Bob Walker has been on the job for about three years, but that doesn’t stop him from voicing his opinion—even if it flies in the face of my own point of view.
It’s just past midnight, and we’re sitting in the corner of the small bar at Bob Dawson’s motel restaurant, the Mayfly. It’s a favorite hangout for all the fly fishermen during trout season, but after Labor Day, it caters mainly to us locals. Bob has just finished a four-to-midnight and a couple of quick shots of Jim Beam, washed down by some Coors draft. I’m fresh from a Trout Unlimited meeting. I figured Bob would be here, and I was right.
“If you ask me,” he says, “it’s probably somebody local—the ‘doer,’ I mean. Who else would know about Cathy’s Creek in the first place? Probably picked the girl up hitchhiking. He was looking for a quickie, and she probably said no. A little struggle, he shoves her out of the car, and she hits her head on a rock. End of story.”
“Okay, so suppose I buy your version,” I say. “What then? How’d she get into the creek? And, where are her clothes, her ID?”
“Simple,” says Bobcat. “You said it yourself, she was a tiny thing. Probably weighed less than a hundred pounds, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, so he throws her over his shoulder, hikes back into the woods, takes her clothes off. Hell, maybe even has his way with her—it’s been done before, you know. Then he dumps the body in the creek—figures nobody’ll find the body ‘til it’s nothin’ but skin and bones. Which is what it was, right?”
“Right,” I say.
“And, that’s that.”
“So, what about the clothes?”
“Burns ‘em.”
“ID? Same thing?”
“Sure, why not?”
I take a sip of my beer, savoring the cool liquid as it makes its way down my throat. “And you’re convinced it’s somebody local, and not some drifter?”
“Hey, sue me; that’s what I think.”
“Okay, so presuming you’re right. That still doesn’t tell us how to find the guy. Any bright ideas there?”
“Nope,” says Bob. “That’s where you come in, Mister New York Homicide Detective.”
“Yeah, Mister Dumb-ass, you mean.”
“Suit yourself. ‘Nother beer?”
“Nah. I haven’t even finished this one.”
Bob orders another Jim Beam and a Coors.
“You think he’s done this before?” I ask.
“Done what before?”
“Killed somebody,” I say. ”Do you think the guy’s a serial killer?”
“Do you?” asks Bob.
“I asked you first.”
“Probably not,” says Bob. “If you ask me, I think it was an accident—well, sort of.”
“Some accident.”
“You know what I mean,” says Bobcat. “Probably sees this young girl, all by herself; she’s cold, hitchhiking or maybe just walking along. He figures, what the hell, maybe he’ll get lucky. Things get a little out of hand, and wham, bang, he’s screwed. What else can he do; call the cops? Not hardly. So, he does what he’s got to do and that’s it.”
“Maybe the guilt will get to him,” I say.
“Maybe,” says Bob.
“Otherwise—”
“Otherwise you’ll never find him.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“’Nother beer?” asks Bob.
“Yeah. Why not,” I reply. “You buying?”
“Hell no.”
“Cheapskate.”
“Can’t afford it on what you pay me.”
“Cheap, cheap, cheap.”
“Screw you.”