Robby the R-Word

by Leif Wright

  The stink was starting to get to him. Sherry’s body wouldn’t start stinking for quite some time, but the shit and blood were stifling. He pulled the sheets and the blanket from the corners of the bed and wrapped Sherry up in them, making sure he completely covered her, especially the parts of her that might drip on the way.

  Richard Turner was a small, skinny man, but years of grabbing other people’s trash out of street-side cans had built up a surprising amount of strength in his body. Using one smooth motion, he grabbed the package of blankets, sheets, and dead wife in the area he figured to be closest to her waist and hoisted her up onto his shoulder. She was heavy. A lot heavier than she looked. A lot heavier than he imagined she could be. She was so thin. He guessed that’s what the phrase “dead weight” meant. She was like hauling a giant sack of loose potatoes, flopping around every which way.

  He carried her through the house to the sliding glass door in the back of the living room, behind his chair. He would have to set her down. There was no way he could open that door and still hold onto her. Bitch. Even in death, she was a pain in his ass.

  Richard dropped Sherry to the ground and then gave her a kick for good measure. Bitch. Good riddance.

  He opened the door and rolled her through it, head over heels. Under her own momentum, she rolled down the two stairs to the back “porch”, which was really just a slab of concrete. Her foot fell out of the package, leaving a smear of blood and shit on the concrete. Richard made a mental note to hose that off.

  Closing the door behind him, he pushed the package into the grass and dragged it across the yard to the old well. Dammit, some thistles had started growing over the old well, and he knew they would shred his hands if he tried to pull them away without some sort of protection. The day was moving on, and if he didn’t hurry, someone might look out of their windows during breakfast and see Richard Turner shoving a giant burrito down an old well. He couldn’t have that.

  Gritting his teeth, he took off his shirt and wrapped it around his right hand, then he reached in and started pulling thistles out by the roots. The shirt helped, but he still could feel the barbs poking through, planting themselves in his skin and tearing holes in it. He barely noticed. After he had cleared the top of the well, unceremoniously, he rolled Sherry into it and, using the handle of a shop broom, crammed her down as far as she would go. After he was done, about two feet stood between Sherry’s feet and the top of the well.

  His body drove to Ace Hardware and bought five bags of ready-mix cement, a shovel, and a wheelbarrow. His body mixed up bag after bag, pouring the resulting wet cement on top of his wife’s bloody, ravaged remains. His body covered the cement with dirt, then with mums carefully picked from her pathetic garden.

  His body grabbed half of her clothes, her suitcase, and her makeup bag, drove them to the Kmart parking lot, and threw them into the dumpster behind the store. Then his body collapsed into his chair and turned on the TV.

  His body did not notice Robby, lying in his bed, looking out the window as Daddy threw Mommy down a well and covered her with cement.

  48

  Present Day

  ROBBY TURNER HADN’T HIRED CHRIS JACKSON TO DO THE BEATINGS, BAIN was sure of it. The only things that might even tangentially implicate him were the facts that he knew all the victims and they were handed photos of him before they were beaten. But his computer—the only way he could have hired someone—was completely clean of anything that might have had to do with using a proxy server or with sending emails soliciting the crimes. And his bank account—where money from his disability checks was deposited—added up completely; every cent was accounted for. If Robby had done the hiring, where had the money come from? And how had he mailed it to Chris Jackson?

  The truth, ugly and disappointing as it was, was that someone else had done the hiring, and she had absolutely no clue who that person might be. The beautiful caretaker had briefly flashed through her mind, but how would she have known enough about Robby’s past to select the victims? Her alibi had checked out, and would she have the computer savvy to completely cover her tracks while hiring a hit-man from an online magazine even Bain hadn’t known existed? Where would she have gotten the photos? She also didn’t fit the mold. But she resolved herself to cursorily checking anyway.

  So that left Bain at … zero. Nothing.

  She rested her head in her hands at her desk, which had been cleaned yesterday by Russell in a fit of matronly duties. All the papers that had been scattered on it were now neatly filed and stacked, sorted and whatever else women did when they organized someone else’s stuff. Now that the case was largely dead, he would go back to patrol and she would move on to documenting and gathering evidence for Mack Rutherford, the serial killer she had captured thanks to the help of a man who could only move one finger.

  She wouldn’t have to testify in Chris Jackson’s trial because he had struck a deal with the DA to plead guilty to lesser charges of voluntary manslaughter in the case of Pearl Edwards and aggravated assault in the two other cases. He also pleaded guilty to a charge of criminal conspiracy. All told, he would serve four years in with ten deferred. She had caught him and solved her first murder case. In addition, even though she stumbled upon it, she had closed a serial murder case and at least a dozen murders across several states.

  The national newspapers had picked up the story, and though she kept telling them all the credit belonged to a private sleuth, Robby had asked her not to mention his name, so she was getting the credit for solving the cases. Rutherford had clammed up in jail, which meant she had some long hours ahead of her building the local case against him. Robby’s evidence was good, but it wasn’t the kind of stuff that would hold up in court without a lot of legwork, which was the one thing Robby couldn’t do in this case.

  The DNA evidence, which she had painstakingly dug out of the department’s off-site cold case evidence room, was damning, but the DA had told her in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to hang his entire case on that. So here she sat, supposed to be digging up evidence in that case, but instead wondering who had hired someone to avenge wrongs done to Robby Turner.

  Nothing came to mind.

  She looked around the office. She liked what Russell had done with the place. He’d make someone a good little wifey someday. He’d even placed three ceramic wax candles to make the place smell like some sort of pastry. She smiled. He was a great partner. She had already asked Chief Dreadfulwater to promote Russell to detective and make him her partner again, but he hadn’t seemed very receptive to the idea.

  “He’s a good patrol officer,” he had said. “Not sure I can do without him.”

  “You’ve been doing without him this entire case,” she had protested.

  “Yeah,” he had responded flatly. “And I missed him.”

  Now here she sat, in a clean office, blowing off work and ruminating over everything but her serial killer. A potential killer was still out there, and who was to say he wouldn’t just hire someone else to start beating people again now that Chris Jackson was in prison? Chris had made it clear that the tire thumper was his idea; the email hadn’t specified anything other than the victims were to be beaten unconscious. Who knew whether other people were even now reading emails and preparing brass knuckles or baseball bats or something else for the next job?

  It was maddening.

  The phone ringing almost made her hit her forehead on the desk. Why the hell did the department still use landline phones? It was stupid. Everyone—everyone had a cell phone. Why not just use those and not make people jump out of their skins?

  “Bain,” she answered, not sounding nearly as pissed as she was.

  “Bain, could you come into my office?” it was Chief Dreadfulwater. “It’s important.”

  Immediately, her mind started racing. She would never, she thought, get past the fear of being called into the principal’s office. Every time she was called into an authority’s office, she couldn’t help but assume the worst, e
ven though her frantically searching mind couldn’t find anything she might have done to warrant a paddling.

  She hung the phone up and walked out into the squad room, which seemed uncharacteristically empty and quiet. Had there been a holdup or something? She generally kept her police band radio as quiet as possible, so a robbery or something could go completely unnoticed. Dreadfulwater had gotten onto her dozens of times to turn the thing up, but she had ignored him.

  Was that what this was about? Surely not. Was having the radio too low even a reprimandable offense? Her chest felt hollow—as it always did when she was going to the principal’s office.

  When she opened Dreadfulwater’s door, the room was completely packed with everyone. And that meant everyone.

  “Always the last to arrive,” Dreadfulwater said as she poked her head in. “For such a little person, Bain has the attitude of a nose tackle.”

  The room tittered with laughs.

  She eyeballed Russell her standard “what the hell is going on” look. “Hell if I know,” Russell eyeballed back.

  “Lieutenant Bain, I’ve called this meeting because of your performance in solving thirteen murders in the span of a month,” Dreadfulwater said. “It’s an exemplary performance, and it warrants your promotion to captain, which I’m proud to say I have finalized today. As of this moment, you are Captain Bain, but if you think that means you will be doing any less shit work, you’re mistaken.”

  For the second time in a month, Bain was speechless.

  “Sergeant Russell,” Dreadfulwater continued. “You have been removed from the Patrol Unit as of today. You are being promoted to Lieutenant Detective and you are to report to Captain Bain tomorrow morning. Do not wear your blues anymore. You are to dress in business attire. Are there any questions?”

  “No sir,” Russell replied, beaming.

  “Well, good,” Dreadfulwater said. “I can see why you like him, Bain. Let’s all go give ourselves a reason to call a cab to get home tonight. First round is on me.”

  49

  THE LAPTOP’S TINY HARD DRIVE WHIRRED AWAY AS THE FAN CAME ON TO cool it down. On screen, a list of files she hadn’t even known were on the computer whizzed by, arcane locations on the right of the file names quickly replaced by “CLEAN SWEEP” as they scrolled by.

  She sat back in her chair as the computer did its work, heating up her lap as it did.

  A dialog box popped up: “Do you want to delete references to proxy servers you have used?”

  She clicked the “Yes” button. The computer started whirring.

  After a few more minutes, the computer stopped whirring.

  She smiled.

  A notice popped up on the screen. “Your computer has been CLEAN SWEPT! Do you want to securely delete this program?”

  She clicked the “Yes” button.

  The computer whirred. Then stopped.

  Amie closed the lid of the laptop. And turned on Game of Thrones.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Leif M. Wright is a longtime journalist, computer programmer, professional musician, business owner, former ghost writer and author of the true crime book Deadly Vows and the murder mystery novel Minister of Justice. He lives on a ranch in northeastern Oklahoma with his wife, three children and too many animals to count. Visit his web site at http://leifwright.com