by Thomas Scott
Virgil stood and refilled their coffee cups. He put Sandy’s cup in front of her, grabbed a handful of tit, then kissed the top of her head. “You’re all bark. You don’t have it in you…the frosty thing.”
“You don’t think?”
“Nope. It’s genetic. Would have shown itself by now.”
They sparred good-naturedly for another minute or two before Sandy told him about the rest of the conversation she’d had with Pam. Virgil couldn’t quite believe it.
“My god. She had an affair? Who was it, and why didn’t you say anything last night?”
“I meant to, but we were both already processing a lot of new information.”
“That’s true. So, who was it?”
“She didn’t say, and I don’t think it was an affair. It was more like a one-time thing. I think she was about to tell me…in fact, I’m sure of it, but she was in such bad shape we never got to that part. To tell you the truth, even after she told me, my main concern was getting Jonas out of there. I’ve never seen her like that before, Virgil. She’s right on the edge of a breakdown.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to carry around all this time. I’m having a hard time believing Ed never knew.”
“She says he didn’t.”
“No, no…I believe you…I believe her. I’m just saying it surprises me that Ed didn’t know…or figure it out.”
“Is there any chance he did know and kept it to himself?”
Virgil thought for a beat, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. We were pretty close. I think he would’ve said something. I could check with Rosie.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? It’s a pretty delicate matter. And private.”
“Delicate or not, it doesn’t sound like it’s going to be private for very long.”
Sandy nodded. “Mmm, you’re probably right about that. Let me talk to her when I take Jonas back. See what she has to say.” She put her hands on her stomach. “Our plates are full right now as it is. Do we really want to get wrapped up in someone else’s drama?”
Sandy might not have the frosty gene, but Virgil had the gene that allowed him to raise a single eyebrow.
“Okay, that’s not what I meant…exactly,” Sandy said. “I just don’t want us to lose our focus, especially now, with Wyatt on the way.”
“Speaking of that,” Virgil said, “what about work?” Sandy was the director of training at the Indiana Law Enforcement Academy.
“I’ve already told them I’m going to take some time.”
Virgil was encouraged. “Good. As far as I’m concerned, you should take the rest of the year off. We can afford it, you know. Now more than ever.”
“I know we can. But I like the work, Virgil. And I know that you, of all people, should understand that.”
It was something of an ongoing debate that started when Sandy entered into her third trimester. “I do understand. You know I do. But you’d have to agree that you’re getting close enough that you’re going to have to be careful.”
“Virgil, you know as well as I do that even though I am technically still a cop, ninety-eight percent of it is a desk job. There’s no danger.”
Virgil put his coffee cup in the sink, kissed his wife, then grabbed his gun and badge. “Yeah, and it’s the other two percent that bothers me. There’s always danger, baby.”
She laughed at him. “That sounds like a line from a bad movie.”
Virgil flapped his arms as he moved to the door. “Just…just, be careful.”
“I will.” Then, “Virgil?”
He had his hand on the door knob. “Yeah?”
“Genetics or not…I can bite.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. What time did you say you’ll be home tonight?”
Virgil got into his truck—a brand new black Ford Raptor—and fired it up. His previous truck had been destroyed by falling debris from a natural gas explosion and when he went looking for a new vehicle he didn’t have anything particular in mind, he was just…looking. But when he saw the Raptor the salesman didn’t exactly have to sell it. In fact, he did everything in his power to try to talk Virgil out of it. The truck belonged to the owner of the dealership who was going to keep it for his private collection.
So Virgil met with the dealer, promised him a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card, and bought it on the spot, the Raptor being the only truck that somehow managed to survive what Ford aficionados everywhere he’d later discovered were calling the Aluminum Apocalypse.
He headed north into the city, toward the office. He needed the Shelby County file before he left. He arrived early enough that no one was in yet and he was quietly pleased. He was happy to be back, but didn’t feel like doing the dance that went with it.
He grabbed the file, jumped back into the truck and took 465 around the city to avoid the downtown traffic. He wanted to let the truck run a bit. He’d have to be a little careful though because he didn’t have the flashers installed yet. But then he thought, what the hell, the troopers were on strike. He’d pieced that much together from the morning news between the teasers and weather reports—so he pressed the accelerator to the floor and let it out.
A white-haired old lady gave him the finger when he went ripping by and he laughed out loud.
He was worried about it though…Sandy and the pregnancy and her job, although technically she was right…it was an office job. But she was still a cop…and with all the guns, still a target. The guns were everywhere now and people were practically using cops as target practice. Okay, that’s a little extreme, Virgil thought, but police deaths from gun violence nationwide were at an all-time high.
Twenty minutes later Virgil turned into the bar’s parking lot and shut the truck down, its engine ticking from the hard run. He went in the back through the kitchen, where he heard his head chef, Robert, arguing on the phone about an overdue delivery. Robert waved and smiled at him, never letting the tone out of his voice. He found Delroy, their manager, in the bar area turning chairs, getting ready for the lunch crowd.
“Hey Delroy. What’s happening?”
“Ha. Maybe you tell me, mon.”
“Did I miss something? By the way, have you seen Murton yet? We were going to meet up here this morning.”
Delroy turned a chair and set it down a little harder than necessary. When he spoke, it was with his back toward Virgil. “He upstairs with Becky.”
“What is it, Delroy?”
“What you tink, you?”
“I guess you heard I got my job back.”
“Yeah, mon. Congratulations. Tanks for the call, too. Delroy couldn’t be happier for you.”
“You don’t sound very happy. And I was going to call you, but I thought I’d just tell you in person, today…sort of like I’m doing right now.”
Delroy walked behind the bar while Virgil was still talking and returned a moment later with two cups of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. He set the cups down on a four top, took a seat and waited. Virgil felt rushed, itchy. He wanted to get going. He brushed the feeling away, sat down, bit the inside corner of his lower lip and arched his eyebrows at Delroy.
“What you do, you?”
“I was offered my old job back, Delroy. I took it. It’s as simple as that. Murt’s joining me. Why is this bothering you?”
Delroy took his time answering. “Maybe sometimes people know tings day shouldn’t know. Or tink day know tings.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Your job…Murton’s job.” Delroy pounded his index finger on the table. “Day here, mon, here. How many times you and me have this conversation? How many times Delroy have to say it before you understand?”
“Delroy, I’m a cop. I’ve always been a cop. I started the bar with my dad because that’s what he wanted.”
“That’s not all he wanted, and you know it.” Delroy’s finger was off the table now and trembling as he pointed it at Virgil. “He wanted you off the streets. You going to be a father now too. Who
’ll take after your boy and dat beautiful soul of a woman if something happen, huh?”
Virgil had his cup halfway to his mouth and held it there, the steam rising then dissipating away. “What did you just say? You said beautiful soul? You’re speaking of Sandy?”
“Yeah, mon. Who else? You telling Delroy you haven’t noticed?”
He let his irritation deflate. “Delroy, thank you. I appreciate your concern. But nothing is going to happen to me.”
Delroy clamped his hand around Virgil’s forearm, hard…one of only a handful of men Virgil would allow it from. “You and Murton are family. Dat what you are, mon. We don’t need to bury another Jones.” Then, as if his point wasn’t quite clear: “One was enough.”
They stared at each other for a long time. Finally Virgil said, “There’s nothing to worry about, Delroy. I’ll be careful. I am careful.”
Delroy stood from the table. “Yeah mon. But are you careful enough? There’s more than one Jones to tink about, now. Tree…maybe four, huh?” He let go of Virgil’s arm.
Virgil tipped his head. “Four? What are you talking about?”
Delroy turned away. “I’ll be behind the bar. Message delivered, huh, mon?”
Virgil didn’t know what Delroy meant, but he didn’t have the time to dig any deeper. He’d have to come back to it later. He yelled up the stairs at Murton, then went outside to wait in the truck.
He’d forgotten something during his absence from the MCU…someone always seemed upset with him about something.
Ten minutes later they were rolling south, toward Shelby County. Virgil drove while Murton worked the phone, getting routed around the county building trying to locate the Shelby County sheriff. Eventually he got kicked through to the county’s dispatch center and left instructions for the sheriff to call him back.
“Why’d you walk out on us yesterday?”
Murton flipped through the case file and instead of answering, he asked a question of his own. “How long has this farmer been missing?”
“A few days now. It’s right there on the summary page…in the notes at the bottom. Little less than a week, if I remember. Why does it bother you that we had Jonas at the house? Sandy said Pam was drunk before noon. What should she have done? Left him there? He’s going back today.”
“It’s not my business, I’m sure.”
“Then why are you acting like it is?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but when Murton answered him he knew he’d been unsuccessful.
“I barely know the woman,” Murton said without unclenching his teeth. “Her husband screwed up and got his ticket punched. Becky had her face smashed in and Pate had a shotgun against my head. I was just trying to help and now I’m on the hook for Ed’s death and you and Small are taking care of her kid. Why am I upset?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Then how about this: You’re the only family I’ve got left. Your wife and Pam have become close friends. What happens when it all goes to shit and you’ve got to choose?”
“I don’t think it’s going to come to that, Murt. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I’m not sure which of those two sentences are worse. Maybe you didn’t hear me before. Pam is suing me for the wrongful death of her husband. She’s going broke because the state won’t pay and we just took jobs from the one guy who could probably make it all go away with the stroke of a pen, but for some reason that’s not happening. Have you asked yourself why? I have. The problem is I don’t have an answer. So instead, here we are, looking into a missing farmer down in hump-river, USA.”
“It looks to me like he’s trying—Mac is—and I don’t think it’s quite that simple.”
“Who said anything about simple? It sure as hell wasn’t me. Sometimes I wonder about my own thought processes.”
They rode in silence for a few miles. Eventually, Virgil said, “She likes it that you still call her that.”
“What?”
“Sandy. She likes it that you call her Small. You’ve always called her that and even though we’re married now you still do.”
“No shit. It’s a sign of respect. It’s my way of telling her I haven’t forgotten who she is or where she came from.”
And there it was. Virgil finally understood. Murton wasn’t upset that Jonas was at the house. He probably wasn’t even upset about the lawsuit. He was upset about his own past.
Virgil took a moment and thought carefully before he spoke. When he did, his question hit the mark. “Do you miss him?”
Murton laughed without humor. “My old man? What’s to miss? The drinking? The abuse? The fact that he walked out on me? I barely remember what he looked like.”
Virgil pulled the truck over and stopped on the shoulder of the road. “I didn’t make the connection. I’m sorry. You’ve been a part of my family for so long I don’t think of you in any other way.”
“What’s to be sorry for? It’s not your fault. The truth is, I think about him every day. The last time I saw him was the night your dad beat the shit out of him. If he hadn’t intervened on my behalf I don’t know what might have happened. I honestly thought my own father was going to kill me. Do you know what the last memory I have of him is? It’s his fists flying at me.”
Virgil placed his hand on Murton’s shoulder. It was as hard and solid as a Hickory stump. “You’ve never been a spectator in your own life, Murt. It’s the quality I most admire about you. I wish I could be more like you than you’ll ever know.”
“Oh yeah? You know what the worst part is? After everything he did to me and my mom, the way he treated us…abused us, physically and emotionally, I really do miss him. How messed up is that? If I saw him today I don’t know if I’d shoot him or hug him. Maybe both, in no particular order.”
The pain and disappointment in Murton’s voice made Virgil realize he’d taken his own childhood for granted. The things that grounded him and made him whole were all part of a comfortable screenplay that had never quite come into focus for Murton, or at the very least, his way of thinking about the mental film reels that defined his life.
Murton’s phone rang. He answered, listened for a moment then ended the call. “The dispatcher said the sheriff is still at the crime scene,” he said. “You know what it means when you hear the words ‘missing person’ and ‘crime scene’ used in the same sentence?”
Virgil turned the truck back onto the road and accelerated hard, the rear end fishtailing for purchase. “Yeah…when they find the missing person.”
Murton nodded. “Yep. Our missing farmer isn’t missing anymore. The dispatcher said the sheriff didn’t quite have the words to describe the condition of the body.”
Virgil couldn’t let it go. “Nothing comes between us, Murt. Nothing. Are you hearing me on this, partner?”
But as was often the case with Murton, there was never any uncertainty about when the conversation was over. “Who are you trying to convince, me or you?” He tossed the case file on the dash and stared out the window, his face as fixed and blank as a piece of slate.
They rode in silence for a few more miles then Virgil began to talk about Delroy and Robert and the bar and his own father and the history of it all; the short version of what brought them to the here and now. “I think he’ll come around,” Virgil said. “Delroy. He’s just worried.”
“Of course he’s worried. Everyone is worried about something except—” Murton’s phone rang again, cutting him off. “Wheeler.” He listened without saying a word, pinched the phone against his ear with his shoulder, then scribbled an address on his palm. “Yeah. Ten minutes. Tell your guys to get them out of there. Yeah, all of them. We don’t want the areas contaminated.” A pause. “Yeah, yeah. Just do it.” Another pause. “I don’t know. I’ll have an answer by the time we get there. Yeah. Nine minutes, now.” He clicked off and punched the address into the nav system on Virgil’s dash. “There’s our destination. One of them anyway.”
“What’s going on?
”
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Did you say areas? As in plural?”
“Yep.”
“An answer to what?”
Murton was dialing another number and had to stop, his annoyance at the interruption evident. “What?”
“You told whomever you were speaking with you’d have an answer by the time we got there. An answer to what?”
“How many crime scene people we have. So far they’ve found at least two separate locations that have different parts of the victim’s remains.” Murton finished dialing and put the phone to his ear. Then, with a sideways look: “Did you just say ‘whomever?’”
He was already coordinating the locations with the crime scene supervisor before Virgil could answer.
10
Virgil pulled a wool hat from his pocket and covered his head. It was cold and getting colder as the day went on. The main crime scene looked like something out of a half-completed movie set, one where the director hadn’t quite decided what direction the plot should take.
There were three Shelby County squad cars, a fire rescue vehicle, one national guard armored troop transporter, two bulldozers, an excavator, three large dump trucks, a 7-series BMW that looked like it’d just been driven from the showroom floor, and a dusty Chevy station wagon with wooden side panels that might have been from the late 60’s. A hand painted sign was stenciled on the side of the station wagon that read Holden’s Dry Cleaners. A red jackpot flasher like the kind still used by the Michigan State Police was mounted on its roof, which at first glance made it look like an emergency dry cleaning delivery vehicle.
The guardsmen had positioned themselves in a semicircle around a large pile of rubble, their rifles at parade rest. Their expressions displayed a mixture of generational humanity that ran the gamut anywhere between lock-and-load, to outright boredom, as if objectivity wasn’t a way of life but a state of mind…one they’d been ordered to leave back at the barracks.