Authors: James A. Mohs
Winter Falls was bleak this time of year. But every time he’d been here it seemed bleak. There were a few trees, but none had any character. Didn’t anybody care around here? As he drove down Washington Avenue, which was the continuation of Highway 102, it seemed that every house was in some state of disrepair. He wondered if these people knew just how crappy that looked. But he thought that these people probably never went to a real town to see what it looked like. The whole town is garbage.
He had that half-lip snarl again as he imagined himself as a one-person beautification committee because he was going to rid this dung hole of a piece of garbage tonight. He just had to decide which piece. He turned his Nissan POS left onto Gordon Avenue, which, he thought, should be renamed pothole alley. Most of the abandoned businesses were boarded up, but there were some bright lights at the end of the block where he saw some young people hanging out in front of a bar.
As he drew closer, he noted that even this place looked horrible. He guessed the name of the bar was Foam and Suds, but some of the lights had burned out and no one had bothered to replace them. He was going to pull over and park across the street from the bar when he hit one of the city’s famous potholes that shook every nut and bolt of the Nissan. Because the suspension was shot, he thought the truck would fall apart. At least the right front fender that he had just duct taped to the hood and passenger door didn’t fall off. He thought again about how he should be driving a newer ride now and would be if it weren’t for that young prick banker dude.
When he stopped right across the street from the Foam and Suds, he saw that the young people he had seen when he turned onto this crappy street were two girls and a guy. The guy was tall and skinny and wearing faded blue jeans and a T-shirt with a band picture on the front. He looked cocky as hell, holding a beer in his hand. The two girls, who were smoking, were wearing jeans with holes in the knees and their T-shirts sported the latest cosmetic fad as a logo. They were giggling and that was obviously feeding the ego of the young punk.
One of the girls had just taken the beer from the punk and was taking a drink when he walked up to them. He stopped on the curb and asked, “I just got into town and really need a beer. Is this the best spot to hang out and get a good, cold beer?”
The young man turned to the street and spit a stream of tobacco juice before answering. With a flip of his head he said, “Yeah, this is a pretty cool place.”
“I sure do hate to drink alone. Would you like to have a beer with me?”
After spitting another stream toward the gutter he said, “Yeah, sure, man. Like, that would be cool.” Turning to the girls, the young man continued, “Sounds cool, right ladies?”
Giggling and almost in unison, they said, “Like, that would be real cool, mister. Can we have a beer too, or is it just Johnny that gets to have one? He’s cool. He shares his beer with us.”
“Sure, you can have your own. You can have as many as you want. Just give me a minute or so and I’ll run in and get us some.”
As he entered the bar he thought to himself that that young guy was an asshole and a despicable piece of garbage. Well, they might as well enjoy their last supper. Isn’t that what they called it on death row before the warden came calling?
He returned within a few minutes carrying a twelve-pack of Budweiser and a brown paper bag. The three teens were smiling and one of the girls, the one he had initially picked as his target, started twisting her long black hair around her index finger and he thought, even in the dim light, that she was blushing. She began giggling as she asked him, “What other treats did you get for us, mister?”
The half-lip snarl returned as he replied, “Oh, just some cherry-flavored sloe gin. Ever had any of that? It’s actually quite good. Tastes almost like Kool-Aid.” He added to himself that the sloe gin mixed with the beer should make them puke their guts out and conceal any taste of the roofies. “Now, where’s a good place to go where we can enjoy ourselves and these treats?”
The young man, the one he had termed the punk, spoke up perhaps just a bit too quickly and with too much enthusiasm, “There’s an old abandoned farm just outside of town where we hang out and enjoy a few brews when we can get them. No one will bother us, even if there is somebody already there.”
The excited punk had a large, ugly scar through and above his right upper lip that pulled his face to the right. And he did not like the greased-back hair and his pustular acne or the fact that he was chewing tobacco. Obviously a miscreant; a piece of garbage.
“Sounds good to me. Do you guys have a ride? I can just follow you in my pickup.”
The punk pointed toward an old station wagon parked in front of the Nissan. “Yeah. My old man let me use the old wagon tonight. Just follow us.”
Strolling toward the POS, the half-lip snarl grew larger as he thought how much he loved it when a plan came together.
Nube’s cell phone rang while he was scrubbing grease from his hands. This time he looked at the caller ID before answering and saw it was from Doc.
“Good morning, Doc. What can I do for you on this lovely day? Or are you calling about playing a round of golf?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not calling about either. I’m afraid that I have some bad news. Seems like our perp, the miserable SOB, has struck again. Naldie called and told me that old Sam Washburn, who lives on a small piece of land adjoining Whitsell’s pit, found another body this morning. He was walking his old coonhound through the pit and discovered the body of a teenage boy. What’s really crazy is that he found it in exactly the same place where the young girl’s body was found. And furthermore,” the agitation growing in Doc’s voice, “there was an axe in the victim’s chest again. Jeez, Nube, just what in the capital H is going on, and who is this crazy, whacked-out psycho?”
“Calm down a bit, Doc. We don’t need you having a heart attack or a stroke. Now tell me again, who found the body, when was it found, and who called you? Just hold on a sec. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I come over to your house and you can fill me in en route to Naldie’s office.”
“Sounds good, Nube. I’d appreciate that. And the two of us will have to really work to calm Naldie down. I’ve never heard the man so agitated.”
“Just sit tight and I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Nube punched out and left the maintenance shed for the short walk home. He’d need to clean up and change clothes because it sounded like this could be another long day and night. And he thought he may as well take advantage of the moment to let Ms. Abby run in the yard while he was getting ready. Lord only knew when he’d be back.
When Nube arrived at Doc’s house, he found him pacing along the boulevard with his hands knotted behind his back, his shoulders hunched, and his face quizzical and pained. Nube pulled his Audi up to the curb and rolled down the passenger window.
“Hey, Doc. Jump in and let’s go find Naldie.”
Doc had to crunch down and slither in. “Just why on God’s green earth do you have such a small car? Don’t you know how hard it is for someone like me to crawl into this thing?”
Nube, who liked to describe himself as a bit north of six feet two and east of 215 pounds, smiled and said, “When I get as old as you, Doc, I’ll probably change to a minivan or one of those big honking Arab-loves-’em, gas-sucking SUVs. But until then, well, I’ll just keep this little beauty. I can get in and out without any problem.”
After Doc was finally in and his seat belt was secured, Nube pulled away from the curb, smoothly shifting through the gears. He thought he’d give Doc a ride so he could see why this automobile was so much fun.
Nube had just shifted into third gear when Doc said, “You don’t have to prove to me that this is a smooth machine. I was young once as well and actually owned something comparable to this. They do put a smile on your face and make your heart beat faster. I’ll give you that. I’m just not sure I could keep up with it anymore.”
“You’re a little worked up, Doc, and I think I know the perfect elixir. How about I let you drive?”
Turning to Nube with a smile on his face, he asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? Just the thought gives me goose pimples.”
Pulling to the curb, Nube shifted into park, opened his door, climbed out, and walked to the passenger side. He opened the door so Doc could exit and said to him, “Admiral, you’ve got the conn. Just don’t wreck my ship.”
Doc was actually giddy as he exited, and Nube thought there was a bounce to his step as he hurried to the driver’s side. He squirmed in, fastened his seat belt, and adjusted the seat and mirrors before turning to Nube.
Through a grin that seemed to be growing wider by the moment he said, “Now hold on, son. This old man is going to show you just how an automobile of this caliber is supposed to be driven. I think we should hit the main highway before going to Naldie’s office, don’t you? Maybe burn a little carbon out of this thing. He’s so wrapped up in this new murder case that he won’t have any of his deputies out looking for us adventurous souls.”
Nube’s first thought was to renege on his offer, but he thought this just might be the therapy that old Doc needed to feel good again. Returning the smile, he replied, “Like I said, Admiral, just don’t wreck my ship.”
Doc hit all six gears smoothly and had the Audi TT cruising about 80 mph down the freeway when he looked over at Nube. “May I ask you a somewhat personal question, my young friend?”
“Sure, Doc, no problem. Shoot.”
“Tell me, Nube, if you don’t mind, why did you choose the FBI as a career?”
Nube looked at the window as if gathering his thoughts, then turned to Doc. “I was always intrigued with the idea of becoming a profiler. But to accomplish that, I had to initially become a Supervisory Special Agent and then be assigned to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or NCAVC, as the Bureau refers to it.”
Nube gazed at the window again for a few seconds and when he looked back at Doc, there was a tear running down his cheek. “You know, Doc, Ellie never wanted me to join the FBI. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve asked myself why I didn’t listen to her. Maybe, just maybe, if I’d chosen a different career, we’d have lived someplace else and she just might still be alive.”
He wiped the tear, coughed back an impending sob, shrugged his shoulders, and asked, “How’re you doing with the conn, Admiral?”
AFTER AN EXHILARATING
ride Doc eased the Audi into town, loving the throaty whine as he downshifted and then eased to a stop in front of the sheriff’s office.
“Well, son. Now that’s what I call a ride. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate your letting me drive this beauty. It brought back so many memories. But now back to reality. Let’s go find Naldie and see what he’s learned.” He handed the keys to Nube and said with a smile, “The conn is yours once again.”
When they entered the sheriff’s office, the atmosphere felt like it could be cut with a knife. They spotted Pete sitting at his desk, apparently poring over some new data or information. Pete spotted them coming and pushed back from his desk while resetting this week’s new camo cap. “Well look who’s here. If you guys keep hanging out together people are going to start talking. What are you two up to today?”
Doc shook Pete’s weathered hand with its firm grip and noticed his smile and a twinkle in his eye. Doc cocked his head and squinted.
“What’s happened, and how’s my good friend Naldie doing?”
Pete sat back down and motioned to two metal office chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, my friends. What’s happened is that there’s been another murder. Doc, I think Naldie filled you in on some of the details, but let me start from the top. It might help Nube here to get up to speed.
“This morning at a quarter to eight, old Sam Washburn called the office and asked to speak to the chief of police. Said he had
some bad news. Now Nube, just to make sure you’re totally up on things, Sam Washburn is an old codger, a confirmed bachelor, who lives on about ten acres of land abutting Whitsell’s pit.
“You should know that Sam’s a man that is rarely seen or heard from. My old daddy used to say that a man like Sam is one who never says aye, boo, kiss my ass, go to hell, nothing. Old Sam’s passion is taking his only friend, Jackson, who is a coonhound, on long walks through the pit and the surrounding woods. He told me once that it clears his brain and rests his soul to be out there with Jackson in the cool dawn. Well, this morning he set out to cross the pit and Jackson started to act kind of funny. And then he let out a howl that old Sam said he hadn’t heard before and then Jackson started running. He had a helluva time keeping up with the old coonhound. They came around this pile of gravel and lo and behold, they saw a body with an axe in its chest. Sam said he knew better than to get too close so he put a leash on Jackson and headed for the neighbors so he could call Naldie. He didn’t go home because he doesn’t have a phone. Says he’s never needed one.
“First thing Naldie asked him is how he got into the pit since it’s supposed to be secured. I had to kind of chuckle because old Sam told him in no uncertain terms that his pretty yellow tape wasn’t going to keep him out of any place he wanted to go.
“Naldie and I left immediately to take a look for ourselves and to tell that young whippersnapper Byron and his two-bit buddy Arnie to make sure the pit was closed up tighter than a bull’s butt. And that if anyone else entered that pit without Naldie’s direct
permission, those two would be looking for jobs at the commercial Satan. You know, don’t you, that that’s what Naldie calls the Walmart in the next town?”
Seeing them both give a barely perceptible nod, Pete continued. “We just got back a few minutes ago and Naldie’s been in his office just a-pacing and a-rubbing his belly like he always does when his thicket is all puckered up. I’m starting to worry about that man. You think he may need some pills or something, Doc?”
Letting out a loud sigh, Doc leaned forward in his chair and started rubbing his neck. “I’m worried too, Pete. Why don’t we go into his office and chat with him.”