The Fed Man (13 page)

Pete slowed his Silverado down to make sure he didn’t miss Sam’s driveway. The two grass- and weed-covered ruts were easier to see today because of his tracks from yesterday. He wound his way up to Sam’s house and as he exited his pickup, he thought he could already smell freshly brewed coffee. As he walked up to the door, Sam, with Jackson at his side, came out with a fresh cup in one hand and a smile on his face.

Pete pointed at the cup. “Hope that cup of joe is for me, Sam. I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”

“Of course it is, Pete. Come on in and have a cup before we get started. Like I told you yesterday, those tracks aren’t going anyplace.”

He held the screen door open for Jackson, but left Pete to fend for himself with the door.

When Pete entered the kitchen, Sam was seated at his small table with a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. Jackson had assumed her normal place in front of the small trash burner in
the corner and appeared as if she was already asleep. Sam gestured for Pete to join him at the table. Pete smelled the sweet aroma of homemade rolls.

“Wasn’t sure if Ali fed you before you left so I made up a small batch of my mama’s favorite rolls. Don’t want us getting hungry while we work.”

Pete closed his eyes, rolled his head back, and smiling, he inhaled deeply. Sitting down, he reached for the cup of coffee with one hand and grabbed one of the freshly baked pastries with his other hand. Already salivating, he briefly looked up at Sam. “I do declare, Sam, but you would have made someone a right fine wife. This has got to be a slice of heaven right here in this kitchen.”

He took a big bite of the warm roll with the icing still soft and running. Chewing deliberately and with his eyes half closed, he smiled broadly.

“I’ve changed my mind on something, Sam. I would like your coffee recipe as well as the recipe for these rolls. My Ali needs to make these.” Pointing at Sam while still holding the warm pastry, he continued, “And if she has problems making either, I’m sending her out here for instructions.”

With a proud smile, Sam replied, “You just finish up there, Pete. We’ve got a bit of work ahead of us this morning. By the way, did you go to church this morning?”

Still savoring the taste of his midmorning treats, Pete nodded. “Yup. Sat a few pews behind you.”

Pushing back from the table and gathering up his dishes, Sam looked satisfied and gestured toward the half-eaten roll in front of Pete. “Good. Finish up now and let’s be on our way.”

The trip to the bottom of the pit seemed easier and certainly less frightening today. They identified the point where the perp began his trek toward the still-gridded site where he deposited the body. Sam turned left and followed the trail to the southwestern corner of the pit and his used, old red handkerchief that marked the spot where they halted their search the night before. Sam retrieved his handkerchief and returned it to his back pocket. From his other pocket he removed the flask containing cold well water and handed it to Pete.

“Thought you might want some. Sometimes a hot cup of coffee and one of my rolls can leave one needing a bit of water.”

“I think I might just take a jug of this home with me today.” After a long pull, Pete handed it to Sam. “What are your thoughts, partner?”

“This is the trail he had to use to get down here.” Shading his eyes with his left hand, Sam used his right to gesture up the hill. “The trail leads to the top, where you see those red oaks. There we’ll pick up a wider trail that some people like to run their four-wheelers on.” Making a serpentine gesture, he continued. “That leads down the other side of the hill and comes out on Art Schwartz’s driveway.” Continuing to draw a map in the air he gestured to his right. “You go right from there about a hundred yards and you’re on the township road that leads around the pit.”

Turning to Jackson, he pointed at her and gave the same simple commands as yesterday. “Sit. Stay.” Nodding at Pete and then to the trail, he directed, “Okay, let’s get started. I’ll follow the trail and you look for whatever it is you need to look for. If you find something, just holler at me and I’ll stop.”

Pete soon learned that Sam was certainly correct. This was one mean trail. They had gone about ten yards when Pete called out, “Hold it there, Sam. I think I may have something here.”

The prickly brush at this point essentially canopied the trail and Pete noted a small piece of fabric hanging from a thorn. He removed his backpack and retrieved an evidence bag and bindle paper. Carefully removing the trace, he placed it in the bindle paper, folded the paper and placed it in an evidence bag that he labeled, and returned it to his backpack.

Sam, who was observing, waited until Pete was done and then started back up the narrow trail. At the top of the hill both men were perspiring and breathing deeply. Sam pointed at a stump and Pete gratefully accepted the suggestion to sit and rest. Sam, kneeling on one knee, began picking cockleburs from his sleeve. He looked up at Pete, puzzled.

“I guess I just don’t understand what happens to someone to make them want to do this sort of thing.”

Pointing at Pete’s backpack, then at Pete, and then gesturing to encompass the entire area, Sam said, “How do you do this? I mean, how can you deal with people who do things like this?”

Removing his camo cap and placing it on his left knee, Pete picked at a spot on his left forearm sleeve, then he slowly wiped his brow with the same sleeve before looking up at Sam.

“It ain’t easy, Sam. And some, like this case, are harder than others. But I just keep thinking about those parents who have lost a child and if we can help to relieve their pain just a smidge, then it’s all worth it. God will sort ’em out, Sam. He’ll take ’em all and, I truly believe, he’ll be easy on the best of the worst and tougher on the rest.”

Rubbing his hand through his hair before resetting his cap, he smiled and stood up. “But I think some of the real bad ones, like the one we’re pursuing, are perfect candidates for Stalin’s justice. I think I heard once that he said something to the effect that justice was best served with seven grams of lead. How about another pull on that water flask, and then let’s get started again.”

Sam stood up, retrieved the water flask, and offered it to his friend. “That’s kind of powerful stuff there, Pete. But you do make some good points.”

He took the flask back from Pete, enjoyed a small drink, and nodded toward the trail. “See how it widens out here?” Moving his arm in a serpentine fashion, Sam said, “It curves around until it reaches old man Schwartz’s driveway. Must have been where your perp, as you call him, drove in and began his hike. Would’ve been hard work to tote a body up this hill. I think we should look around a bit before heading down to see if we can find a spot where he rested.”

Pete reached out and patted the old bachelor on the back. “You’re starting to think and sound like one of us, partner. That’s a great idea. Let’s take a second and scout around.”

It took just a few minutes before Pete found a spot where the weeds were trampled down in an area he judged to be the size of a fawn’s bed.

“I’ve got it here, Sam. Looks like you were right. Let’s mark this area because we’ll want some good photos and a search for trace. I’ll snap a few with my digital, but the chief will want some official ones taken. How about you lend me that old red hankie of yours so we can mark the spot.”

Seeing the look on Sam’s face when he handed the handkerchief to him, Pete added, “Sam, I’m going to ask the chief to buy you a bunch of new ones. You prefer red?”

As if to say “whatever,” he waved a hand, hiked up his bibs, and started down the four-wheeler trail. Halfway down they found another spot where it appeared the perp had stopped to rest. Pete marked this spot with a piece of cloth he pulled from his backpack, took a few photos with his digital camera, and nodded for Sam to continue their journey.

They had just about reached the merger of the four-wheeler trail and the Schwartz driveway when Sam held up his hand. He stood rock still while looking over his shoulder. “Pete, I think you need to be up here now.”

Pete eased up alongside Sam, who remained frozen and was pointing at the ground and the bushes on his left. “Looks like your
guy pulled in here to get off the driveway and,” indicating some broken brush, “tried to tuck his vehicle in so he could get out. I see some good tire tracks and some footprints. Some appear a bit shallower than the others. See what I mean?”

Pete eased himself to his haunches and tipped his cap back on his head, revealing beads of perspiration. He let out a low whistle and without a word began pointing at various spots on the ground.

“Oh, Sammy. I think we have some good stuff here. The way I put it together, he pulled in, as you suggested, got out, and then put on some shoe covers. See the difference in the shallow prints? One set has actual sole marks and the other is a blank print. Then there’s prints where the toes are deeper than the soles. I’d guess he was leaning in to pull the body out, and then threw it over his shoulder to begin the hike up the hill.”

Standing, he walked around behind Sam, who still hadn’t moved, and squatted next to the bent brush.

“Dumb shit didn’t know he was driving into prickly ash, which will scratch anything and especially an old vehicle without a wax job,” said Pete.

Getting excited about their find, he pointed at one particular prickly ash bush that had been broken in the middle of its four-foot stem.

“See here, Sam. Looks to me like some paint on a few of these thorns.” Still squatting, he looked up at his friend. “We’re going to need photos and some molds. I’m going to call the chief and tell him what we’ve found. I’m sure he’s going to want to roust out our
now-official photographer and sketch artist and have them come out today. Then I’ll take some of my own pictures and measurements. I think it’ll be important to make sure these are the same size and width as those in the pit. I also think we’ll need to block the Schwartz driveway so as not to contaminate any possible evidence. You know Art very well?”

Still standing in exactly the same place and looking down at the evidence they had discovered, Sam nodded. “Yeah, I know old Art. Poor guy. Had a good business as a body repairman, but with the economy taking a nosedive he lost it. Now, as my old daddy used to say, he doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Rarely leaves his place.”

Locking eyes with Pete, he continued, “Even on Sunday. How about you do what you need to do, and then we’ll head back toward my place. I’ll show you another trail that will lead you to Art’s and I’ll walk up there and tell him what’s going on. Otherwise he’d be kinda curious if he saw a bunch of cop cars down here. Might come visiting with his old double-barrel.”

Sam crossed his arms, closed his eyes, looked heavenward, and seemed to lose himself in quiet prayer.

After Pete had taken some measurements of the footprints and marked the spot where he thought they would get the best tire-track molds, he removed the part of the bush containing the thorn and possible paint. He placed it in an evidence bag and put it in his backpack. In a hushed voice, he said, “Sam.”

Sam opened his eyes, looked questioningly at Pete, then nodded at the trail Pete was to take that would lead him back up the hill to Sam’s place.

This was the time of day Nube had come to love the most. He was sitting on his porch in his rocking chair with a cold beer, enjoying the quiet of a late afternoon with Ms. Abby curled up at his side. A faint breeze rustled the leaves and the kaleidoscopic corals and pinks of the early evening sky were intoxicating. He took a deep breath, leaned back, and closed his eyes. His life was changing. He could feel it. He quietly shook his head and told himself that he was scared. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to let go of the pain that had come to be the only emotion he knew.

Leaning forward, he placed his cold beer on the floor; his hands were moist from the condensation. He placed his head in his hands, rocked slowly, and wondered just what was happening. Why was his life changing and why was he scared?

He had attended Mass that morning and then put in a full day at the golf course. He knew he was behind in his duties and reminded himself again to thank Steve Smithson for letting him take the time to assist with this case. He had noticed some divots
close to the hole in the fence along the eighteenth green. He remembered smiling while repairing those divots, thinking that young PJ had been practicing again. He also remembered telling himself that he would have to leave some tees and another bag of balls close to the hole in the fence. He didn’t want PJ to run out of balls and quit practicing. Despite this unsure feeling he was experiencing about himself and his future, thinking of PJ made him smile.

But perhaps the catalyst for his soul-searching had been Father Paulo Vincente’s morning sermon. Father Paulo mentioned Luke’s Gospel message about the prodigal son. He reminded his congregation that although by tradition this Gospel is read on the third Sunday of Lent, he wanted to reference it this morning as he talked about being lost. Father Paulo reminded the congregation that Luke said, “He was lost and now he is found.” The words still resounded through Nube and made him shake. He knew that since his Ellie had died that he was a lost soul. Was he now found? Was he ready to move on and to pick up the pieces? And how would he do this? He knew he was scared.

He reached down, picked up his cold beer, and took a long drink. Setting it back on the floor, he lifted the squirming Ms. Abby to his lap and held her tight. He realized that his plans for that night could be a start. Although he was scared, a hint of a smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes and began scratching Ms. Abby’s ears.

Nube began downshifting the Audi so he could turn into the dimly lit parking lot of the Dawg’s Breath. He smiled and thought that he could never grow tired of hearing the whine of the 225 hp motor when he changed gears. There were just a few cars in the parking lot, so he had no problem finding a spot under one of the scattered light poles. As he exited the TT, he was met with aromas emitted via the exhaust fans. He stood tall, tipped his head back and closed his eyes, and inhaled the aromatic bouquet of deep-frying grease mixed with charred animal flesh. Did it get any better than that? This always got his hungry juices flowing.