by Bill Hopkins
give her an infection?”
No, dreadful tree branch, I don’t want to give her an infection. As it so happens, I’m not contagious. Leukemia, acid reflux, allergies, bad eyes, and poor judgment are not contagious.
That’s what he thought, although he didn’t say it. He wasn’t that stoned. Instead, Rosswell said, “Tell whoever runs this place that I’ve checked out against medical advice to solve a couple of murders.”
Although Benita said he wouldn’t need a sling, Rosswell rigged a homemade one. It kept his arm from moving which, in turn, eased the pain somewhat. With a buzz from the painkillers running strong, Rosswell’s feet weaved the three blocks from the hospital to the sheriff’s station. Frizz, of all people, was dispatching. Nobody else was around. Especially no prisoners. Rosswell was sure that Frizz prayed that no one got arrested. Frizz should’ve been out running the roads, not stuck inside talking on the radio and the telephone. The sheriff shouldn’t be doing such things. That’s what a dispatcher is for. And Rosswell was responsible for temporarily downing the best dispatcher around.
Rosswell said, “I thought you’d be out making sure the Harley riders spent money on legal substances.” He fell into a chair next to the sheriff. “I don’t feel so good.”
“How’s Tina?”
Rosswell squirmed in the chair, trying to get comfortable. “The anesthesia knocked her for a loop. She’ll get out later today.”
“Neal said he dug a couple of .38 slugs out of your wall.”
“Thank God the shooter was a lousy shot. I’ll put the slugs in my scrapbook.”
“Go home.”
“There’s nothing at home.” A cry of pain escaped Rosswell’s lips before he could convince himself that he was too tough for showing pain. “I don’t even have a goldfish waiting for me.”
“Go sit by Tina.”
Rosswell laughed. “The nurse said Tina needed to rest. If I was there, she couldn’t rest.”
“Junior Fleming will make sure no unauthorized person goes in there.”
Rosswell grabbed his stomach. “Junior couldn’t keep a dust bunny from getting in Tina’s room.”
“I promised Junior that if anything happened to Tina, I would personally hurt him bad.”
Rosswell belched and clamped his hands over his mouth.
Frizz said, “Are you going to throw up? If you’re going to puke, then go in the bathroom.”
Frizz’s sympathy level hovered close to the bottom of a flimsy barrel.
“My stomach is calmer than it’s been for years.” Patting his stomach to demonstrate, Rosswell dug a mint from Frizz’s candy dish and popped it in his mouth. It was sweet with a whiff of cinnamon. “They give you good stuff at the hospital.”
“I’ve been busier than a whore at a used car salesmen’s convention.” Frizz covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t realize how much I depended on Tina.”
“Has anyone reported a missing man or a missing woman?”
“Nope.”
“Then we still don’t know who the victims are.”
“Nope,” Frizz said.
“Two bodies and no one has raised an alarm about people missing. Weird.”
The radio squawked. One of the deputies needed help on traffic control. Frizz told him there wasn’t anyone else available, he’d just have to tough it out. Another deputy asked Frizz where the rescue team should search next. Frizz suggested downstream. That covered a lot of territory since Cloudy River eventually dumped into the Mississippi River, which dumped into the Gulf of Mexico. The phone rang. Rosswell did the gentlemanly thing and answered it.
“Sheriff’s department.”
“Have y’all found the murderer?”
“Which one?” The caller hung up. Rosswell could be of real use around here if Frizz would only let him. The sheriff couldn’t talk on the phone and the radio at the same time.
Frizz said, “Who was that?”
Rosswell checked the caller ID. “It says payphone. Do we still have payphones in town?”
Frizz slumped in his chair. “I’m exhausted.”
That was clear to Rosswell, who waited but said nothing. What was the response to a blatant statement of fact? Hell if he knew.
Frizz continued, “Not only do I have all this shit going on, but I’m dealing with my wife.”
His wife? Before Rosswell could ask him to elaborate, the conversation jerked to a halt. Rosswell heard the noise of a large Harley right outside. The motorcycle revved a couple of times then went silent.
A huge man, wearing a British bobby cap and sunglasses, rumbled through the front door of the sheriff’s station. Rosswell couldn’t describe his face, since he could see little of it through the mass of his red hair and beard. After the man removed his sunglasses, Rosswell guessed that his eyes were green. Tattoos of naked women covered his arms. His Harley t-shirt, covered by a leather vest, appeared to be wriggling. What was happening with his shirt? Was the dope making Rosswell hallucinate? The big guy stuck four sticks of Big Red chewing gum in his mouth and leaned on the counter.
“Sheriff?” he said, staring at Rosswell. He pronounced it Shurff.
“No,” Rosswell said. “Try the man with the gun and the badge.” He pointed to Frizz.
An impossibly tiny dog with beady eyes and bad hair sprouting all over its body peeked out of the guy’s shirt at his neck. The reason the shirt wriggled. Rosswell wasn’t hallucinating.
The faceless mountain said, “Some of the boys and me, we done found something.” His accent was pure hillbilly.
Rosswell pointed at the thing in the guy’s shirt. “Is that a dog?”
“Yup.”
“Is it a Yorkie?” The dog lapped the air in front of it, its tongue
flicking in and out of its mouth. A mess of brown hair hung over its eyes.
The motorcyclist gaped at Rosswell, his mouth hanging open, the wad of gum nearly falling out. The guy was six or eight inches taller than Frizz and outweighed the sheriff by a hundred pounds. How he could fit on a motorcycle was an astounding question without an answer.
“That there’s Scooby,” the guy said. “She weighs right near three pounds.”
Rosswell said, “I can believe that.”
Rosswell started to express his opinion that Scooby was a stupid name for a weird dog, but Frizz interrupted and instead asked, “Sir, what’s your name?”
“Rabil. Purvis Rabil.”
Frizz said, “And what did you find?”
“Might have something to do with them there bodies you’uns all are missing.”
A blush crept up Frizz’s face. “Yes, we had some problems.”
Rosswell repeated, “And what did you find?”
Frizz threw daggers at Rosswell with his eyes. “I’ll handle this.” Frizz turned to Purvis. “What did you find?”
“There’s a bunch of them buzzards a-flying around a deadfall in the creek.” He said crick.
“Actually,” Rosswell said, “what’s flying around that mess of logs and crap in the river are vultures. Buzzard is an old English word for hawks or other raptors, not carrion eaters, although the term—”
“Just a minute,” Frizz said to the man. “Please wait right there while Judge Carew and I consult in headquarters.”
Frizz forced Rosswell up and dragged him away. When they lurched into the sheriff’s office, Frizz said in a low, menacing voice, “The hospital called and said you checked yourself out.”
“I did.”
“You’re still stoned.”
“I am.”
“Then keep your mouth shut while I’m talking to one of our tourists.”
“I will.”
When they got back to the counter, Frizz said, “Sorry. You saw a bunch of buzzards flying around a deadfall in a creek?” Scooby’s silky hair invited Rosswell to scratch her ears. Rosswell gave in to the temptation. Scooby closed her eyes in pleasure. When he slowed down the scratching, she nipped him until he upped the rhythm. She farted, sending a tiny cloud of s
tinking gas down Purvis’s shirt.
The big man said, “Yup.”
Frizz said, “Can you tell me where?”
“Up to the state park.”
Rosswell sobered up instantly.
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday noon
Frizz radioed the deputy guiding the search team to check out the deadfall in Cloudy River close to Foggy Top State Park.
The bearded giant and his tiny dog waited while Frizz wrote down the man’s contact info before running him through the computer. Purvis Rabil of Little Rock, Arkansas, had a cellphone, a driver’s license, valid tags for his motorcycle, a Yorkie, and an overdue parking ticket from Paducah, Kentucky.
Rosswell said, “I could take a written statement from him.”
Frizz said, “No, you could not.”
Rosswell kept his thoughts and responses to himself. Frizz intentionally kept him out of the investigation when he was obviously needed quite badly.
“You ever been to Bollinger County before?” Rosswell asked Purvis.
“No, ain’t never been here afore. This here’s the first time.”
Rosswell said to the good citizen, “I’m glad I got to meet you and Scooby.”
Purvis said, “Uh-huh.”
Scooby said nothing.
“Thanks for the information, Mr. Rabil. You’ve been very helpful.”
After he’d left, Frizz turned to Rosswell. “I need you to do something else.”
“Come to your senses, have you?”
“I need you to go home and recuperate. You’re not a cop and you will not be a part of this investigation.”
“You need me.” Plain and simple things are often the hardest to understand. “Rabil’s news sobered me up.”
“You’re not law enforcement.”
Rosswell slapped his palm on the desk. “That’s exactly what I am. I am law