Chapter Eight
10:16 - Townsend Residence. Beginning of the ride-along:
I barely had enough time to clean up and change into appropriate attire. I found a pair of khakis and a blue polo left behind by the house’s previous owners. They weren’t perfect, but they fit close enough.
O’Brien took one look at me and laughed. She didn’t stop laughing until after I had closed the door and buckled my seatbelt.
“What?”
“You look like you’re about to try and sell me a new printer.”
“Thanks. This is going to be fun.”
She smirked. “Yeah. Okay.”
10:35 - Goose Creek Mobile Home Community. Petty theft:
Our first stop was the GCTP on the other side of town. I’d never been on a ride-along before, but judging from the name I was expecting my contribution to be keeping the car seat warm while the deputy did all the real work. Once we parked, she turned and asked if I was “ready.” The question caught me off guard, so I lied and said I was.
Milda Friedman was waiting for us on the patio of her mobile home. O’Brien introduced me as her “associate, Jack” and asked what was going on. With a cigar in her mouth and rollers in her hair, Milda explained how someone had been stealing her undergarments off the drying line. She was convinced that it was her ex-boyfriend from the next town over, as this was the kind of thing he liked to do to push her buttons. She didn’t have any proof besides her gut feeling, but as she put it, “That ought to be enough.”
To complicate matters, Milda was just north of ninety years old, and her boyfriend had been dead for two decades. We stayed long enough to let her think we were taking her seriously. O’Brien promised we’d look into it, and we left without writing a report.
11:18 - Forest View Cemetery. Drunk and disorderly:
Our next stop was the graveyard in the center of town. A concerned citizen had called in a report of an intoxicated man causing trouble and generally disrespecting the inhabitants. We found the suspect curled up on the steps of one of the above-ground tombs wearing a fancy three-piece suit (British cut). I offered to rouse the man by poking him with a stick, but he woke up on his own before I could find one. O’Brien then introduced me to the man as her “personal assistant, Jack.”
After a short talk, it became clear that this man was neither drunk nor disorderly. He had a valid ID and a clean record, and he passed the field sobriety test with flying colors. When she asked what he was doing out there, he explained that he was passing through town and thought he saw a good place for a nap. We relieved him of that misconception and sent him on his way.
11:41 - Second Street en route to Elk Street. O’Brien sees me keeping notes:
“What are you writing?” O’Brien asked.
“I’m documenting our ride-along in my journal,” I explained.
“Why?”
“For posterity’s sake.”
She gave a shrug and didn’t bring it up again.
11:48 - 232 Elk Street. Break-in:
Our next stop was an older home on what used to be called “Elm Street,” before they changed the name to stop kids from stealing the street sign. O’Brien introduced me to the victim—a seventy-year-old army vet—as her “criminal profiler on loan from the FBI.” He didn’t question it for a second (which was the best compliment I’d gotten all day).
He showed us into the tobacco-flavored living room and explained how he had gone out to check the mail when he heard a thunderous crash from inside the house. By the time he got back, every piece of furniture had been completely rearranged. I took a look around, but judging from the layers of dust and cigarette ash settled onto every surface, I had strong doubts that any of his furniture had moved in years.
“Was anything taken?” O’Brien asked.
“No, of course not. They did this to send me a message.”
“What message?”
“I don’t know! Y’all are the cops. You figure it out. I’m retired!”
12:32 - 331 Cedar Street, Apt 324. ???:
Our next stop was the apartment complex next to the Baptist church, where a middle-aged blonde woman called about her dead dog. She met us at the door, and O’Brien introduced me as her “consulting psychic detective, Jack.” The woman invited us inside, where she insisted with tears in her eyes that her dog, Puddin, had recently died from natural causes. She had a lovely ceremony for him and buried the body in a clearing in the woods behind the church.
“Then why did you call us?” O’Brien asked.
“Because! He’s not dead anymore!”
Her dog, a beautiful Chow/German Shepherd mix, picked that moment to come running into the room to greet us. He looked very happy, clean, and alive for a dead dog. I didn’t care, and neither did he. I pet Puddin and rubbed his belly while O’Brien took the woman’s statement. (This was easily my favorite part of the whole day.)
14:13 - White’s Cattle Farm at the edge of town. Truck “problem”:
By the time we responded to the disturbance at Farmer White’s place, O’Brien was introducing me as her “partner-in-training, Jack.”
Turns out, Farmer White’s truck had driven off. As in, it cranked on by itself with neither a driver nor key, pulled out of its parking spot, and drove off into the woods at high speed like it was making a daring escape from Alcatraz. Farmer White watched from his porch as it happened. He even had the whole thing on video.
After a somewhat philosophical discussion about the meaning of the word “ownership,” we decided that, yes, legally speaking the car was technically stolen, and this was a simple case of grand theft auto.
***
The time passed quickly. The calls kept coming, one after the other, each case weirder than the last. I know it’s human nature to look for patterns where there aren’t any, but it almost felt like this day was building up to some grand finale. I didn’t like that thought one bit.
We finally got a moment to relax shortly before the sun went down. O’Brien took me to a small diner in town called Marilyn’s to recuperate. She almost couldn’t wait to collapse into her booth seat. I took my spot across from her.
“Having fun?” she asked in a sarcastic yet serious voice.
“Is this what it’s always like?”
“Been this way ever since I got back. Feels like Clyde is pushing the weirder cases my way on purpose.”
The waiter interrupted us like he was angry we were wasting his time. “Hey. What can I get y’all?” Judging by the dirty apron, our waiter was probably also our cook—a frumpy old man who smelled of sweat and grease.
“Burger special and coffee,” O’Brien said without looking at the menu.
He took way too long to write that down on his pad, more than enough time for us to reconsider our choice of restaurant, then he looked at me and asked, “What about you?”
“Do you guys have any bananas?”
You’d have thought I tried to order a human steak from the way he and O’Brien were looking at me. I tried to explain, “I’m trying to get more potassium, so I was wondering if you had any bananas in the kitchen.”
“We have fried bananas.”
“Can I get that? Only, don’t fry them?”
“They only come fried.”
“That’s pretty suspicious.”
“Yeah, I know. You want them anyway?”
“I’ll take the burger special and coffee.”
Sundown - Robertson farm. All hands on deck emergency:
Our meal was cut short by a call for all available units to report to the Robertson farm immediately. We showed up on scene within ten minutes and parked behind two other squad cars with their reds and blues flashing. A rookie met us in front of the house and didn’t even question why the crippled gas station clerk was tagging along. I kept my head down as we followed him to the crime scene behind the building.
When we joined the others, Deputy Love noticed me and gave a friendly nod while another man strung up police tape around the mangled body on the ground. I wish I could say that I'd never seen that much blood in one place before.
Crime scene techs had already shown up. A couple EMT’s stood by wondering what they were supposed to be doing. Some of the others stared at the scene in silent disgust or morbid fascination.
Suddenly, a pair of headlights illuminated the gruesome tableau vivant, revealing just how bad the damage was. I turned to see the sheriff stepping out of his cruiser a few yards away. Apparently, he couldn’t park in front of the house and walk to the crime scene like the rest of us, and that guy even had both of his legs. I guess when you’re that important, you have to make the occasional power move to remind everyone.
He was a big guy with a face full of early wrinkles and a shiny bald top with gray puffs on the sides. When he spoke, it commanded everyone’s attention. “What the hell is he doing here?” His eyes were on me.
O’Brien acknowledged his question with a quick, “Evening, Clyde. He’s with me.”
“What have we got here?” he asked, refusing to look away.
One of the younger deputies started to answer, “Robertson came outside when he heard an animal in his yard. He says it-”
“Not you,” the sheriff stopped him. “I’m asking him.”He pointed. Soon, everyone was looking in my direction. Sheriff Clyde Callie was flexing his dick, making a power move, trying to embarrass me in front of everybody (and succeeding).
“Oh, you mean the body?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he took a step closer. The way he held my eye contact hostage felt like I was staring down a snake. “The body. What can you tell me?”
“Not much.”
“Then why the fuck are you in the middle of my crime scene?”
Power move.
I could cut the tension in the air with a dull spoon. I was in over my head. But then, something snapped. Once again, I’d lost control of my body, only this time I wasn’t locking up. My mouth started running on autopilot. And worse (or better?), I suddenly felt zero regard for this a-hole’s opinion of me.
“Well, here’s what I do know,” I said with a certain amount of confidence I didn’t think I was capable of. “You got a mutilated cow on your hands.”
He scoffed, “Obviously.”
“Whatever did this acted quickly. One animal. Something huge, probably a bear. It went for the throat to keep it quiet, then started eating from the stomach while the cow was still alive.” All of those morbid whodunits were coming back to me now. I was playing the part of consulting detective and almost enjoying myself.
The sheriff let out a muffled chuckle.
“Nice guesswork. How’d you figure?”
Did he really need someone to explain it? It was all so obvious. Wasn’t it?
“Well, the blood is pooled in one area here, so it went down fast. No time for a struggle.” I circled the body, found a gore-free spot near the animal’s hind end, then balanced on my leg and used the crutch as my pointer. “The first thing it did was break both of the back legs before the cow had a chance to make a run for it. Pack animals would have left bites all over, but these are all tightly clustered around the stomach. Claw marks are too wide to be cougar or wolf, so that tells me you’re looking for something much bigger.”
“Anything else?” the sheriff asked.
“Well, there’s the obvious fact that the cow is glowing bright green around all of the wounds. I’m not an expert, but that’s got to be some kind of clue. Right?”
The sheriff licked his lips. Slowly. Almost suggestively. I looked around to see if anyone else picked up on it, but if they had, they pretended they hadn’t.
“Okay, kid. Good work. But how’d you know the cow was still alive when it was being eaten?”
“Because she’s still alive right now.”
As if she had been waiting for an announcement, the half-flayed body of the mutilated cow recoiled off the ground like a fish trying to flop back into the water. A few of the others screamed and jumped away as it let out a muted gurgling noise from the holes in its throat. Before Clyde could order everyone to calm down, Love had already pulled out his service revolver and fired three shots into the animal’s skull.
I took advantage of this chance to slip out of the spotlight and carefully walked over to O’Brien. Once I reached her side, I whispered, “I think I’m going to go wait in the car.”
Without warning, a black sedan came flying around the farmhouse, drift-turning, cutting tracks through the tall grass and nearly losing control before pointing itself in our direction and launching forward. It shot up to speed and then came to an abrupt stop millimeters shy of the sheriff’s back bumper. Several men had their weapons drawn by the time the driver door swung open. A man stepped out, slammed the door shut, then marched into the center of the crime scene wearing a bespoke black suit (American cut), sunglasses, and a smile. He scanned the crowd, then stepped onto the hood of the sheriff’s cruiser and whistled louder than I’d ever heard any human whistle before. With all eyes on him, he held out a wallet badge and ID, and addressed us all.
“Listen up, shitheads! My name is Special Agent Brick Roscoe of the United States Department of Defense, and I’m running the show now.”
The sheriff patted the air in front of him, a gesture that his men took to mean “stand down.”
“It’s ‘Department of Homeland Security,’ you dumbass!” That voice came from the other man in a matching black suit. The one who had stepped out of the passenger side of the agent’s car. The one now wandering through the crowd with his probing cane, trying to get closer to his partner.
Great, I thought. It’s everyone's least favorite characters back to ruin another day.
The agent Brick Roscoe standing on the car put away his badge and muttered a quick, “What-the-fuck-ever! Point is, this here is my crime scene now, and I don’t want any of you inbred good-ole-boys contaminating it with your grits and cornbread and miscreant DNA. You there!” He pointed at one of the deputies. “What’s your name, son?”
The man cautiously answered, “Uh, I’m Deputy Fr—”
Brick interrupted, “Your name is ‘Bitch’! Got it? Now, who do you answer to, Bitch?”
The deputy’s mouth dropped open. After a second or two, he gave in and pointed at the sheriff. Brick hopped down from the car and walked up to the man who had, until now, been running the show. Brick gave him a long, loud sniff, then said, “Sheriff, huh?”
Clyde thrust out his chest. “That’s right.”
“Good. I have a special task for you.”
“Now listen here-”
As Clyde began what probably would have been an awesome threat, the federal agent reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a hand grenade, pulled out the pin, and placed the explosive device into the sheriff’s hands. “Here, hold this. And keep that lever squeezed tight. You drop that thing or let go for any reason, they’ll need a sponge to get you to your coffin.”
Now that’s a power move.
The agent turned and walked towards the cow, speaking loudly enough that everyone could hear but quickly enough that nobody could respond. “Starting now, I’m the number one hot sauce boss. Got it? You all answer to me until I say otherwise, and nobody touches the crime scene or anything in it, on it, or around it without my direct approval first. You two!” he pointed at a couple of EMT’s. “Help deputy Bitch over here get that body loaded into the trunk of my car.”
The deputy started, “But chain of custody—”
Brick exploded, “DID I SAY YOU COULD TALK, BITCH?!” He reached into his coat and pulled out another grenade, pointing it at the deputy and screaming, “DO YOU WANT ONE TOO? I GOT PLENTY TO GO AROUND!” The deputy promptly turned and assisted the EMT’s as they dragged the cow’s glowing remains towards the sedan. Brick continued to walk about the crowd, calling orders at anyone dumb enough to make eye contact. Once he noticed me, he stopped and walked over with an insidious smile. “Jack? You’re still alive?”
He sounded surprised. A little too surprised for my comfort. O’Brien folded her arms and asked, “This a friend of yours?”
“No,” I assured her.
Brick looked her up and down like a piece of meat, then said, “I don’t have friends. Just people I haven’t killed yet. But Jackie-boy here is much more useful alive, so why don’t you take him someplace safe? Consider that an order, deputy.”
Behind him, Blind-Brick was already handing out hacksaws (we didn’t stick around to see what they were for, but you can probably guess). The last thing I saw before we left was the sheriff attempting to keep a straight face, clutching the grenade in his outstretched hand as rage tears poured down his cheeks.