1

I found the woman’s body near Horse Creek, sunk in the bank.  She lied there arms out and legs open, like she was in the process of making dirt angels and just got interrupted.

     Caked blood hung around her ears like morbid earrings.

 

2

Police Chief Hardass (or Bobby Hamilton, if you prefer proper names) got out of his car like he always did:  with arrogance.  The cockiness was unwarranted.  So what if he was six and a half feet and 220 pounds of muscle?  I guess the title gave him absolute domain over assholedom in these parts, but what was there to be proud of, watching over a community of six hundred law abiding citizens?

     The last arrest he made was two months ago on Old Man Noogan who drank a bit too much and ran over a Miss Molly’s cat.  Hamilton only charged Noogan with animal cruelty.  How’s that for showcasing your power?  Now all he does is patrol the streets of Ilton and speak on the hazards of drugs at the local high school. 

     Besides myself, Hamilton was the only one of my class that stayed.  Everyone else got real jobs and made something of themselves in Chicago or New York or San Francisco or where ever people made something of themselves.  Little old me just runs the Ilton Gazette and Bobby Hamilton just continues to be the asshole.

     Bobby nodded to me as he approached.  “Grant.”

     “Chief.”  Do you know how hard it is calling a classmate, who is the same 28 years as you ‘Chief’?

     “What have we got here?”

     I pointed to the body.  “I found that body there about 20 minutes ago.”

     “Mmm-hmm.”  Bobby walked over to the body and knelt down.  He took a pencil from his breast pocket and poked around the woman.  If he wasn’t police, I would have though him a pervert.  “You found her like this?  You didn’t touch anything?”

     “That’s gross, man.”

     “So you found her like this?”

     “Yes.”

     “Mmm-hmm.”

     I didn’t like the way he said ‘Mmm-hmm’.  Condescending, really.  He stood back up and glance around the scene.

     “County coroner’s coming,” he said.  “’Bout 30 minutes.”  That’s about how long anybody took to her out here.  Kankakee wasn’t a hop, skip and a jump.

     Grant picked up the woman’s wrist and checked the pulse.

     “Dead,” he said.

     “Obviously.”

     “She look familiar?”

     I didn’t recognize her the first time I saw her, but I didn’t really look.  I didn’t want to again, but I just wanted out of here, so I looked at her face.

     “No,” I said.  “But that doesn’t mean she could be from one of these farmhouses.  I don’t know too many of those folks.”

     “Not familiar to me either.”

     “Listen, mind if I get going—“

     “What were you doing out here?”

     “Camping.”

     Bobby snickered.  “Camping?  I didn’t know anybody camped out here.”

     “Been doing it since I was seven.”

     “How far away?”

     I looked past a clump of trees.  “I don’t know.  About 500 feet or so.”

     “Hear anything last night?”

     “No.”  And come to think it, I really didn’t.

     “Only reason I ask is that I would guess this happened sometime in the night.  You out here all night?”

     I nodded.  “Since around 10 p.m. or so.”

     “Mmm-hmm.”

     There it was again.  His asshole ‘Mmm-hmm’.

     “Show me,” he said.

     “What?”

     “Show me your campsite.”

     “Fine.”

 

3

We followed the creek until the treeline began.  It had drizzled early morning and the banks were mushy.  Hamilton was getting his shiny Police Chief boots all muddy and I loved it.

     When we reached a drier area, Bobby stopped me.

     “Hold on.”

     “See something?” I asked.

     Instead of answering, he bent down and grabbed a handful of leaves and grass.  He used that to wipe the clumpy mud from his boots.  I shook my head and continued on.

     I could see my grey two-man tent a few moments later.  I left the flap open and hoped there weren’t any animals milling around in there.  Like a raccoon, for a field mouse, or worse, a coyote.  The past few weeks, farmers have been reporting seeing more coyotes than the past five years.  I have seen one personally.  It was skinny, bones pushing through the fur and it’s eyes and stomach hungry for a kill.

     “That it?”  Bobby asked.

     “Course.  Who else’s?”

     He cautiously approached it first.  He popped his head inside the tent and, seeing everything was okay, relaxed.  He waved his hand at the defunct fire.  “You know a fire’s illegal on private property.”

     “Is that all you’re concerned about?  You got a dead lady back there, you know.”

     Maybe I made a mistake say that last thing.  Bobby stomped over to me and tapped my shoulder with his finger.

     “Listen here, Grant.  I know we went to school together and we graduated together and that we’ve been stuck in this God-awful town since and we’ll probably be stuck here for many years yet, but don’t you think for one goddamn fucking second that you can treat me like an idiot.”  His voice quivered at the end, but he regained his thoughts and continued.  “I know I wasn’t the smartest guy in school, but I kinda made something here as Police Chief.  I’m proud of this town.  I’m fucking sick in my stomach about have a dead body on my watch.”

     I took a step back.  “Okay, okay.  Just didn’t know why you worry about a stupid fire, anyway.”

     “Did you leave the campsite at any time last night?”  Back to the questioning.  There was bound to be another dumb question, I bet.

     “No.”

     “What did you do?”

     “I made a fire.  I made dinner.  Then I read a book until I went to sleep.”

     “What did you have for dinner?” he asked.

     “Some sandwiches I made earlier today.  Bologna and Cheese.”

     Bobby looked around the campsite.  “You didn’t litter out here did you?”  And there it was.  “I mean, what did you do with the little plastic baggies you put your sandwiches in?”

     “Fuck you, Hamilton.  I used Tupperware.”  If he’d look inside, I’m sure he’d see them.

     “And it was just you out here camping?”

     “Yup.  Felt like I needed to get away for the weekend.”

     Hamilton laughed.  “The big city, right?  Ilton getting you down?”

     “No, but you are.  What’s your problem?”

     “We got plenty of time before the coroner gets here.  Besides, you do realize you were only 500 feet or so away from the scene of the crime, right?  Don’t tell me being editor has warped your brain.”

     “But I didn’t do anything.”

     “Mmm-hmm.”  Dammit!  I wanted to take that ‘Mmm-hmm’ and shove it up his ass!

     Bobby started walking back the way we came.  “I suppose I need to check the scene out.”

     “Yeah, I suppose.”

     He jerked his head back to me, but didn’t say anything.  He wanted to, I could tell.

 

4

Of course, he didn’t.

     Instead, he walked up to the bridge and looked both ways.  Probably be another 10 minutes or so before the Coroner came.

     “Need a ride, Grant?”

     “No.  I’ll walk back.”

     “Okay.  Will you be at the office all day?”

     “Probably.  It’s Monday.”

     “Talk to you later, then.”

     Doesn’t that get you.  Like we were the bestest friends in the whole wide world.  Talk to you later, then.  Fucking Hamilton.

 

5

The walk took me 15 minutes, but that was fine.  Police Chief Bobby Hamilton had pissed me off and I needed to clear my head before the day’s editing took place.  We publish the paper every Tuesday and each Monday I had to look over the proofs, write my editorial and do any last minute print setting.  I know.  Sounds pretty fucking boring and it is.  But I got it down to a science where I can be done by 1 p.m., 2 at the lastest.

     The rest of the week is reserved for the fun stuff.  Like writing about my find along the creek this morning.

     I reached Main Street and wondered if the Coroner was there, checking things out, making shit official.  Probably.  Unless he stopped off for a quickie with Harriet Miller.  Harriet Miller was the Mayor’s daughter.  Mayor Miller.  Now doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?  Mayor Miller.  He’s been Mayor for over 10 years and is the only person who doesn’t know Coroner Fergins is banging his daughter.  Oh, and maybe Bobby.  If Fergins stopped off for that quickie, then he might not be there yet.  Or, maybe he is quick.  I don’t know the man, but he is pushing fifty.

     9:15.  Shit.  The peons are probably wondering about me.

     I quickened my pace and walked by Betty’s Grubbies, the greasy spoon.  The scent of scrambled eggs and waffles drifted out and slammed my nose.  Maybe a fast detour and I can grab myself a quickie of breakfast—

     “Grant!  Grant!”

     I didn’t have to look.  It was my Ad-man, Joe Griffin.  He trotted in my direction.  If you ever thought of your stereotypical short, stocky, bald man, Joe was it.  I could see the rolls of fat jiggling under his dress shirt and wished for a different image.

     --I thought of Harriet’s boobs—

     Better.  Just a few years older than myself, she still had some great tits.

     “Grant, where’ve you been!”

     But Joe’s fat pushed Harriet’s boobs from my mind.

     Finally, Joe reached me.  He caught his breath before speaking again.

     “Worried about…you…”

     “Want some breakfast?”  I knew he wouldn’t turn down food.

     “Not really.”  Surprise there.  “We’ve got a problem with an advertiser.”

     “Do I have time for breakfast?”

     “Not if you want to get the paper out on time.”

     And if there’s one thing I want to do, it’s just that.

 

6

“So what’s the problem?” I asked my staff of four.

     Maggie Johnson sat closest to me and chewed on a pen.  Who chews on a fucking pen?  Don’t people usually use pencils so you can see your handiwork in tiny little bits?  I guess Maggie doesn’t use a pencil.  Her long red hair was tied back in a pony tail and she looked sexy today.  My eyes wandered to her skirt and then to her perfect legs, then out of courtesy, I lifted my eyes back up to her face.  She smiled at me.  She knew, but she smiled anyway.

     “…And that’s why he won’t purchase the rest of the ad space.”

     Fuck, how rude of me.  “Who won’t?  I’m sorry, I only half heard.”

     “Alan’s Auto,” Daryl Benton said.  He was my community guy.  Drunk at night, but able to sniff out the tiniest bit of story in this area during the day.  If you’re tractor had a flat tire because of a nail that your neighbor had deliberately set in the road, then Daryl was your guy to get to find out about it and get to the bottom of it.  And sometimes that’s the biggest story you have for the week.  He took off his glasses and set them down on his notebook.  “Alan’s Automotive doesn’t think he’s getting the response he should from his ad.  So he doesn’t think another 4 inches of space will help.”

     The sports man, Pete Folly, finished typing something and spun it out of the typewriter.  That’s right, I said typewriter.  Damn guy refuses to submit to the wonders of computer word processing.  He’s forty and strange he hasn’t embraced the keyboard that is Microsoft.  He set the paper on my desk.  The title, ILTON HIGH DEFEATED FOR 4^TH STRAIGHT.  Another loss for our hometown basketball team.

     “What do you think, Pete?”  I asked when he turned away.  “Is Alan getting his worth?”

     Pete just shrugged.  “Couldn’t tell ya.  I take my car to town when it needs repairing.”  By town, he meant Kankakee.

     I thought for a moment.  “Joe, offer Alan that extra space free for two weeks.  Tell him if his business doesn’t improve by 25%, then nothing lost.  But then he must buy 2 months worth if it picks up.”

     Joe smiled.  “Like a bet, eh?”

     “A friendly business wager.”

     I caught Pete shaking his head.  “Crafty, boss.”  He plopped back at his desk and started typing again.

     Pete never liked me taking over the paper after the previous editor passed away.  Heart attack or something with his heart.  Most days, Pete is pleasant enough, but sometimes, in the things he says, I can sense bitterness.  I can understand that.  But with Pete, he had a shot.  First you’re writing obituaries and trying to put yourself through school, and then your working more and more just to stay afloat and soon, the scholastic opportunity passes you by and now you’re resigned to move back to your hometown and cover pissy little high school games because without an actual degree, you’re just not good enough for Head Honcho.

     The door creaked open and Bobby strolled in.  He took off his hat.  “How ya doin’ Maggie.”

     She smiled.  “Fine, Bobby.  Just fine.”

     I sensed a little more there, but it wasn’t my place.  Maybe I’ll ask her later.

     “Bobby,” I said.  “What brings you by?”

     “Can I talk to you in your office?”  he asked.

     This got a few strange looks from Joe and Pete, but Maggie kept right on smiling.  Definitely something there.  Whether it had been acted on or not was hard to tell.

     “Sure, sure.”  I lead Bobby to my office.

 

7

Bobby shut the door and laid his hat on my desk.

     “I thought you said you didn’t leave the campsite.”  He said.

     “I didn’t.  Dinner, read, sleep.”

     “I got a problem with that.”

     “What with my dinner, my reading or my sleeping.”

     “Well,” he sighed and sat down.  “I found a half-eaten bologna and cheese sandwich next to the victim.”

     “So.”

     “Isn’t that what you had?”

     “Yeah.”

     “But you didn’t leave the campsite.”

     “I didn’t.”

     Hamilton waited.  I knew he wanted me to say more, but there was nothing more to say.

     “Then how do you explain it?” he asked.

     I shrugged.

     “Did you finish your sandwiches in their entirety?”

     “I don’t remember.”  Who remembers that shit anyway?

     “Well, try.  This is part of a murder.”

     “Am I part of the murder?”

     He paused.  “For now.”

     I’ll give it to good old Bobby Hamilton.  He’s handling himself like a pro.  Like he’s investigated hundreds of murders and knew exactly what to ask.  Perfect questioning.  He must have an Investigating Murders for Dummies book sitting on his shelves at home.

     “Do I need a lawyer?” I asked him.

     “Do you?”

     I peeked at his eyes and I knew he wasn’t going away until he was satisfied.  “Look, I don’t know if I ate the whole thing.  Maybe I threw it on the ground and some animal carried it off and hit the jackpot with the body and left it.”

     He nodded.  “Maybe.”  He stood up.  “Thanks for your time.”

     “Did you get an I.D. on the woman yet?”

     “Not yet,” he said.  “Probably within the hour.”

     “Can you keep me posted?  For the paper?”

     Bobby sized me up, trying to affirm some suspicion.  “Sure, Grant.  But don’t get anything out yet.  I want this whole thing to go smoothly.”

     “Anything for you, buddy.”

     Bobby left amid curious gazes.

     Joe was the first one in.  “What was that all about?”

     “He was asking me for advice on the ladies.  He’s a little shy and small-brained—“  I indicated an inch with my thumb and forefinger. “—and asked if it really is the motion of the ocean.”

     “Right, Right.  He looked serious.”

     “He was.  But I can’t discuss it yet.”  I pulled a manila folder from my desk, hoping Joe could take the hint this conversations done.

     “Okay, but is it good?”

     “It will increase circulation for the next few weeks.”

     “Might sell some more ads,” Joe said.

     “Always thinking money.  That’s what I like.”

     When Joe left, I flipped open the folder.  I needed to proof my editorial.  The day was running on and if Bobby kept holding me up, then I may as well publish next Tuesday’s paper.

     But I couldn’t find it.  I had the feature, a couple ads to look at, and Pete’s story and some tidbit pieces, but no editorial.

     I checked under the folder, on the floor—

     Fuck!  I left it in my tent.  I worked on it last night.

     The clock read 10:30.  Half the morning gone and I’d spend the other getting my article.

     “Where you going?” Maggie asked.  “Don’t we have a paper to put out?”

     “I left my editorial at home.  Be right back.”

     I pushed through the door.

 

8

The body had since been removed and a couple of yellow flags protruded from the ground.  Something important here, they seemed to say.

     I ambled down the side of the bridge and stood by the first flag.  I saw a couple of crumbs.  My damn bologna and cheese sandwich.  How the hell did it get here anyway?

     I stepped over a string outline of where the body was and peered down at the second flag.  Nothing around it or even near it.  Just dirt, pebbles, and dying grass.  Had I missed something earlier?  Or did I even pay attention?  Doesn’t matter.  When it was time to write the story, I’d have to ask Bobby what was at flag #2.

     I made my way through the small forest again.  The wind blew through the trees, whooshing through at a snail’s pace and whisking ground leaves around, displacing them from any one spot.  A heard one bird calling out and getting no response.  But that was it.

     The tent was still up.  The flap was still open.  But most of the remnants of the campfire had been blown around.  Charred bits of wood littered the area straight west.

     Inside the tent, I rummaged around until I found my editorial.  Luckily, the pages were intact.  Now, back to the office and get this shit done.

     As soon as I took one step outside my tent, the wind died down.  The bird stopped yakking.  Leaves came to a rest.  I took another step and didn’t hear my feet crunching the ground.  Fucking weird.

     And through the trees I saw something blurry rush by.