The Fed Man (5 page)

On the way home Nube found himself thinking about Nancy. He recalled her soft voice and those eyes that he was sure could melt a man into a puddle. He knew he was feeling warm again and that he was starting to blush, but he also knew that he was feeling something else that he hadn’t felt in a long time. And he liked it.

Five days later, Nube was helping the crew repair a water sprinkler head when his phone rang. He flipped it open without checking the caller ID and said, “Hello.” He quietly reprimanded himself again. He had done the same thing last night and spent some valuable time listening to the pleas and ramblings of a telemarketer because he just didn’t have it in him to tell the guy to screw off.

“Nube, this is Doc. I just heard from Dr. Anthony. He received the results of the evidence we found on our last search. The lab said the hair samples matched those of the victim, as did the blood. He also said we had sent them hair from a raccoon. The paint sample we sent was from, as best as they could tell, an old foreign truck. But they’re going to do more studies to see if they can narrow it down. They couldn’t tell anything from the tire mold because the tire was too bald. The cleave in the log was consistent with having been made by a camping axe. The threads will take a while yet before they know what they’re from. He also told me that the lab had recovered a trace of rusted metal from the victim’s socks. Don’t
know what that means yet, but I guess we’ll just add it to the pile of info we already have.

“Dr. Anthony also mentioned that, just to be thorough, he would like everyone who collected evidence or worked at the crime scene to give him a buccal swab for DNA. He said he could come by Naldie’s office some time later today to collect them if we were available. It works for me, but how about for you?”

“So nothing too solid on the evidence so far, huh? Yeah, I can come by Naldie’s office, but it would have to be after four o’clock this afternoon, if that’s okay.”

“No problem. I’ll let Joe know we’ll be at the chief’s office about four. In the meantime, we’ll just have to keep searching and thinking. Something always turns up. Let’s just hope we find something before the perp strikes again, Lord forbid.”

He was beginning to get those feelings again. Especially about useless people. That’s why he was sitting in his dark apartment. He’d heard it a million times when he was growing up that he was useless, the president was useless, the minister was useless, school and teachers were useless. His old man used to ramble on while he sucked on his sour mash whiskey that everybody and everything was useless and how someone ought to just shoot the useless sons a bitches.

He knew his old man was crazier than a loon, and if anyone was useless, it was him. But he did have a point. There were just too many useless people around. That’s why he was getting those feelings again about taking out the garbage. He liked that term and it brought out his half-lip smile whenever he thought about it.

It was time to listen to some more Dylan. That always got him in the mood for garbage night. Perhaps he’d head up to Winter Falls this time. He thought he would leave tomorrow after work. Lord knows there was enough garbage up there. He’d always thought
that there were only two kinds of people who lived in Winter Falls: those too dumb to move and those too poor to move. And both kinds contained garbage. There was enough time to get there, pick up, and get rid of the garbage. And just to show everybody how smart he was, he decided he would leave the garbage in Whitsell’s pit again. That’d show that smart-ass young fed and that fat cop just who they were dealing with. He thought he could do all this and be home well before dawn. Besides, that would be Saturday and he could sleep late. He always felt exhausted after taking out the garbage.

It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning and Nube was preparing to leave for another day of work when he remembered something he had to do. He finished his coffee, stuffed the last bit of toast into his mouth, and went to the closet next to his bed. He retrieved a small black Callaway golf bag containing a 3-wood, a 7-iron, a pitching wedge, and a putter. The bag also contained about three dozen golf balls that Nube had found on the course over the past week. He had asked Steve Smithson if he would assist him in making the clubs smaller and hoped he had guessed correctly at Peter Jameson’s height. He sat at his desk and scribbled a short note that read:

He went to the bookshelf next to his desk and retrieved the copy of Ben Hogan’s book
Five Lessons: The Modern Fundamentals of Golf
that he had picked up at the local bookstore, slipped the note inside the front cover, and placed the book on top of the clubs. Leaving his home, he felt a strange sensation as he walked to the hole in the fence that he knew young Peter was still using to enter and exit the club grounds.

The following Monday afternoon Nube was on the fifteenth green repairing the edge of a sand trap that had developed furrows after the weekend rain, when he started thinking about the crime again. He sat on the edge of the trap, pulled his perspiration-stained shirttail from his trousers, and used it to wipe the sweat and grime from his forehead. He pulled out his cell phone and called Doc.

“Good afternoon, Doc. This is Nube. I’ve been thinking about our last visit to Whitsell’s pit and I’m just wondering if we shouldn’t go over to Dr. Anthony’s office for a visit. Remember when Byron said that Dr. Anthony’s assistant had returned to check for some blood spatters? Well, I really think we should get the straight scoop on that. What do you think?”

“I’ve kind of had the same thoughts, Nube. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call Joe and see if we can stop by for a visit. What time works for you?”

Nube checked his watch, scratched his head, looked at the sand trap, and tried to calculate how much longer it would take
him to complete his task. “Tell you what, Doc. How about four or so this afternoon if that works for you and for Joe?”

“Sounds good, and I think that will be okay with Joe. I’ll pick you up at your place about four.”

When they arrived at the county coroner’s office, Nube noticed that the building seemed to reflect the job. It was a stark gray block building with few windows and only a few trees around it. There were no shrubs or flowers to contrast the building’s bleak façade. Nube and Doc found that the reception area mirrored the outside. The walls were a dreary gray with no pictures. The receptionist, Mrs. Blowster, sat behind a small metal desk and was identified by a nondescript dark brown sign.

Doc approached the desk. “Good afternoon, Mary. We’re supposed to meet Dr. Anthony. Would you be so kind as to page him for us?”

“Well certainly, Dr. Allen. And who, may I ask, is your companion?”

“I’m sorry, Mary. This is Nube Lawson. He’s a friend of mine helping us with the murder of that poor young lady we found at Whitsell’s pit.”

With a soft, sweet smile and hint of a blush she continued to stare at Nube as she replaced a hair that was not out of place. “Nice to meet you, Nube. Let me see if I can find Dr. Anthony. He’s probably in his office.”

She pushed a button on her phone, and within moments Dr. Anthony entered the room with his hand extended and a warm smile on his face. His stained bow tie was tilted a bit to the left and the white lab coat he was wearing had not been laundered in some time.

“Good afternoon, Doc. And good afternoon to you as well, Nube. Come on in. It isn’t often that one gets visitors at the coroner’s office. I was just completing my final review of the autopsy report on that poor, unfortunate young lady. Just for your edification, I didn’t find anything new during the autopsy. The cause of death remains suffocation. I plan on releasing her body to her parents’ mortician first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve been told that the family is planning on having her funeral this coming Saturday.”

As they entered Dr. Anthony’s office, Nube noticed that this room was like the building: cold and stark. Two framed documents hung on dreary gray walls. Both were to the left of the coroner’s unpretentious metal desk, behind which sat a worn leather chair with a small tear on the left armrest. One of the documents was Dr. Anthony’s medical school diploma and the second denoted his appointment as the county coroner. “How can I help you guys?”

“Well, Joe, we have a question for you. When we were out at Whitsell’s pit the other day, Naldie’s young deputy, Byron, said
that he had let your assistant into the crime scene. He told Byron that you had sent him there to retrieve some blood spatters. I guess we’re just wondering if you had really sent him there.”

“His name’s Leo Holmen. His official title is
diener
, which is German for servant. In the States, we use it to describe a morgue attendant or autopsy technician. He’s been with me for quite some time. Unfortunate childhood and a bit slow, but, nevertheless, a hard worker. You can see through here,” Dr. Anthony pointed to the small, one-way window that looked into the morgue itself, “that he’s still cleaning up, even though I told him he could leave an hour ago.”

Nube and Doc both peered through the window and saw Leo, who had thin hair, a hunched back, and an acne-scarred face. His bright, white coveralls were in stark contrast to Dr. Anthony’s lab coat. He was mopping the floor around the main autopsy table. “How long did you say he’s been working for you?” Doc asked. “And where does he live? I can’t recall seeing him in town before.”

“I’d have to check his file to see just how long he’s been here. He lives in one of the trailers on the north edge of town near the railroad tracks. I think he’s kind of a loner, but as I mentioned, he’s a good guy and a hard worker. And yes, I did send him back to the crime scene. We had picked up some blood samples where the body was lying and I wanted a few more just to make sure. Anything else I can do for you gentlemen today?”

He removed his round, wire-rimmed glasses which, like his lab coat, appeared as if they had not been cleaned in some time. Dr.
Anthony took a handkerchief from his left rear pocket, blew on the lenses, and began rubbing the smudges. There was an edge to his voice. His brow furrowed and he sat straighter when he asked the last question. The air in the small office felt, just for a moment, to be slightly cooler as well.

“No, I think that takes care of it for us, don’t you, Nube?” Doc asked.

“I can’t think of anything else either. Well, Dr. Anthony, thanks for your time.” He held up his right index finger and hesitated a moment before adding, “Oh, there is just one more thing. Was all the evidence returned from the forensics lab you used, and if so, where do you store it?”

Tilting his head and squinting, Dr. Anthony peered over the top of his glasses and responded, “Yes, it has all been returned, and we store all evidence in a locked room just off the autopsy room. Why do you ask?”

“I just thought that if something else turned up, or if nothing turned up and we had to start over, it would be easier if the evidence was here and not in some forensics lab in Minneapolis. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it, Doctor.” Turning to Doc he said, “I think we can leave now. Thank you, Dr. Anthony. We know you’re busy and we appreciate your seeing us. We’ll find our own way out.”

As they walked through the reception room, Nube felt as if a pair of eyes were burning through him, and this time it made him feel uncomfortable.

Crossing the parking lot, Doc stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched forward a bit. “What’s bothering you, Doc?” asked Nube.

“It’s Joe. I’ve known him for some time now and this is the first time he’s seemed, well, cold, when talking to me. He’s either hiding something, protecting someone, or just irked that we would have the gall to question his professionalism. And I can’t imagine any of the three. What was your take?”

“I don’t know him like you do, but he seemed just fine until we started asking him about Leo and the evidence. It was my impression that he then turned 180 degrees. We’ll just have to wait and see, I suppose.”

When Doc dropped him off at home, Nube was still wondering about the visit with Dr. Anthony. He was scratching his head as he walked to the four-by-eight-foot dog run attached to the side of his garage where Ms. Abby spent her days. When he saw his best friend jumping in greeting, all seemed right with the world again. He opened the gate and she almost knocked him over with her welcoming lunge. Ms. Abby then bounded into the fenced yard to stretch her legs. Nube knew she would run within the confined space of his yard for a while, so he walked to his front door thinking about the cold beer he was going to treat himself with. As he approached his porch, he saw a small cardboard box sitting in front of the door. Wondering what in the world it could be, he picked it up and smelled fresh-baked apple pie. He removed and opened the envelope taped to the top. Inside were two notes. The first was from young Peter.

Grinning, he refolded the note and opened the second, which read,

He felt himself blushing more than ever. “That Pete Mohr, wait until I see him. He had no right to tell her that,” he thought. But he also felt himself smiling. No, the arrow hadn’t hurt at all. He was feeling that sensation again, which he hadn’t felt in a long time, and it felt good.