by Jay Nichols
Chapter 18
Caldwell Price has a secret.
The sheriff sat behind his giant slab of a desk in downtown Greenville, mulling over said secret. Serious consequences awaited him, and his county, should he go public with what he knew and what he thought he knew. He was more than aware of the tight spot he was in, but he had to wait for all the facts to surface before acting on them. Of course, he had already acted by contaminating a crime scene and bribing the medical examiner and coroner. He could get fired for that. Hell, he could go to jail for that.
But desperate times call for desperate measures. On his hands was a county bucking wild over some imaginary rabies outbreak. People shooting dogs, dogs running away (although Price suspected many of the so-called "runaways" were due in large part to people discarding their pets the same way, and for the same reason, they would an old cheese sandwich: because they were afraid of what they might attract), dead rabbits, a dead woman: these were the messes he was expected to tidy up, or at the very least, explain.
And don’t forget that sumbitch Hubert from the CDC. He’s been houndin’ me for a sit-down all week.
There had been one rabid dog. That’s it. One. And it had caused the biggest damn panic in the county’s history. It had always been Price’s opinion that, if left to their own devices, people tended to behave more like sheep than humans. Mean sheep, too. He first picked up on this flaw in the human condition as a child growing up in the Sixties, back when the country—the South in particular—found herself smack-dab in the middle of a self-righteous hissy fit. Racial segregation, civil rights, draft dodging, evolution: it seemed as if all anyone ever did back then was take one side of an issue and fight vehemently for their cause while refusing to see the other side’s viewpoint in a clear and level-headed manner. The fact that during that particular decade one side had been so ineffably right was not lost on Caldwell Price. Not in the least.
In Price’s schema, people were never reasonable. Always looking for something to stoke their coals, the masses practically begged for a crisis to arise and stir their passions to a froth. They yearned to draw dividing lines in the dirt—meaningless, metaphorical lines of good versus evil, order versus disorder, love versus hate. Most of all, they wanted to fight. They wanted to kill the innocent, the ones who choose no side, and they wanted their peers to agree that they had been brave to do what they did, even when their actions were so very cowardly.
And I’m a coward, too, for scuffing away those paw prints with the soles of my boots. That was the biggest mistake of my career. Well, it was the biggest mistake, up until I bribed those two white coats to make the "dog element go away." I can’t believe I actually said that. I guess that makes me crooked, but I had to do it, because I wasn’t sure. And I’m still not one hundred percent certain—
The office door cracked open and Becky stuck her gray, coifed head in.
"Sheriff?"
"Yes, Becky."
"There are two officers from Riley who wish to speak with you. Shall I send them in?"
Price shoved a stack of papers to the side of the desk and replied, "That’ll be fine."
Ernie Richardson entered the large, ornate office first, followed closely behind by Ronald Owens. Both held their brown Stetsons low in front of them, over their crotches, as they gaped at the leathery cowboy decor. A bull’s skull occupied the corner of Price’s enormous glass-covered cedar desk. Pencils and pens jutted from the skull’s eye sockets; a stub of a pink eraser skewered through the tip of a horn. Ernie (the skinny one from Texas) stared at a brightly striped Navaho rug in front of the desk and wondered if he was allowed to stand on it.
"Well, don’t just stand there, boys. Take a seat." Price pointed to two cowhide-upholstered armchairs against the far wall, away from the rug.
"That’s okay, sir," Ronny said, eyeballing the skull. "We’ve been sittin’ in our black and white all morning. We could use a stretch."
"That’s right," Ernie agreed. Then, bending the rim of his hat, he began tentatively, "Okay, sir, here we go. There’s no use in dragging this out. We…and by that, I mean I…have something to show you. Ronny?"
Owens reached into his hat and handed his partner a transparent square, roughly eight inches by eight inches. Richardson quickly took the object and hid it behind his Stetson. Price sat up taller in his chair.
Ernie continued, "It’s really quite unfortunate, when you get right down to it, that it has to be this way—and believe me, sir, I wish I didn’t have to be the one to show you this, but my Mama always said a man’s got to be a man, no matter how hard that may be at times, and somebody’s got to be the bearer of bad news. And…well, sir, today that somebody is me."
"Out with it, son!" Price barked. "I ain’t got all day for your jawin’."
Ronny flushed. He knew this was a bad idea. They should have just mailed it.
Still fiddling with the brim of his hat, working it in circles, Ernie stepped onto the rug.
"Whatchu got behind that hat, son?"
But instead of revealing the object, Ernie asked, "Sheriff, do you have a dog?"
Like a hawk swooping to seize a field mouse, Price jackknifed over the desk and snatched the hat, along with the object hidden inside it. The hat, he threw back to Ernie, who caught it and immediately began re-bending the brim. The object, he examined, looking back and forth from it to the men who had brought it to his office. It was inside a sealed Ziplock bag, a black nylon dog collar with the name "Vince" embossed on a stainless steel tag. On the back of the tag: Price’s name and home address similarly etched.
Mary, Jesus, and Joseph on rye.
"Which one of you boys killed him?" Price asked, looking up, neck tendons twitching.
Ernie and Ronny glanced at each other. "Neither, sir," Ronny said. "We just found him."
"What do you mean ‘neither’? And when you answer me, you better start making some goddamn sense."
This time, Ernie spoke. He had since stepped off the fancy rug. It just didn’t seem right standing on it while speaking to such an esteemed personage, especially when the words he had to speak were those of bad tidings. "Someone ran him over, sir. He’s dead. We found him along Highway 71. I don’t know if you’re familiar with that particular—"
"I know the goddamn road…" (Reading his name tag) "…Ernie. I’ve lived in these parts my whole life. Did you get who ran him over?"
"No, sir. By the time we found him,"—Ernie swallowed—"he’d already been dead several days."
"And when was that?" Price asked.
"Today, sir," Ronny lied. "We found him this morning. There really wasn’t much left of him—you know…buzzards." He let out a stray chuckle then quickly clenched his lips, silently cursing himself.
Price ignored the titter of nervous laughter and looked at Ernie (clearly the brighter of the two). "How long would you say he’s been dead, Ernie? A few days? A week?"
"Oh, I don’t know. Probably a week. At the least. Wouldn’t you say a week, Ron?"
Ronny nodded, silence being his greatest ally.
Ernie said, "I know how you must feel, sir. I had a pooch, too. He got run over by a combine when I was eight. He always liked to chase it, but one day he got too close—"
"Shut up!" Price snapped. "I don’t wanna hear your lousy life story. We’re done here. If I need anything else from you—or you—I’ll call your captain. Got that?"
"Yes, sir," they both said in unison.
"And I don’t want either of you two yokels yacking about this either. If I find out you’ve been passing along info that ain’t got no business being passed along, I’ll make sure you never work in law enforcement again. Not in Butler County, not in Alabama, not in America. We’re going to keep this thing to ourselves. We clear?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Now scram!"
The two officers hurried out of the room, leaving Price alone again with his thoughts. Holding the clear bag close to his face and studying what it contained, he wondered if it was possible. The
n he feared that it just might be.
Oh Vince, what kind of trouble have you gotten me into now?
No sooner had the thought formed than Becky knocked and popped her cotton ball head inside the office.
"Sheriff?"
"What, Becky?" he asked, opening a drawer and tossing the collar on a stack of letterhead.
"There are two more gentlemen here to see you."
"Not now, Becky. I’ve got a headache. Tell ‘em to come back some other time."
"They say it’s urgent, sir."
"I don’t care! I’m the damn sheriff around here. If I don’t want to see somebody, I don’t have to."
"But, sir—"
"I said no!"
"I think you may have to talk to these gentlemen."
"Oh, really, Becky?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, who the hell are they?"
"The district attorney and a Doctor Ted Hubert from the CDC."
Caldwell Price had a secret.