| |
She seems a bit too neighborly, Stickman was thinking as he drove through an intersection where a car marked “Sheriff’s Deputy” was parked nearby. He smiled at the rearview mirror when the deputy didn’t follow. Glancing back seconds later he saw his optimism was premature. Less than an hour on the road and he was in trouble. Stickman located the latch of the console between the seats, to know he could find it easily.
The deputy held his distance several car lengths back. As minutes passed, Stickman became hopeful, which again proved to be false optimism. The deputy’s rooftop lights began flashing, a siren squealed briefly. Stickman swore under his breath and pulled to the shoulder of the paved county road. On impulse he pulled off the ball cap, thinking the change of hair style and color may hold more advantage than a cap that kept the focus on his face.
He watched in his side mirror as the deputy got out and strolled toward him, bright rosy cheeks glowing beneath his Ray-Bans, right hand resting casually on his Glock. He stooped at the window and Stickman saw his identification badge – Dumfries. After checking Stickman’s license and registration, he asked why someone from New Jersey was driving a remote county road.
“I stopped at Falling Water, sir,” Stickman answered, trying to establish a subservient demeanor to give Deputy Dumfries more feeling of control. “I’d had enough of interstates and decided to take my time for a while.”
“This car was just purchased.”
“That’s right, sir. My car died, just off the warranty, of course.”
“Stay put.” The officer backed away a couple steps, setting a course to his car that allowed him to watch Stickman from the corner of his eye. The young deputy seemed uncertain of his next move. He may have checked the photos of Willford and Applebaum before leaving his car and is now taking another look, Stickman thought. He may be thinking: Is this one of those guys? Or he may have called in and wants to know if backup is on the way. And since the car’s permanent license plates hadn’t arrived, had Maple’s theft of plates the day before been reported? Did the deputy already know the plates were not for this car? He didn’t know how quickly information on license plates – new or stolen – worked its way through the system. But he could feel the sweat in his armpits as he opened the console and reached in.
Deputy Dumfries approached again, but this time stopped short, the Glock in his right hand. “Okay, put your hands on the top of the steering wheel where I can see them ... Now I’m going to open the door and I want you to step out slowly.”
“Yes, sir, though I don’t know what the problem is.”
Following Dumfries’ orders, Stickman assumed the position against the car. “I’m going to cuff you. Move both hands slowly behind your back.”
Stickman slowly lowered his arms, leading with his left. When his left hand was nearly down, he sensed the deputy glancing at it and turning slightly, reaching with a ready handcuff. Stickman shifted his right wrist and a wooden handle dropped softly into his cupped hand. He spun suddenly, stepping back and into the deputy, left hand gripping the deputy’s right wrist as the ice pick shot upward across his body. The pick found its mark, just below the sternum, piercing Dumfries’ heart. The deputy’s eyes went wide. Stickman’s left hand firmly held his wrist as the Glock slipped away, clattering on the pavement. Deputy Dumfries stood quietly, unsteadily for a long moment before crumbling, the side of his face bouncing on the pavement. He rolled onto his back and then was still.
Stickman had released the pick with the strange thought that it would plug the hole in Dumfries’ chest. Only the black handle protruded, sticking nearly upright in a small circle of blood. Though shaking slightly, Stickman took immediate pride in knowing all the practice he had invested in that quick move had created a muscle memory capable of saving his freedom. He had killed with his hands before, but this was the first against someone presumably able to defend himself, someone also trained to kill. Using the ice pick was personal, so different from directing a rain of destruction on unsuspecting victims. Stickman put his hands on his knees. As he steadied himself, he could envision wandering into the old-time pawn shop some years ago, seeing the elegant ice pick in a locked case. The polished black grip of ebony suggested India, the initialed shaft the work of an expert craftsman. He suddenly had wanted a backup weapon and didn’t haggle price. Not until months later did he juxtapose ice pick with his name.
Less than a minute after his lethal attack, Stickman’s methodical mind was taking control, charting next steps. The initial pride he took in the kill was also fading as he realized that his young victim barely qualified as a worthy foe, if that. Already, Stickman saw, the rose in Dumfries’ cheeks was barely visible. “Officer Dumbshit,” he muttered.
Given his late start, the day’s shadows already were growing long. He needed to get the deputy and his patrol car out of sight soon, improving chances of nothing being found until tomorrow at the earliest. He worried that his luck wouldn’t hold and a motorist – or other officers – would show up first.
In his car trunk, Stickman quickly located a plastic ground cloth and a pair of latex gloves. He started the patrol car and pulled it alongside the body. Thankfully, no one was trying to radio. Again, he wished he knew whether Officer Dumbshit had called in his location or description of the Toyota. He should have of course, but maybe he was playing the cowboy, seeking fame and fortune with a solo arrest. Or maybe he was plain careless.
Blood had continued spreading slowly in a circular pattern. There was a slight spurt when Stickman withdrew the pick. He tucked the ground cloth under one side of the deputy and rolled him over. Three lengths of rope tightly tied created the appearance of a plastic mummy. As strong as Stickman was, he struggled to wrestle the big man into the trunk. Though the day was turning cool, Stickman was sweating profusely when he again slipped behind the wheel. Seeing his license and registration on the dashboard was startling, but he didn’t dwell on his oversight. A short steep hill was only a football field away. He wanted it to be rough downhill terrain, but found himself looking at rolling pasture, clearly visible from the road. He drove to the next, slightly higher hill. With relief, he saw the hill fell off steeply, enough for the car to go well off the road. If he could aim it between two mature red oaks, it should gather enough speed to hurtle through wild rose bushes and other brambles standing higher than a man. And if the bushes sprang back the car would not be visible from the road. Too many ifs but Stickman did not have time to find a better place.
He backed the patrol car to the opposite side of the road before easing it forward to the pavement’s edge. He wondered if the car would high-center going over, but had to take that chance. Turning off the virtually silent radio and three other systems, he hoped he wasn’t shutting down something he shouldn’t. He put the car in neutral, killed the engine and eased his foot from the brake. The car didn’t move. Stepping out, he leaned his shoulder into the door post. The patrol car moved an inch, another, then suddenly sprung away, leaving the road in a rush. Before Stickman could take a deep breath the car slashed between the red oaks, through the bushes and out of sight. A couple loud thumps reverberated, followed by silence. Stickman quickly scuffed away the faint tire marks in the shoulder. As long as there’s not some sort of GPS signal, Officer Dumbshit may go missing longer than I hoped, he thought.
In the time he ran to his car an idea had hatched. He drove back to where he had pushed the patrol car from the pavement. Grabbing his road atlas, he tore a page from the Ts. Walking to the ditch on the opposite side of the road, he placed the page at the bottom of a woven wire fence, as if the wind had picked that spot to deposit the map of Texas. Hopefully, a bright investigator would conclude the page was connected to the deputy’s murder and the search for the killer should be focused on the Lone Star state.
Stickman could think of just one more precaution in case Dumfries had called in his car’s description. Two days earlier Maple had liberated another set of tags from a junkyard. They were on a Toyota of the same color and nearly the same vintage, close enough to pass muster in a casual traffic check – maybe. Stickman quickly switched tags and had just closed the trunk lid when a car approached from behind. No siren or lights, it appeared harmless enough. Stickman pulled on his ball cap as the car stopped.
“Everything okay?” asked a bulky white-haired man with what immediately smacked of a perpetual smile.
“Can you believe I just fixed a damn flat tire? Nobody has flat tires these days.”
“Not unless you get real unlucky. No one should get unlucky on a fine day like this, even if it is April Fool’s Day. Bye now.”