheriff.
“In that case, good luck to you,” Sam said. “I’m sure whoever it is out there will work their way around to you sooner than later.”
Bart refused to break his staring contest with the lawman although the smile ran away from his face given the sheriff's comment.
“That sounds like a threat, sheriff,” Bart said, narrowing his eyes. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No, that’s a prediction,” Sam countered. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”
Bart stood up from his desk and took a last swig of his drink. Then, slamming down his glass on his desk, he sneered at the lawman.
“It seems to me, sheriff, you aren’t helping anybody,” Bart declared. “It seems like there’s a lot of people dying on your watch lately. I don’t recall people dying left and right back when my father was sheriff.”
Bart’s statement ran all over Sam. He could feel the veins sticking out in his neck and the heat on his face. He was about to break red on his host.
“How about young girls getting raped at the old Red Dog?” Sam shot back. “I guess your father wasn’t much good at solving that, especially when his boy was involved.”
Sam’s statement cut a nerve as Bart stepped from behind his desk and walked aggressively toward the sheriff. He stood eye-to-eye with the lawman.
“You better watch your mouth,” Bart snarled. “You don’t need to be talking about things you know nothing about and you better not talk about my father. You aren’t even in his league.”
Sam now sported a smirk, realizing he had hit a chord. He could feel the hatred oozing from Bart. It was white-hot.
“At least I don’t turn my head to a rapist,” Sam countered. "Maybe dear old dad was into that type of thing. Did he like little girls too, Bart, or was that just a thing his son was into?"
Bart was a bright shade of red. He clenched his teeth and balled up his fists. He wanted to make his move.
“If you weren’t wearing a badge I’d …” Bart began.
“You’d what?” Sam interrupted. “This badge can come off real quick, tough guy. I’d like nothing better than for you to take a swing. But then you're the type who likes taking advantage of little girls. Fighting with a grown man isn't something you've got the guts to do unless your daddy is around to save you.”
Bart eyed the lawman head to toe. He would like nothing better than to smack the smile off Sam's face. But he realized that was just what the sheriff wanted. He was baiting him. Plus, deep down, Bart knew the sheriff would wipe the floor with him in a fair fight.
“That’s just what you want isn’t it?” Bart said knowingly. “You’d love for me to take a swing at you. Then you could put me in your jail. Well, sheriff, I’m not going to give you that pleasure. I will, however, have to ask you to leave the premises.”
“I’d love to do that but this is an active crime scene,” Sam responded. “And as for having you in my jail, I’d rather have the pleasure of kicking your ass. Besides, one of your old Red Dog buddies is already a guest at my bed and breakfast. Remember your old friend Rhody Turner? Well, he’s back at the jail just waiting to spill his guts about what went on out there twenty years ago. I’m sure what he has to say will be fascinating.”
For the first time Sam detected nervousness in Bart, the cool customer shaken by his revelation.
“Rhody Turner?” Bart said nervously. “I wouldn’t hang out with a loser like that even if he was buying the beer. He's nothing but a drug dealer and a liar.”
“If you say so,” Sam grinned as he turned to leave the office. “One thing I do know is he’s safe as a baby in his mother’s arms. I’ve got twenty bucks that says he outlives you, Bart. Maybe you should have punched me.”
Bart was filled by a poison mixture of anger and fear as he watched Sam walk out the door. How he hated Sam Delaney. He would give anything to see the high sheriff six feet under.
His musing about wanting the sheriff dead was interrupted by the ring of his cellphone. Pausing to look at the caller identification, almost too mad to talk, Bart noticed the call was from Glenn Satterfield. He had to take it despite his overwhelming anger.
“What!” Bart snapped as he answered his phone.
“We have a problem,” Glenn declared, ignoring Bart's rude answer.
“You have a problem?” Bart retorted. “Have you heard? I have one big problem right out front of my office. Plus the sheriff is nosing around here asking all kinds of questions.”
“Yes, news travels quickly around Easton,” Glenn agreed. “Does he know about the Red Dog?”
“He thinks he knows,” Bart responded. “But we don’t need to be talking about this on the phone. He’s figured out I’m involved in something having to do with the old Red Dog. He just can’t prove it.”
“What about me?” Glenn asked. “Does he know about me?”
“I doubt it,” Bart replied. “I think he’s still fishing.”
Giving a sigh of relief, Glenn’s tone remained all business.
“I need you to come down to my office,” Glenn said.
“I kind of have my hands full here right now,” Bart countered as he parted his blinds and watched
several officers milling around his car. “They think it’s Stevie this time.”
“Just get on down here right now!” Glenn yelled. “I don’t care what’s going on down there, drop what you’re doing and get over here.”
Glenn’s insistence caught Bart by surprise. The car dealer was intrigued by the emotion in the usually calm voice of his life-long friend. What could be so important? Glenn wasn't the type to be over dramatic. For Glenn to be rattled meant something was amiss.
“Trust me, get down here now,” Glenn urged.
“If you say so,” Bart replied.
Bart hung up the phone and immediately headed for the back door. He slipped out, making sure he avoided the collective eye of law enforcement. He didn't want any further run-ins with Sam. There would be time to settle that score later.
Parking in front of Glenn’s office after a short drive from the dealership, Bart hustled inside. A secretary motioned him on back to the office. She was used to seeing the businessman visit so she thought nothing of his morning arrival.
Finding Glenn’s office door locked, something that was unusual in Bart’s experience, he paused to rap on the door. Things were getting stranger by the minute. Since when did Glenn lock his door?
“What gives?” Bart asked as the door swung open.
Glenn reached out and pulled his friend into his office before stepping out to look up and down the hall. He then closed the door and locked it.
“What’s up is we got big trouble partner,” Glenn declared with his eyes wide. “We got big trouble.”
“I’d say so,” Bart agreed. “In case you haven’t heard, my car was covered with blood spelling out the words Red Dog this morning and the going theory is that blood belonged to Stevie.”
“I know,” Glenn agreed.
“Of course they haven’t found the body yet so I guess there’s a chance it isn’t him,” Bart noted. “Unfortunately, he’s still missing.”
Red Dog Saloon Page 9