Episode 4
Police Chief Jethro McLean took a few bills out of his wallet and laid them on the dresser. He took one look back at the naked body in the bed. “Good night, Sophie.”
“'Night, Jethro,” came a sleepy voice from the bed.
Chief McLean walked out into the night, around the line of small cabins to the parking lot and climbed into his car, a four-year-old Chrysler. As the Chief, he drove a newer car, but newer cars got noticed and he didn't feel like being noticed tonight; he drove the older one.
As he pulled out onto the main road, he thought to himself that he had things pretty well covered. After all, his wife knew about his mistress and didn't care, his mistress knew he wasn't going to leave his wife and didn't care, and his best detective was busy solving all the outstanding cases. He didn't have a care in the world.
As police chief, he could have pulled the car over that passed him going so fast, but he had just come from Sophie's and he didn't really feel like it. But as the car went by, easily twenty miles over the limit, it was not that it was speeding that distracted him, but that it was familiar; he knew that car. It was Martha Sawyer's car. Now where was she going in such a hurry?
Chief McLean stepped on the pedal and followed the tail lights of the disappearing Chevy wagon. Martha had worked for him 13 years and he had never known her to break a law, even a speed limit. There had to be an emergency.
Ed Riggs let go of the rope that held Clara Miller close to him. He watched her drift away, slowly sinking into the black water of the bog. Her eyes showed no protest as they slipped beneath the surface, disappearing into the thick, slimy water. He drew a deep, musky breath and tried to focus on the task at hand. Clara Miller's life was gone, but his was still intact.
Ed Riggs pulled himself up through the giant roots, completely out of the water. His overcoat was gone. His gun was gone and the holster was torn. One of his shoes was gone, sucked down in the mud. He fell back on the dry mound that met his hand and gave thanks for being alive. He decided to rest before considering any next steps.
The darkness that surrounded him, the overcast day that was now turning into night, brought no light to shine on the mystery of Clara Miller. She had been murdered, that much was clear. Old man Miller was nowhere to be found. His partner had all but confessed to the deed. But why? If he killed her, why blurt out words that could be construed as a confession? Unless he was sure that the Detective Sergeant would soon be dead. Then why not put a bullet through him and be sure? Was Detective Morton as big an idiot as was generally thought?
The sight of the Miller girl came back into his head. He wanted to force it out, but it wouldn't go. There was something about it that didn't look right; something just as she sank into the bog. Yes, it was her forehead, there was a mark on it, an indentation. It looked just like a gun butt.
Then Ed remembered Frank, his partner, his junior detective, looking at him and not lifting a finger to pull him from the bog as he sank deeper. He remembers what he said, about meeting the Miller girl. Frank knew the Miller girl was down there. Frank could have taken the oar from Miller's boat and reached him, but he didn't. He could have jumped in the shallow part and saved his boss's life, but he didn't.
“Sorry”, Frank had said with a shallow laugh. Ed remembered how Frank had laughed. It filled him with conflicting thoughts and feelings. He remembered the years in uniform, when they came up through the ranks together, how when Ed was made detective, how he brought Frank along and vouched for him. He had mentored the man out of friendship, made him his partner. When Ed made sergeant he kept Frank with him, covering for his mistakes, thinking of his wife's family, who would hold it over him forever if he didn't succeed.
Frank had married up, Edna's folks were not stinking rich, as it were, but they were well off. If they hadn't been, Frank wouldn't have been able to afford that lovely house and new car. He pictured the new '54 Fairlane, Edna getting out of it with her short stole as Frank held the door. Edna was a fashion statement but all their friends knew that it was daddy's money, not Frank's. He had made detective, with Ed's help, but couldn't seem to advance further. Edna's family never let Frank forget that he was lucky to have her; he was, after all a mere Morton, not an Eldridge like them. Ed guessed the disdain of his family drove Frank to the arms of the easily impressed girl from the poor side of town.
Clara Miller was trailer trash of the first order. She was all curves and short-shorts, bursting out of her top and completely out of control. Old man Miller had no rein on her. She was a hopeless flirt.
Frank wouldn't have left his wife to marry Clara, no matter what. To leave his wife would be to leave the family money. Clara was young and pretty but still poor white trash and he was not about to leave the crest of the hill for the edge of the bog. There was little doubt that Frank had slipped off with the Miller girl, or that he was probably the one who killed her. Her hair and blood might still be on the butt of his pistol.
“He's probably telling them right now that his partner is dead, slipped beneath the swamp never to be seen again,” Ed thought. There might be a search, but Frank would convince them it would be fruitless. He would point them in a different direction.
Still, a search could happen. It was better to believe a search could be in the works than not. If they came this way, they'd find him and he would be saved. Of course, he'd have to arrest Frank at the earliest opportunity and take that gun away from him.
Martha Sawyer had locked up the police station and pushed her green Chevrolet station wagon as hard as she dared out the old dirt road to Thompson Bog, the muddy depression that was the only swamp land in Landon County. She had taken the strongest light she could find and her winter boots. She was not going to give up without a search. Ed Riggs was too good a man to just let die in the swamp; someone had to at least try to find him. She didn't notice that the car she passed on the two-lane blacktop was her boss; she only knew that the headlights were not fading away behind her fast enough. Whoever it was she had passed was now chasing her.
Martha reached into the glove box and took out the .38 revolver. If this was someone who was a danger, he would not find her a willing victim.
The lights picked up behind her and Martha stepped harder on the gas, nearly going off the road at Turner's Trace. The wheels hit dirt and spun as a flume of dirt and mud flew up behind the wagon. Back on pavement again, the wagon shot forward with a jerk, then lurched as she spun the wheel, pulling onto Old New Hope Church Road and down toward the wetlands where the Miller trailer stood.
At the wide spot in the road, the broken-down trailer and the ratty remains of a small pier were the only sign that man had ever put a foot here. The clouds hid the moon and stars, leaving only a few remaining lightning bugs to give any natural light.
Martha pulled the car up, spraying the cat tails with light. Small animals scurried for cover as Martha got out of the car and turned on her flashlight. She started toward the pier.
Behind her a second pair of headlights pulled up and the chief's Chrysler came to a stop next to the station wagon. Martha turned ready for battle, then stopped and lowered her pistol when she saw it was Chief McLean.
“Martha, what the hell are you up to?” yelled McLean.
“Chief, don't come up on me like that, I nearly shot you for a poacher.”
“Well, who did you expect? Why aren't you at the office or home? What are you up to out here at this hour?”
“You haven't heard? The swamp took Ed Riggs. He was out here looking for the Miller girl with Frank and fell in. Frank came back saying he was a goner for sure but wasn't going to look for him. I just figured I wasn't going to let it go at that; someone's go to at least try, for Pete's sake!”
“Ed gone? When did this happen?”
“Within the hour. I left as soon as Frank was gone.”
“So where's Frank? Is he out here?” said the chief, looking around, half expecting to see his only remaining detective.
“No,” said Martha, sharply. “He went home to get a good rest so he can start fresh in the morning, he said. He's already moved into Ed's desk. I'm out here alone.”
“And with a gun, I see.” said the chief, looking at Martha's pistol. “Is that standard issue?”
“I'm not coming out here unarmed. You can site me in the morning, but tonight, I'm going looking for Ed Riggs and not coming home without him or his body.” Martha turned sharply and began walking toward the pier.
“Wait up a minute,” said McLean. He went to his trunk, opened it and came out with a flashlight and a pump-action shotgun. “As long as you're going to do something crazy, you may as well have company.”
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 3
Harlen Eldridge sat on the front porch of his lavish estate smoking a cigar. That the cigar was expensive didn't matter to his wife; she would not let him smoke it in the house. “Just as well,” he thought, “I've got things to do that are best done in the dark.”
The senior Eldridge thought about his darling daughter, Edna Maye, and unwrapped the string from the folder that sat on his lap. On the table close by sat a short glass of cut crystal with a heavy bottom and a dramatic pattern. He dropped two cubes of ice into the glass, covering them with whiskey from a matching decanter and adding a splash of water from a matching water pitcher. The folder had a stamp on the front, “A. Gaither Detective Agency.” Inside were typed reports and several black-and-white glossies taken from a distance.
The photos were of a man in a two-year-old black Ford sedan driving up to a trailer, the man walking up to the trailer and the man leaving the trailer after dark, kissing the girl in the glow of the yellow light coming through the door.
Harlen closed the folder. He would have to take action, but what? He could have the man fired from the force. But then he would just have to provide his out-of-work son-in-law with a job. He could expose him and get them divorced. But that would have his daughter back in the house and it had cost him a small fortune to have her married off; not many were willing to put up with his darling daughter. He could buy the Miller girl off easily enough, but there would be another in the next trailer down the road. Another thought flitted through his head, making him smile, but he soon shook it off.
“No. He is, after all, a detective of police, his disappearance is bound to bring up questions. That'll never do.” Harlen went back to his drink.
Al Gaither sat up with the ringing of the alarm clock. He slapped a large, flat hand on the button and the ringing stopped. He looked around. He was in his apartment on the outskirts of Landon County. “Thank God!” he said, turning to sit sideways on the bed. “Not another crumby motel room. It's good to be home if only for a while.”
It was midnight and he had to be going, there were people to follow, pictures to take, reports to make. Tonight, he would get to his hiding spot just in time to see his latest case leaving his girlfriend's place, kissing under the bare light bulb. It was all so romantic. Al smiled.
“You going already, babe?” said his wife, Claire.
“Yeah, gotta get the latest chapter of a story that is fast coming to a close. I'll be back in a couple of hours. We can have breakfast together later.”
Claire Gaither smiled and touched her husband's back as he got up to put on his shirt. She had married him when she was his secretary and he was just starting the agency. He had been a cop until a scandal had sullied him. He swore to the authorities and to her that he had been innocent. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, but he had lost the trust of his superiors and took early retirement. She was much younger, but had no prospects and she respected him, so when he asked, she answered to the affirmative. Al knew he was lucky to have her and showed it whenever he could. Every night that he spent watching others cheat on their wives made him happier to see her when he got home.
Al got dressed in the same clothes he had on earlier that day when he took the folder out to the Eldridge place. “See what else you can get.” old man Eldridge had said. “You're the boss.” Al had replied. Now he was once again getting into the aging Chevy and backing down the driveway in the middle of the night.
Collin Miller sat in his boat, his shotgun across his lap and a lantern on the front board, drinking kerosene. Well, it tasted like kerosene, anyway. Whatever it was the Belter boys were making up there, it had a kick and got him numb and that's all he cared about. They took his $2.00 and gave him a couple of Mason jars of it. He was already into the second.
A sound to the right caused him to turn the flashlight on and look over, but he couldn't see what it was. “It sure ain't Clara,” he said to himself. He turned the flashlight off, content to sit by the dim light of the lantern.
He had named his daughter after his wife. Mrs. Miller had died in childbirth. To help raise Clara, he had remarried quickly, but she left before too long. Living with Collin Miller proved to be a chore not worth the trouble. A third woman stayed a while, then left when the subject of marriage came up; he was still married to the missing second Mrs. Miller. After that, a string of increasingly desperate single women came and went from his life until finally there was only him and young Clara.
But Clara was growing into a woman and her womanhood was firing on all cylinders. Keeping the boys away was a full-time job and more than once the dogs had given chase through the woods followed by a blast from Miller's shot gun. The police had come out twice to remind him that murder is a crime, teenage daughter or no teenage daughter.
It wasn't until his shift was changed to grave-yard that she stopped taunting the local young studs. Collin thought it might be she was finally growing up, but coming home early to find a grown man leaving the trailer changed his way of thinking. He had passed the man on the road. A black Ford sedan with a grown man at the wheel, in a tie and a hat and coming from his trailer. “Who was that?” he had asked Clara, but she just swore up and down that no one had been there. That's when he knew that the man who had been there was there for her and not for some other business. He had recently demanded another shift and had been laid off for his trouble.
Now he sat and waited for the man to come back. Instead of the man coming back, Clara was gone. When he came home that night, there was no sign of her. The police had come out and asked some questions, but they didn't seem very interested. The police had the same kind of black sedan as the man, but then next to Collin's old truck, they all looked alike.
He pictured the black Ford sedan, riding down the road, the man laughing, Clara in the passenger seat, laughing right along with him, and figured he was better to be shut of her. Still, he hadn't come up like a man and asked for her, he just took her – and nobody took anything from Collin Miller and got away with it. If the police found him, he would go to jail, but if Collin found him first, the man would be picking buck shot out of his butt-cheeks until the next winter. Miller took another drink of the second jar of the Belter brothers' home-made and listened for the sound of someone who might be coming through the swamp to steal from him.
Harlen Eldridge sat on the front porch of his lavish estate smoking a cigar. That the cigar was expensive didn't matter to his wife; she would not let him smoke it in the house. “Just as well,” he thought, “I've got things to do that are best done in the dark.”
The senior Eldridge thought about his darling daughter, Edna Maye, and unwrapped the string from the folder that sat on his lap. On the table close by sat a short glass of cut crystal with a heavy bottom and a dramatic pattern. He dropped two cubes of ice into the glass, covering them with whiskey from a matching decanter and adding a splash of water from a matching water pitcher. The folder had a stamp on the front, “A. Gaither Detective Agency.” Inside were typed reports and several black-and-white glossies taken from a distance.
The photos were of a man in a two-year-old black Ford sedan driving up to a trailer, the man walking up to the trailer and the man leaving the trailer after dark, kissing the girl in the glow of the yellow light coming through the door.
Harlen closed the folder. He would have to take action, but what? He could have the man fired from the force. But then he would just have to provide his out-of-work son-in-law with a job. He could expose him and get them divorced. But that would have his daughter back in the house and it had cost him a small fortune to have her married off; not many were willing to put up with his darling daughter. He could buy the Miller girl off easily enough, but there would be another in the next trailer down the road. Another thought flitted through his head, making him smile, but he soon shook it off.
“No. He is, after all, a detective of police, his disappearance is bound to bring up questions. That'll never do.” Harlen went back to his drink.
Al Gaither sat up with the ringing of the alarm clock. He slapped a large, flat hand on the button and the ringing stopped. He looked around. He was in his apartment on the outskirts of Landon County. “Thank God!” he said, turning to sit sideways on the bed. “Not another crumby motel room. It's good to be home if only for a while.”
It was midnight and he had to be going, there were people to follow, pictures to take, reports to make. Tonight, he would get to his hiding spot just in time to see his latest case leaving his girlfriend's place, kissing under the bare light bulb. It was all so romantic. Al smiled.
“You going already, babe?” said his wife, Claire.
“Yeah, gotta get the latest chapter of a story that is fast coming to a close. I'll be back in a couple of hours. We can have breakfast together later.”
Claire Gaither smiled and touched her husband's back as he got up to put on his shirt. She had married him when she was his secretary and he was just starting the agency. He had been a cop until a scandal had sullied him. He swore to the authorities and to her that he had been innocent. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, but he had lost the trust of his superiors and took early retirement. She was much younger, but had no prospects and she respected him, so when he asked, she answered to the affirmative. Al knew he was lucky to have her and showed it whenever he could. Every night that he spent watching others cheat on their wives made him happier to see her when he got home.
Al got dressed in the same clothes he had on earlier that day when he took the folder out to the Eldridge place. “See what else you can get.” old man Eldridge had said. “You're the boss.” Al had replied. Now he was once again getting into the aging Chevy and backing down the driveway in the middle of the night.
Collin Miller sat in his boat, his shotgun across his lap and a lantern on the front board, drinking kerosene. Well, it tasted like kerosene, anyway. Whatever it was the Belter boys were making up there, it had a kick and got him numb and that's all he cared about. They took his $2.00 and gave him a couple of Mason jars of it. He was already into the second.
A sound to the right caused him to turn the flashlight on and look over, but he couldn't see what it was. “It sure ain't Clara,” he said to himself. He turned the flashlight off, content to sit by the dim light of the lantern.
He had named his daughter after his wife. Mrs. Miller had died in childbirth. To help raise Clara, he had remarried quickly, but she left before too long. Living with Collin Miller proved to be a chore not worth the trouble. A third woman stayed a while, then left when the subject of marriage came up; he was still married to the missing second Mrs. Miller. After that, a string of increasingly desperate single women came and went from his life until finally there was only him and young Clara.
But Clara was growing into a woman and her womanhood was firing on all cylinders. Keeping the boys away was a full-time job and more than once the dogs had given chase through the woods followed by a blast from Miller's shot gun. The police had come out twice to remind him that murder is a crime, teenage daughter or no teenage daughter.
It wasn't until his shift was changed to grave-yard that she stopped taunting the local young studs. Collin thought it might be she was finally growing up, but coming home early to find a grown man leaving the trailer changed his way of thinking. He had passed the man on the road. A black Ford sedan with a grown man at the wheel, in a tie and a hat and coming from his trailer. “Who was that?” he had asked Clara, but she just swore up and down that no one had been there. That's when he knew that the man who had been there was there for her and not for some other business. He had recently demanded another shift and had been laid off for his trouble.
Now he sat and waited for the man to come back. Instead of the man coming back, Clara was gone. When he came home that night, there was no sign of her. The police had come out and asked some questions, but they didn't seem very interested. The police had the same kind of black sedan as the man, but then next to Collin's old truck, they all looked alike.
He pictured the black Ford sedan, riding down the road, the man laughing, Clara in the passenger seat, laughing right along with him, and figured he was better to be shut of her. Still, he hadn't come up like a man and asked for her, he just took her – and nobody took anything from Collin Miller and got away with it. If the police found him, he would go to jail, but if Collin found him first, the man would be picking buck shot out of his butt-cheeks until the next winter. Miller took another drink of the second jar of the Belter brothers' home-made and listened for the sound of someone who might be coming through the swamp to steal from him.
Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 3
Harlen Eldridge sat on the front porch of his lavish estate smoking a cigar. That the cigar was expensive didn't matter to his wife; she would not let him smoke it in the house. “Just as well,” he thought, “I've got things to do that are best done in the dark.”
The senior Eldridge thought about his darling daughter, Edna Maye, and unwrapped the string from the folder that sat on his lap. On the table close by sat a short glass of cut crystal with a heavy bottom and a dramatic pattern. He dropped two cubes of ice into the glass, covering them with whiskey from a matching decanter and adding a splash of water from a matching water pitcher. The folder had a stamp on the front, “A. Gaither Detective Agency.” Inside were typed reports and several black-and-white glossies taken from a distance.
The photos were of a man in a two-year-old black Ford sedan driving up to a trailer, the man walking up to the trailer and the man leaving the trailer after dark, kissing the girl in the glow of the yellow light coming through the door.
Harlen closed the folder. He would have to take action, but what? He could have the man fired from the force. But then he would just have to provide his out-of-work son-in-law with a job. He could expose him and get them divorced. But that would have his daughter back in the house and it had cost him a small fortune to have her married off; not many were willing to put up with his darling daughter. He could buy the Miller girl off easily enough, but there would be another in the next trailer down the road. Another thought flitted through his head, making him smile, but he soon shook it off.
“No. He is, after all, a detective of police, his disappearance is bound to bring up questions. That'll never do.” Harlen went back to his drink.
Al Gaither sat up with the ringing of the alarm clock. He slapped a large, flat hand on the button and the ringing stopped. He looked around. He was in his apartment on the outskirts of Landon County. “Thank God!” he said, turning to sit sideways on the bed. “Not another crumby motel room. It's good to be home if only for a while.”
It was midnight and he had to be going, there were people to follow, pictures to take, reports to make. Tonight, he would get to his hiding spot just in time to see his latest case leaving his girlfriend's place, kissing under the bare light bulb. It was all so romantic. Al smiled.
“You going already, babe?” said his wife, Claire.
“Yeah, gotta get the latest chapter of a story that is fast coming to a close. I'll be back in a couple of hours. We can have breakfast together later.”
Claire Gaither smiled and touched her husband's back as he got up to put on his shirt. She had married him when she was his secretary and he was just starting the agency. He had been a cop until a scandal had sullied him. He swore to the authorities and to her that he had been innocent. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, but he had lost the trust of his superiors and took early retirement. She was much younger, but had no prospects and she respected him, so when he asked, she answered to the affirmative. Al knew he was lucky to have her and showed it whenever he could. Every night that he spent watching others cheat on their wives made him happier to see her when he got home.
Al got dressed in the same clothes he had on earlier that day when he took the folder out to the Eldridge place. “See what else you can get.” old man Eldridge had said. “You're the boss.” Al had replied. Now he was once again getting into the aging Chevy and backing down the driveway in the middle of the night.
Collin Miller sat in his boat, his shotgun across his lap and a lantern on the front board, drinking kerosene. Well, it tasted like kerosene, anyway. Whatever it was the Belter boys were making up there, it had a kick and got him numb and that's all he cared about. They took his $2.00 and gave him a couple of Mason jars of it. He was already into the second.
A sound to the right caused him to turn the flashlight on and look over, but he couldn't see what it was. “It sure ain't Clara,” he said to himself. He turned the flashlight off, content to sit by the dim light of the lantern.
He had named his daughter after his wife. Mrs. Miller had died in childbirth. To help raise Clara, he had remarried quickly, but she left before too long. Living with Collin Miller proved to be a chore not worth the trouble. A third woman stayed a while, then left when the subject of marriage came up; he was still married to the missing second Mrs. Miller. After that, a string of increasingly desperate single women came and went from his life until finally there was only him and young Clara.
But Clara was growing into a woman and her womanhood was firing on all cylinders. Keeping the boys away was a full-time job and more than once the dogs had given chase through the woods followed by a blast from Miller's shot gun. The police had come out twice to remind him that murder is a crime, teenage daughter or no teenage daughter.
It wasn't until his shift was changed to grave-yard that she stopped taunting the local young studs. Collin thought it might be she was finally growing up, but coming home early to find a grown man leaving the trailer changed his way of thinking. He had passed the man on the road. A black Ford sedan with a grown man at the wheel, in a tie and a hat and coming from his trailer. “Who was that?” he had asked Clara, but she just swore up and down that no one had been there. That's when he knew that the man who had been there was there for her and not for some other business. He had recently demanded another shift and had been laid off for his trouble.
Now he sat and waited for the man to come back. Instead of the man coming back, Clara was gone. When he came home that night, there was no sign of her. The police had come out and asked some questions, but they didn't seem very interested. The police had the same kind of black sedan as the man, but then next to Collin's old truck, they all looked alike.
He pictured the black Ford sedan, riding down the road, the man laughing, Clara in the passenger seat, laughing right along with him, and figured he was better to be shut of her. Still, he hadn't come up like a man and asked for her, he just took her – and nobody took anything from Collin Miller and got away with it. If the police found him, he would go to jail, but if Collin found him first, the man would be picking buck shot out of his butt-cheeks until the next winter. Miller took another drink of the second jar of the Belter brothers' home-made and listened for the sound of someone who might be coming through the swamp to steal from him.
Harlen Eldridge sat on the front porch of his lavish estate smoking a cigar. That the cigar was expensive didn't matter to his wife; she would not let him smoke it in the house. “Just as well,” he thought, “I've got things to do that are best done in the dark.”
The senior Eldridge thought about his darling daughter, Edna Maye, and unwrapped the string from the folder that sat on his lap. On the table close by sat a short glass of cut crystal with a heavy bottom and a dramatic pattern. He dropped two cubes of ice into the glass, covering them with whiskey from a matching decanter and adding a splash of water from a matching water pitcher. The folder had a stamp on the front, “A. Gaither Detective Agency.” Inside were typed reports and several black-and-white glossies taken from a distance.
The photos were of a man in a two-year-old black Ford sedan driving up to a trailer, the man walking up to the trailer and the man leaving the trailer after dark, kissing the girl in the glow of the yellow light coming through the door.
Harlen closed the folder. He would have to take action, but what? He could have the man fired from the force. But then he would just have to provide his out-of-work son-in-law with a job. He could expose him and get them divorced. But that would have his daughter back in the house and it had cost him a small fortune to have her married off; not many were willing to put up with his darling daughter. He could buy the Miller girl off easily enough, but there would be another in the next trailer down the road. Another thought flitted through his head, making him smile, but he soon shook it off.
“No. He is, after all, a detective of police, his disappearance is bound to bring up questions. That'll never do.” Harlen went back to his drink.
Al Gaither sat up with the ringing of the alarm clock. He slapped a large, flat hand on the button and the ringing stopped. He looked around. He was in his apartment on the outskirts of Landon County. “Thank God!” he said, turning to sit sideways on the bed. “Not another crumby motel room. It's good to be home if only for a while.”
It was midnight and he had to be going, there were people to follow, pictures to take, reports to make. Tonight, he would get to his hiding spot just in time to see his latest case leaving his girlfriend's place, kissing under the bare light bulb. It was all so romantic. Al smiled.
“You going already, babe?” said his wife, Claire.
“Yeah, gotta get the latest chapter of a story that is fast coming to a close. I'll be back in a couple of hours. We can have breakfast together later.”
Claire Gaither smiled and touched her husband's back as he got up to put on his shirt. She had married him when she was his secretary and he was just starting the agency. He had been a cop until a scandal had sullied him. He swore to the authorities and to her that he had been innocent. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, but he had lost the trust of his superiors and took early retirement. She was much younger, but had no prospects and she respected him, so when he asked, she answered to the affirmative. Al knew he was lucky to have her and showed it whenever he could. Every night that he spent watching others cheat on their wives made him happier to see her when he got home.
Al got dressed in the same clothes he had on earlier that day when he took the folder out to the Eldridge place. “See what else you can get.” old man Eldridge had said. “You're the boss.” Al had replied. Now he was once again getting into the aging Chevy and backing down the driveway in the middle of the night.
Collin Miller sat in his boat, his shotgun across his lap and a lantern on the front board, drinking kerosene. Well, it tasted like kerosene, anyway. Whatever it was the Belter boys were making up there, it had a kick and got him numb and that's all he cared about. They took his $2.00 and gave him a couple of Mason jars of it. He was already into the second.
A sound to the right caused him to turn the flashlight on and look over, but he couldn't see what it was. “It sure ain't Clara,” he said to himself. He turned the flashlight off, content to sit by the dim light of the lantern.
He had named his daughter after his wife. Mrs. Miller had died in childbirth. To help raise Clara, he had remarried quickly, but she left before too long. Living with Collin Miller proved to be a chore not worth the trouble. A third woman stayed a while, then left when the subject of marriage came up; he was still married to the missing second Mrs. Miller. After that, a string of increasingly desperate single women came and went from his life until finally there was only him and young Clara.
But Clara was growing into a woman and her womanhood was firing on all cylinders. Keeping the boys away was a full-time job and more than once the dogs had given chase through the woods followed by a blast from Miller's shot gun. The police had come out twice to remind him that murder is a crime, teenage daughter or no teenage daughter.
It wasn't until his shift was changed to grave-yard that she stopped taunting the local young studs. Collin thought it might be she was finally growing up, but coming home early to find a grown man leaving the trailer changed his way of thinking. He had passed the man on the road. A black Ford sedan with a grown man at the wheel, in a tie and a hat and coming from his trailer. “Who was that?” he had asked Clara, but she just swore up and down that no one had been there. That's when he knew that the man who had been there was there for her and not for some other business. He had recently demanded another shift and had been laid off for his trouble.
Now he sat and waited for the man to come back. Instead of the man coming back, Clara was gone. When he came home that night, there was no sign of her. The police had come out and asked some questions, but they didn't seem very interested. The police had the same kind of black sedan as the man, but then next to Collin's old truck, they all looked alike.
He pictured the black Ford sedan, riding down the road, the man laughing, Clara in the passenger seat, laughing right along with him, and figured he was better to be shut of her. Still, he hadn't come up like a man and asked for her, he just took her – and nobody took anything from Collin Miller and got away with it. If the police found him, he would go to jail, but if Collin found him first, the man would be picking buck shot out of his butt-cheeks until the next winter. Miller took another drink of the second jar of the Belter brothers' home-made and listened for the sound of someone who might be coming through the swamp to steal from him.
Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 3
Harlen Eldridge sat on the front porch of his lavish estate smoking a cigar. That the cigar was expensive didn't matter to his wife; she would not let him smoke it in the house. “Just as well,” he thought, “I've got things to do that are best done in the dark.”
The senior Eldridge thought about his darling daughter, Edna Maye, and unwrapped the string from the folder that sat on his lap. On the table close by sat a short glass of cut crystal with a heavy bottom and a dramatic pattern. He dropped two cubes of ice into the glass, covering them with whiskey from a matching decanter and adding a splash of water from a matching water pitcher. The folder had a stamp on the front, “A. Gaither Detective Agency.” Inside were typed reports and several black-and-white glossies taken from a distance.
The photos were of a man in a two-year-old black Ford sedan driving up to a trailer, the man walking up to the trailer and the man leaving the trailer after dark, kissing the girl in the glow of the yellow light coming through the door.
Harlen closed the folder. He would have to take action, but what? He could have the man fired from the force. But then he would just have to provide his out-of-work son-in-law with a job. He could expose him and get them divorced. But that would have his daughter back in the house and it had cost him a small fortune to have her married off; not many were willing to put up with his darling daughter. He could buy the Miller girl off easily enough, but there would be another in the next trailer down the road. Another thought flitted through his head, making him smile, but he soon shook it off.
“No. He is, after all, a detective of police, his disappearance is bound to bring up questions. That'll never do.” Harlen went back to his drink.
Al Gaither sat up with the ringing of the alarm clock. He slapped a large, flat hand on the button and the ringing stopped. He looked around. He was in his apartment on the outskirts of Landon County. “Thank God!” he said, turning to sit sideways on the bed. “Not another crumby motel room. It's good to be home if only for a while.”
It was midnight and he had to be going, there were people to follow, pictures to take, reports to make. Tonight, he would get to his hiding spot just in time to see his latest case leaving his girlfriend's place, kissing under the bare light bulb. It was all so romantic. Al smiled.
“You going already, babe?” said his wife, Claire.
“Yeah, gotta get the latest chapter of a story that is fast coming to a close. I'll be back in a couple of hours. We can have breakfast together later.”
Claire Gaither smiled and touched her husband's back as he got up to put on his shirt. She had married him when she was his secretary and he was just starting the agency. He had been a cop until a scandal had sullied him. He swore to the authorities and to her that he had been innocent. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, but he had lost the trust of his superiors and took early retirement. She was much younger, but had no prospects and she respected him, so when he asked, she answered to the affirmative. Al knew he was lucky to have her and showed it whenever he could. Every night that he spent watching others cheat on their wives made him happier to see her when he got home.
Al got dressed in the same clothes he had on earlier that day when he took the folder out to the Eldridge place. “See what else you can get.” old man Eldridge had said. “You're the boss.” Al had replied. Now he was once again getting into the aging Chevy and backing down the driveway in the middle of the night.
Collin Miller sat in his boat, his shotgun across his lap and a lantern on the front board, drinking kerosene. Well, it tasted like kerosene, anyway. Whatever it was the Belter boys were making up there, it had a kick and got him numb and that's all he cared about. They took his $2.00 and gave him a couple of Mason jars of it. He was already into the second.
A sound to the right caused him to turn the flashlight on and look over, but he couldn't see what it was. “It sure ain't Clara,” he said to himself. He turned the flashlight off, content to sit by the dim light of the lantern.
He had named his daughter after his wife. Mrs. Miller had died in childbirth. To help raise Clara, he had remarried quickly, but she left before too long. Living with Collin Miller proved to be a chore not worth the trouble. A third woman stayed a while, then left when the subject of marriage came up; he was still married to the missing second Mrs. Miller. After that, a string of increasingly desperate single women came and went from his life until finally there was only him and young Clara.
But Clara was growing into a woman and her womanhood was firing on all cylinders. Keeping the boys away was a full-time job and more than once the dogs had given chase through the woods followed by a blast from Miller's shot gun. The police had come out twice to remind him that murder is a crime, teenage daughter or no teenage daughter.
It wasn't until his shift was changed to grave-yard that she stopped taunting the local young studs. Collin thought it might be she was finally growing up, but coming home early to find a grown man leaving the trailer changed his way of thinking. He had passed the man on the road. A black Ford sedan with a grown man at the wheel, in a tie and a hat and coming from his trailer. “Who was that?” he had asked Clara, but she just swore up and down that no one had been there. That's when he knew that the man who had been there was there for her and not for some other business. He had recently demanded another shift and had been laid off for his trouble.
Now he sat and waited for the man to come back. Instead of the man coming back, Clara was gone. When he came home that night, there was no sign of her. The police had come out and asked some questions, but they didn't seem very interested. The police had the same kind of black sedan as the man, but then next to Collin's old truck, they all looked alike.
He pictured the black Ford sedan, riding down the road, the man laughing, Clara in the passenger seat, laughing right along with him, and figured he was better to be shut of her. Still, he hadn't come up like a man and asked for her, he just took her – and nobody took anything from Collin Miller and got away with it. If the police found him, he would go to jail, but if Collin found him first, the man would be picking buck shot out of his butt-cheeks until the next winter. Miller took another drink of the second jar of the Belter brothers' home-made and listened for the sound of someone who might be coming through the swamp to steal from him.
Harlen Eldridge sat on the front porch of his lavish estate smoking a cigar. That the cigar was expensive didn't matter to his wife; she would not let him smoke it in the house. “Just as well,” he thought, “I've got things to do that are best done in the dark.”
The senior Eldridge thought about his darling daughter, Edna Maye, and unwrapped the string from the folder that sat on his lap. On the table close by sat a short glass of cut crystal with a heavy bottom and a dramatic pattern. He dropped two cubes of ice into the glass, covering them with whiskey from a matching decanter and adding a splash of water from a matching water pitcher. The folder had a stamp on the front, “A. Gaither Detective Agency.” Inside were typed reports and several black-and-white glossies taken from a distance.
The photos were of a man in a two-year-old black Ford sedan driving up to a trailer, the man walking up to the trailer and the man leaving the trailer after dark, kissing the girl in the glow of the yellow light coming through the door.
Harlen closed the folder. He would have to take action, but what? He could have the man fired from the force. But then he would just have to provide his out-of-work son-in-law with a job. He could expose him and get them divorced. But that would have his daughter back in the house and it had cost him a small fortune to have her married off; not many were willing to put up with his darling daughter. He could buy the Miller girl off easily enough, but there would be another in the next trailer down the road. Another thought flitted through his head, making him smile, but he soon shook it off.
“No. He is, after all, a detective of police, his disappearance is bound to bring up questions. That'll never do.” Harlen went back to his drink.
Al Gaither sat up with the ringing of the alarm clock. He slapped a large, flat hand on the button and the ringing stopped. He looked around. He was in his apartment on the outskirts of Landon County. “Thank God!” he said, turning to sit sideways on the bed. “Not another crumby motel room. It's good to be home if only for a while.”
It was midnight and he had to be going, there were people to follow, pictures to take, reports to make. Tonight, he would get to his hiding spot just in time to see his latest case leaving his girlfriend's place, kissing under the bare light bulb. It was all so romantic. Al smiled.
“You going already, babe?” said his wife, Claire.
“Yeah, gotta get the latest chapter of a story that is fast coming to a close. I'll be back in a couple of hours. We can have breakfast together later.”
Claire Gaither smiled and touched her husband's back as he got up to put on his shirt. She had married him when she was his secretary and he was just starting the agency. He had been a cop until a scandal had sullied him. He swore to the authorities and to her that he had been innocent. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, but he had lost the trust of his superiors and took early retirement. She was much younger, but had no prospects and she respected him, so when he asked, she answered to the affirmative. Al knew he was lucky to have her and showed it whenever he could. Every night that he spent watching others cheat on their wives made him happier to see her when he got home.
Al got dressed in the same clothes he had on earlier that day when he took the folder out to the Eldridge place. “See what else you can get.” old man Eldridge had said. “You're the boss.” Al had replied. Now he was once again getting into the aging Chevy and backing down the driveway in the middle of the night.
Collin Miller sat in his boat, his shotgun across his lap and a lantern on the front board, drinking kerosene. Well, it tasted like kerosene, anyway. Whatever it was the Belter boys were making up there, it had a kick and got him numb and that's all he cared about. They took his $2.00 and gave him a couple of Mason jars of it. He was already into the second.
A sound to the right caused him to turn the flashlight on and look over, but he couldn't see what it was. “It sure ain't Clara,” he said to himself. He turned the flashlight off, content to sit by the dim light of the lantern.
He had named his daughter after his wife. Mrs. Miller had died in childbirth. To help raise Clara, he had remarried quickly, but she left before too long. Living with Collin Miller proved to be a chore not worth the trouble. A third woman stayed a while, then left when the subject of marriage came up; he was still married to the missing second Mrs. Miller. After that, a string of increasingly desperate single women came and went from his life until finally there was only him and young Clara.
But Clara was growing into a woman and her womanhood was firing on all cylinders. Keeping the boys away was a full-time job and more than once the dogs had given chase through the woods followed by a blast from Miller's shot gun. The police had come out twice to remind him that murder is a crime, teenage daughter or no teenage daughter.
It wasn't until his shift was changed to grave-yard that she stopped taunting the local young studs. Collin thought it might be she was finally growing up, but coming home early to find a grown man leaving the trailer changed his way of thinking. He had passed the man on the road. A black Ford sedan with a grown man at the wheel, in a tie and a hat and coming from his trailer. “Who was that?” he had asked Clara, but she just swore up and down that no one had been there. That's when he knew that the man who had been there was there for her and not for some other business. He had recently demanded another shift and had been laid off for his trouble.
Now he sat and waited for the man to come back. Instead of the man coming back, Clara was gone. When he came home that night, there was no sign of her. The police had come out and asked some questions, but they didn't seem very interested. The police had the same kind of black sedan as the man, but then next to Collin's old truck, they all looked alike.
He pictured the black Ford sedan, riding down the road, the man laughing, Clara in the passenger seat, laughing right along with him, and figured he was better to be shut of her. Still, he hadn't come up like a man and asked for her, he just took her – and nobody took anything from Collin Miller and got away with it. If the police found him, he would go to jail, but if Collin found him first, the man would be picking buck shot out of his butt-cheeks until the next winter. Miller took another drink of the second jar of the Belter brothers' home-made and listened for the sound of someone who might be coming through the swamp to steal from him.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 2
Beneath the dark, slimy water, Ed Riggs struggled to free himself of the bog's grasp. He was pulled down by his own weight, by his own weakness, by his age. He was no longer a young man, like Frank Morton, thin and strong. No, he was overweight and over the hill. Perhaps it was fitting that he die this way, Ed thought, it would be a good lesson that one should keep in shape.
He was held down by his overcoat, by his suit jacket, by his gun that caught on the twining roots of the Cypress and kept him from escaping to the air above. He kicked his feet, but his pants seemed to fight against his legs and his shoes stuck in the muddy bottom.
A million thoughts raced through the Detective Sergeant's mind: “Damn Frank Morton! I made him! This can't be how it ends for me! I have to find a way out! There's so many things I still have to do!”
Lifting his leg through great effort, he felt his shoe come off. His leg brushed something sharp and the pain shot through his calf. He put his leg down hoping to gain some leverage. His lungs felt like they would burst.
He touched something solid with his foot, kicked against it and felt his overcoat slip away. He thought he was rising toward the surface, freed of the overcoat. He kicked with his feet a second time. He felt a tearing at his belt and kicked again.
“Air! Air!” screamed the voice inside his head as he broke through the surface and spat out a mouth full of gunk, gasping for enough air to keep a grip on life.
Ed Riggs held on to a Cypress root, chest deep in Thompson Bog, struggling for his breath. Through the Cypress roots, across the muddy Miller yard, tail lights were disappearing down the dirt road.
“It's black as pitch out there,” said Detective Frank Morton. “All I saw by the glow of his flashlight was his hand sinking below the mud. I'm afraid he's gone.”
“We should call in the uniformed officers, maybe get out the Fire Department and some of the fellas and go search for him, maybe there's still hope.”
Martha Sawyer was pale and shaking. The station had been her first job out of school and after 13 years she could not see herself working anywhere else. Ed was a fixture there; she admired him. What would it be like without him? What would they do without him? What would she do?
“Martha, I'm tellin' ya, it ain't no use. The man's gone,” Frank yelled. “He's slipped into that bog out there and there's no way to find him and if we do, he can't breathe under mud and water. He's dead. The best we can hope for is to pull his body out when it gets light, if we can find it.”
Martha sank with despair. She looked sadly at Ed's desk, the Miller file still open. Who would solve that case now? What did it matter when Landon County's best detective was dead in the attempt?
Frank walked over to the desk, turned the file to him, then turned it back, sat down at Ed's desk and began to look at the file.
“I'll take up the case. I worked with him, I know how he operated. I can pick up where he left off.” Frank said, and began by taking over the larger desk of the dead detective.
“A little early to start dividing up his property, isn't it?” Martha said with narrowed eyes. “The man's not even pronounced and you are sitting in his chair. Why don't you show a little respect?”
Frank leaped from the chair, pulling his suit-coat around behind him, letting his gun holster show, “Because there's a murderer out there and I'm the only one left to stop him, that's why. Because I'm the detective and you're the damned secretary, that's why.”
Martha turned back to her desk. There was no arguing with him when he was like this. Only Ed could calm him and put him back on the track of rational thought, and Ed was not here. No, Ed was in Thompson Bog, suffocated to death. Martha shook with the thought, then hung her head and cried for Ed.
At Ed's desk, Frank thumbed through a short stack of folders. “Soon as it's light, I'll start again. But there's more here than just that missing girl to deal with. For a man who was so well thought of,” Frank said with a familiar attitude, “he had a lot of unsolved cases.”
Martha looked up with a new distaste for the man with no respect for his partner. Ed had reduced the stack of unsolved crimes from more than two hundred to an impressive twelve. The dozen that were left were dead ends that no one could figure out, but he hadn't stopped trying. Martha wanted to shout the man down, but knew that it would mean her job, the job that suddenly didn't seem all that desirable.
She began to formulate a response, one that would surely get her fired, but might also get her physically hurt. Frank could be mean and violent. She wanted to say something, but then Frank stood up.
“I'll get a fresh start in the morning,” Frank said. “I'll call the coroner and get him to pronounce on Ed and then we'll figure out what to do for a funeral. See you in the morning, Martha.”
Frank sauntered out a bit too jauntily for Martha's taste, but there was no one to tell about it. She knew that the Landon County hierarchy was too busy with their own amusements to bother about her suspicions. To them it would be an open-and-shut case; a detective goes out to investigate a missing girl, falls into the swamp and gets pulled down. He drowns and his partner takes over the case. It was the natural order of things, so why bother them about it?
Martha sighed heavily and looked at her desk. The papers that seemed so important minutes ago looked blank to her. There was nothing on them that had the least significance. Martha felt helpless and lost. Outside the station, the road was dark and empty; the night was still; the world had stopped turning.
“No sense in rushing this,” Ed Riggs thought as he began to take stock. There was a sharp pain in his left leg. There were other aches, but they were minor. He was breathing! He was alive! That was something! That was the main thing!
He pulled himself up out of the water enough to grab onto one of the large Cypress legs. He was able to hang on to the root system enough to keep him from sinking again into the murky water. The hollow beneath the tree smelled of musk and decaying leaves.
Something touched his right leg; something moving. Ed pulled his leg up sharply, still clinging to the giant roots. Whatever it was had wrapped itself around his right foot. He lifted his foot up and reached down with his hand, grabbed and pulled up. He half expected to find a snake, one he would have to beat to death with one hand while holding on to the root with the other. What he held was a rope.
Ed pulled on the rope and felt it give on the other end. There had to be another end entangled in something, but not the tree. Slowly, the rope gave out more length. What came up was hard to see in the darkness, but Ed's eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. Two eyes, open and lifeless, looked at nothing. The mouth hung limp. It was the Miller girl.
Edna Eldridge Morton sat in front of the television, glancing out of the window of her ranch style home as the lights of the black Ford pulled into the drive. She sighed, putting out her cigarette. She hated being alone, but now that Frank was home, she hated even more being alone with him. The shine had worn off her marriage; the thrill she had felt when she married a policeman was gone.
“You're home early,” she said as Frank walked into the door, “it's not after midnight yet.”
Frank stopped, sneering at the woman he had been so proud to call his wife a few years before, who now openly berated him at every opportunity. “It's too dark to do anything tonight.” Frank took off is hat and coat, hanging the coat on the end of the hall closet door to dry.
“I thought you did your best work in the dark.” Edna took another cigarette from the pack of Chesterfields and lit it with a small, gold lighter.
Frank turned to regard her, wishing that it had been her that he had hit with the butt of his pistol and dragged into the swamp. He wished he could come home instead to the Miller girl from the trailer park and live here with her. She would appreciate him. She would like living in a nice house with a new car in the driveway and a new television set in the corner. She would meet him at the door with a cold beer and a warm kiss instead of a snide remark and a hateful stare.
“We lost Ed Riggs tonight; he got stuck in the swamp and went down.” Frank went to the sideboard and poured a whiskey into a heavy-bottomed glass.
“Ed? Lost in the swamp?” Edna seemed suddenly concerned. “Did you send in a search party? Have they given up already?”
“I saw him go under. He hit a quick place, it took him before I could get to him. No use searching, he's dead.” Frank drank down the whiskey, winced and poured another.
“What are you going to do now?” Edna had a vacant look, the blood had drained from her face.
“What do you mean, what am I going to do now? The same thing I have been doing, only maybe now I can make it to sergeant without him holding me back.”
Edna was up out of her chair now, her back to the television, ignoring the pop western that was boring her minutes earlier. “Ed Riggs was all that was keeping you in that job,” she flared. “With him gone you might just find yourself replaced with a hat rack. Does the chief know?”
“The chief has other things on his mind than the case we were working on.”
“A murdered girl?” she folder her arms, challenging him.
“A missing girl, there's no evidence she's been murdered. She probably ran off with some traveling salesman.” Frank finished another drink and turned around, reaching for the bottle.
“You think she'd do that, run off in the middle of the night?”
“Riggs said he found blood, but it could be the blood isn't human. There were drag marks, but it could be from some old washing machine she drug off into the bog to get rid of. Ed went looking and see where it got him.”
A thick silence hung in the air between them as she pondered the possibilities. With Ed Riggs gone, her husband had no protector at the station, no one to follow behind. He could be promoted, but then he would fall on his face and that would be an embarrassment. He might be demoted and that would be as bad or worse. He might quit or be fired, but then he would want her father to find him a job. Where would he put her inept husband where he couldn't do any damage?
“I'm going to take a bath and go to bed.” Edna turned and walked down the hall without shutting the television off.
On the screen, a gunfight was brewing outside the saloon. The good guy was clean and well groomed in a new shirt. The bad guy was dressed in black, dirty and with a scar. It was clear who would win. Frank wondered why people watched these things. Then he sat down, pulled a Chesterfield from the pack and lit it with Edna's gold lighter. He took a long, slow sip of his drink and watched as the good guy shot the gun out of the hand of the bad guy without drawing a drop of blood. “Pretty good,” he thought.
Beneath the dark, slimy water, Ed Riggs struggled to free himself of the bog's grasp. He was pulled down by his own weight, by his own weakness, by his age. He was no longer a young man, like Frank Morton, thin and strong. No, he was overweight and over the hill. Perhaps it was fitting that he die this way, Ed thought, it would be a good lesson that one should keep in shape.
He was held down by his overcoat, by his suit jacket, by his gun that caught on the twining roots of the Cypress and kept him from escaping to the air above. He kicked his feet, but his pants seemed to fight against his legs and his shoes stuck in the muddy bottom.
A million thoughts raced through the Detective Sergeant's mind: “Damn Frank Morton! I made him! This can't be how it ends for me! I have to find a way out! There's so many things I still have to do!”
Lifting his leg through great effort, he felt his shoe come off. His leg brushed something sharp and the pain shot through his calf. He put his leg down hoping to gain some leverage. His lungs felt like they would burst.
He touched something solid with his foot, kicked against it and felt his overcoat slip away. He thought he was rising toward the surface, freed of the overcoat. He kicked with his feet a second time. He felt a tearing at his belt and kicked again.
“Air! Air!” screamed the voice inside his head as he broke through the surface and spat out a mouth full of gunk, gasping for enough air to keep a grip on life.
Ed Riggs held on to a Cypress root, chest deep in Thompson Bog, struggling for his breath. Through the Cypress roots, across the muddy Miller yard, tail lights were disappearing down the dirt road.
“It's black as pitch out there,” said Detective Frank Morton. “All I saw by the glow of his flashlight was his hand sinking below the mud. I'm afraid he's gone.”
“We should call in the uniformed officers, maybe get out the Fire Department and some of the fellas and go search for him, maybe there's still hope.”
Martha Sawyer was pale and shaking. The station had been her first job out of school and after 13 years she could not see herself working anywhere else. Ed was a fixture there; she admired him. What would it be like without him? What would they do without him? What would she do?
“Martha, I'm tellin' ya, it ain't no use. The man's gone,” Frank yelled. “He's slipped into that bog out there and there's no way to find him and if we do, he can't breathe under mud and water. He's dead. The best we can hope for is to pull his body out when it gets light, if we can find it.”
Martha sank with despair. She looked sadly at Ed's desk, the Miller file still open. Who would solve that case now? What did it matter when Landon County's best detective was dead in the attempt?
Frank walked over to the desk, turned the file to him, then turned it back, sat down at Ed's desk and began to look at the file.
“I'll take up the case. I worked with him, I know how he operated. I can pick up where he left off.” Frank said, and began by taking over the larger desk of the dead detective.
“A little early to start dividing up his property, isn't it?” Martha said with narrowed eyes. “The man's not even pronounced and you are sitting in his chair. Why don't you show a little respect?”
Frank leaped from the chair, pulling his suit-coat around behind him, letting his gun holster show, “Because there's a murderer out there and I'm the only one left to stop him, that's why. Because I'm the detective and you're the damned secretary, that's why.”
Martha turned back to her desk. There was no arguing with him when he was like this. Only Ed could calm him and put him back on the track of rational thought, and Ed was not here. No, Ed was in Thompson Bog, suffocated to death. Martha shook with the thought, then hung her head and cried for Ed.
At Ed's desk, Frank thumbed through a short stack of folders. “Soon as it's light, I'll start again. But there's more here than just that missing girl to deal with. For a man who was so well thought of,” Frank said with a familiar attitude, “he had a lot of unsolved cases.”
Martha looked up with a new distaste for the man with no respect for his partner. Ed had reduced the stack of unsolved crimes from more than two hundred to an impressive twelve. The dozen that were left were dead ends that no one could figure out, but he hadn't stopped trying. Martha wanted to shout the man down, but knew that it would mean her job, the job that suddenly didn't seem all that desirable.
She began to formulate a response, one that would surely get her fired, but might also get her physically hurt. Frank could be mean and violent. She wanted to say something, but then Frank stood up.
“I'll get a fresh start in the morning,” Frank said. “I'll call the coroner and get him to pronounce on Ed and then we'll figure out what to do for a funeral. See you in the morning, Martha.”
Frank sauntered out a bit too jauntily for Martha's taste, but there was no one to tell about it. She knew that the Landon County hierarchy was too busy with their own amusements to bother about her suspicions. To them it would be an open-and-shut case; a detective goes out to investigate a missing girl, falls into the swamp and gets pulled down. He drowns and his partner takes over the case. It was the natural order of things, so why bother them about it?
Martha sighed heavily and looked at her desk. The papers that seemed so important minutes ago looked blank to her. There was nothing on them that had the least significance. Martha felt helpless and lost. Outside the station, the road was dark and empty; the night was still; the world had stopped turning.
“No sense in rushing this,” Ed Riggs thought as he began to take stock. There was a sharp pain in his left leg. There were other aches, but they were minor. He was breathing! He was alive! That was something! That was the main thing!
He pulled himself up out of the water enough to grab onto one of the large Cypress legs. He was able to hang on to the root system enough to keep him from sinking again into the murky water. The hollow beneath the tree smelled of musk and decaying leaves.
Something touched his right leg; something moving. Ed pulled his leg up sharply, still clinging to the giant roots. Whatever it was had wrapped itself around his right foot. He lifted his foot up and reached down with his hand, grabbed and pulled up. He half expected to find a snake, one he would have to beat to death with one hand while holding on to the root with the other. What he held was a rope.
Ed pulled on the rope and felt it give on the other end. There had to be another end entangled in something, but not the tree. Slowly, the rope gave out more length. What came up was hard to see in the darkness, but Ed's eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. Two eyes, open and lifeless, looked at nothing. The mouth hung limp. It was the Miller girl.
Edna Eldridge Morton sat in front of the television, glancing out of the window of her ranch style home as the lights of the black Ford pulled into the drive. She sighed, putting out her cigarette. She hated being alone, but now that Frank was home, she hated even more being alone with him. The shine had worn off her marriage; the thrill she had felt when she married a policeman was gone.
“You're home early,” she said as Frank walked into the door, “it's not after midnight yet.”
Frank stopped, sneering at the woman he had been so proud to call his wife a few years before, who now openly berated him at every opportunity. “It's too dark to do anything tonight.” Frank took off is hat and coat, hanging the coat on the end of the hall closet door to dry.
“I thought you did your best work in the dark.” Edna took another cigarette from the pack of Chesterfields and lit it with a small, gold lighter.
Frank turned to regard her, wishing that it had been her that he had hit with the butt of his pistol and dragged into the swamp. He wished he could come home instead to the Miller girl from the trailer park and live here with her. She would appreciate him. She would like living in a nice house with a new car in the driveway and a new television set in the corner. She would meet him at the door with a cold beer and a warm kiss instead of a snide remark and a hateful stare.
“We lost Ed Riggs tonight; he got stuck in the swamp and went down.” Frank went to the sideboard and poured a whiskey into a heavy-bottomed glass.
“Ed? Lost in the swamp?” Edna seemed suddenly concerned. “Did you send in a search party? Have they given up already?”
“I saw him go under. He hit a quick place, it took him before I could get to him. No use searching, he's dead.” Frank drank down the whiskey, winced and poured another.
“What are you going to do now?” Edna had a vacant look, the blood had drained from her face.
“What do you mean, what am I going to do now? The same thing I have been doing, only maybe now I can make it to sergeant without him holding me back.”
Edna was up out of her chair now, her back to the television, ignoring the pop western that was boring her minutes earlier. “Ed Riggs was all that was keeping you in that job,” she flared. “With him gone you might just find yourself replaced with a hat rack. Does the chief know?”
“The chief has other things on his mind than the case we were working on.”
“A murdered girl?” she folder her arms, challenging him.
“A missing girl, there's no evidence she's been murdered. She probably ran off with some traveling salesman.” Frank finished another drink and turned around, reaching for the bottle.
“You think she'd do that, run off in the middle of the night?”
“Riggs said he found blood, but it could be the blood isn't human. There were drag marks, but it could be from some old washing machine she drug off into the bog to get rid of. Ed went looking and see where it got him.”
A thick silence hung in the air between them as she pondered the possibilities. With Ed Riggs gone, her husband had no protector at the station, no one to follow behind. He could be promoted, but then he would fall on his face and that would be an embarrassment. He might be demoted and that would be as bad or worse. He might quit or be fired, but then he would want her father to find him a job. Where would he put her inept husband where he couldn't do any damage?
“I'm going to take a bath and go to bed.” Edna turned and walked down the hall without shutting the television off.
On the screen, a gunfight was brewing outside the saloon. The good guy was clean and well groomed in a new shirt. The bad guy was dressed in black, dirty and with a scar. It was clear who would win. Frank wondered why people watched these things. Then he sat down, pulled a Chesterfield from the pack and lit it with Edna's gold lighter. He took a long, slow sip of his drink and watched as the good guy shot the gun out of the hand of the bad guy without drawing a drop of blood. “Pretty good,” he thought.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 1
The first chill was settling on the fields around the sparse woods by Thompson Bog. The shallow, muddy water that dominated Thompson Wood in Landon County was a dangerous place for anyone. Local legend was filled with stories of people who went in and never came out.
On this night in the autumn of 1954, voices were raised in a trailer house at the end of the swamp. The shrill tones of a young girl were heard, screaming at the top of her voice, “I won't! I'll tell and you can't stop me.”
The door flung open, spraying scant light from the bare bulb across the muddy yard. The girl ran out of the trailer door in Capri pants, dirty, white blouse and bare feet. She was crying.
The girl jumped to the bottom of the crude wooden steps as the door banged on the side of the trailer and slammed shut, closing off the light and leaving the yard once again in total blackness. In the dark of the new moon, clouds hung over the swamp, shutting out the stars.
The door banged opened a second time and the girl turned, half defiant, half fearful. She never heard the sound of the blow. Her body fell to the ground and didn't move. In the dim, eerie glow of the single bulb, a man leaned over the girl, took one wrist and dragged her body across the muddy yard down to the edge of the swamp.
The light from the trailer's bulb seemed to stop at the edge of the bog, making it hard to make out the broken wooden pier and flat-bottomed boat tied there. The man loosened the cinder block that passed for an anchor and tied it to the girl's waist. He took two steps into the bog and dropped the girl in. The cinder block sank below the surface, pulling the girl's body in after. The man stood knee-deep, watching her body sink slowly into the thick, black water.
As the dirty, white blouse disappeared beneath the water, the girl regained consciousness. She opened her mouth to cry out, but the dark, murky water stifled her cry and she slipped below the water line. There were ripples along the surface; cat-tails swayed as she struggled beneath the murky sludge. Then the agitation stopped. All was still again.
The man who had dragged the girl so roughly to her grave stepped back onto the solid ground next to the broken pier. He went to the trailer, turned off the light and closed the door behind him. He went around to a car behind the trailer, got in and, without turning on the lights, sped down the road toward the two-lane blacktop.
A half-hour later, an aging truck came up the road making a racket and bouncing beams of light across sparse trees at the edge of the bog. The loose tools in the back coupled with the age and the poor driving of the inebriated driver made for a noisy ride. Collin Miller stepped out of the truck and opened the door to the trailer, “Clara! Where are ya, girl?” There was no response. The old man stumbled to the back of the trailer and fell onto the bed, unconscious.
The following morning Collin Miller walked into the police station. “My Clara never come home last night,” he told the clerk. “I think she had a man in there whilst I was gone. The place is a mess. T'ain't like her.”
Martha Sawyer took the statement. “We'll look into it,” she said.
It was overcast all day, so mid-afternoon looked near dark when the two detectives made it over to the Miller place to look for signs of the girl.
“She's not here,” said Frank Morton, a detective for the Landon County Police Department. He rocked his hat back on his head, unbuttoned his overcoat and looked around the trailer.
“Nope. But I've got blood out here,” said Detective Sergeant Ed Riggs. He knelt down to get a closer look at the blood, noticing something in the dirt. “Got drag marks, too.”
Detective Morton stood at the door looking down at the dirt. “I don't see 'em.” He pushed his black-framed glasses tighter on his nose and took a flashlight from the pocket of his overcoat. The dim beam of light found the marks in question. “Could have been anything, some piece of trash or old box – anything.”
Ed Riggs stood up, his flashlight in his hand and looked at his partner. How could he not see that the marks were plainly someone being dragged? Ed pulled his overcoat closed against the growing chill and turned his flashlight on. He began walking along side of the drag marks, talking as he went. He was talking; whether his inexperienced partner was listening was his own affair.
“There are two marks here, I'd say something about 80 or 90 pounds, like the Miller girl. There's other footprints but the ground's too hard and uneven, I can't make 'em out. Could be a man in city shoes. Miller's footprints are all over; you can see that he has these farm boots and they're all worn out.” He stopped at the edge of the wood. It was not smart to go into a swamp at night; all manner of things awaited the unwary, things living and things not living.
After a brief discussion with himself, Ed Riggs turned to his partner. Frank Morton's tall, thin body was still silhouetted by the harsh light of the trailer's bare bulb. “You comin'?”
Frank Morton stepped out of the trailer, down the wood step and across the yard to the swamp, careful not to step in the blood.
“Watch it, man, those footprints are evidence. See? They go down to the old boat dock there.”
Both men shined their lights into the dark wood. A small wooden dock, ungainly and broken from years of use with no upkeep, jutted out over the shallow bog. Tied to it was Miller's rowboat. The drag marks went right to the dock and scrapes in the ancient wood continued out to where the boat was tied. Ed Riggs walked toward the dock, followed hesitantly by his partner.
“He dragged her here, but didn't take the boat. Why would he take her this far and not take the boat?” Ed Riggs aimed his flashlight into the boat to see that it held an inch of water. “Oh,” said the Detective Sergeant, and began scanning the swamp with his light.
Large Cypress trees seemed to hold the swamp in place with giant fingers, keeping it from sinking down to where everything ever dropped into the water had gone. The bog was shades of black, creating a barrier against the meager flashlight.
“There's something here, looks like someone stepped in, making a hole in the vegetation. There's something there, too. It seems darker over there, if that's possible.”
The younger detective stood on the pier, not wanting to sully his shoes, as the older detective stepped off into the swamp. He took two steps, then a cautious third.
“This could be solid under here, but there's quick places all over.”
The third step proved him right as Ed Riggs slipped, sinking right up to his neck. He tried to raise a hand, but doing so only pulled him down further, his chin and mouth dipping below the surface. When he pulled his head up, his chin and mouth were covered with gray-brown mud.
“Quick place, Frank! Help me out!”
Frank Morton squatted down on his feet, close to the water. He put his arms on his knees, his hands dangling inward.
“Are ya goin' under, Ed?”
“Yes, you fool, can't you see I'm going under? Pull me out of this crap!”
Frank Morton turned his flashlight off, took a deep breath and looked around. Then he looked back at his partner.
“Well, I would, Ed, but then you wouldn't have the pleasure of meeting Clara Miller while you're down there. Sorry!” Frank chuckled, just enough to let his partner know that he was not sorry. He was not sorry at all.
The thin man watched his partner sink slowly down into the muck. He continued to watch the water churn as Ed Riggs struggled. He watched until the water is still.
“Say 'Hi' to Clara,” he said to the surface of the bog.
Frank Morton stood up, turned on his flashlight and made his way back to the black '52 Ford parked on the dirt road at the edge of the bog. He got in and started the car. Taking the microphone from the cradle he called in.
“This is Frank Morton. Ed Riggs and I came up here to see about the missing Miller girl. Ed fell into the bog and got sucked under before I could get to him. I'm afraid he's gone.” Frank ended the conversation before there could be another side to it. He returned the mic to the holder on the dash and gave the dark woods one final glance, smiling.
“That worked out well,” thought Frank Morton, as he put the car in gear and released the clutch.
The first chill was settling on the fields around the sparse woods by Thompson Bog. The shallow, muddy water that dominated Thompson Wood in Landon County was a dangerous place for anyone. Local legend was filled with stories of people who went in and never came out.
On this night in the autumn of 1954, voices were raised in a trailer house at the end of the swamp. The shrill tones of a young girl were heard, screaming at the top of her voice, “I won't! I'll tell and you can't stop me.”
The door flung open, spraying scant light from the bare bulb across the muddy yard. The girl ran out of the trailer door in Capri pants, dirty, white blouse and bare feet. She was crying.
The girl jumped to the bottom of the crude wooden steps as the door banged on the side of the trailer and slammed shut, closing off the light and leaving the yard once again in total blackness. In the dark of the new moon, clouds hung over the swamp, shutting out the stars.
The door banged opened a second time and the girl turned, half defiant, half fearful. She never heard the sound of the blow. Her body fell to the ground and didn't move. In the dim, eerie glow of the single bulb, a man leaned over the girl, took one wrist and dragged her body across the muddy yard down to the edge of the swamp.
The light from the trailer's bulb seemed to stop at the edge of the bog, making it hard to make out the broken wooden pier and flat-bottomed boat tied there. The man loosened the cinder block that passed for an anchor and tied it to the girl's waist. He took two steps into the bog and dropped the girl in. The cinder block sank below the surface, pulling the girl's body in after. The man stood knee-deep, watching her body sink slowly into the thick, black water.
As the dirty, white blouse disappeared beneath the water, the girl regained consciousness. She opened her mouth to cry out, but the dark, murky water stifled her cry and she slipped below the water line. There were ripples along the surface; cat-tails swayed as she struggled beneath the murky sludge. Then the agitation stopped. All was still again.
The man who had dragged the girl so roughly to her grave stepped back onto the solid ground next to the broken pier. He went to the trailer, turned off the light and closed the door behind him. He went around to a car behind the trailer, got in and, without turning on the lights, sped down the road toward the two-lane blacktop.
A half-hour later, an aging truck came up the road making a racket and bouncing beams of light across sparse trees at the edge of the bog. The loose tools in the back coupled with the age and the poor driving of the inebriated driver made for a noisy ride. Collin Miller stepped out of the truck and opened the door to the trailer, “Clara! Where are ya, girl?” There was no response. The old man stumbled to the back of the trailer and fell onto the bed, unconscious.
The following morning Collin Miller walked into the police station. “My Clara never come home last night,” he told the clerk. “I think she had a man in there whilst I was gone. The place is a mess. T'ain't like her.”
Martha Sawyer took the statement. “We'll look into it,” she said.
It was overcast all day, so mid-afternoon looked near dark when the two detectives made it over to the Miller place to look for signs of the girl.
“She's not here,” said Frank Morton, a detective for the Landon County Police Department. He rocked his hat back on his head, unbuttoned his overcoat and looked around the trailer.
“Nope. But I've got blood out here,” said Detective Sergeant Ed Riggs. He knelt down to get a closer look at the blood, noticing something in the dirt. “Got drag marks, too.”
Detective Morton stood at the door looking down at the dirt. “I don't see 'em.” He pushed his black-framed glasses tighter on his nose and took a flashlight from the pocket of his overcoat. The dim beam of light found the marks in question. “Could have been anything, some piece of trash or old box – anything.”
Ed Riggs stood up, his flashlight in his hand and looked at his partner. How could he not see that the marks were plainly someone being dragged? Ed pulled his overcoat closed against the growing chill and turned his flashlight on. He began walking along side of the drag marks, talking as he went. He was talking; whether his inexperienced partner was listening was his own affair.
“There are two marks here, I'd say something about 80 or 90 pounds, like the Miller girl. There's other footprints but the ground's too hard and uneven, I can't make 'em out. Could be a man in city shoes. Miller's footprints are all over; you can see that he has these farm boots and they're all worn out.” He stopped at the edge of the wood. It was not smart to go into a swamp at night; all manner of things awaited the unwary, things living and things not living.
After a brief discussion with himself, Ed Riggs turned to his partner. Frank Morton's tall, thin body was still silhouetted by the harsh light of the trailer's bare bulb. “You comin'?”
Frank Morton stepped out of the trailer, down the wood step and across the yard to the swamp, careful not to step in the blood.
“Watch it, man, those footprints are evidence. See? They go down to the old boat dock there.”
Both men shined their lights into the dark wood. A small wooden dock, ungainly and broken from years of use with no upkeep, jutted out over the shallow bog. Tied to it was Miller's rowboat. The drag marks went right to the dock and scrapes in the ancient wood continued out to where the boat was tied. Ed Riggs walked toward the dock, followed hesitantly by his partner.
“He dragged her here, but didn't take the boat. Why would he take her this far and not take the boat?” Ed Riggs aimed his flashlight into the boat to see that it held an inch of water. “Oh,” said the Detective Sergeant, and began scanning the swamp with his light.
Large Cypress trees seemed to hold the swamp in place with giant fingers, keeping it from sinking down to where everything ever dropped into the water had gone. The bog was shades of black, creating a barrier against the meager flashlight.
“There's something here, looks like someone stepped in, making a hole in the vegetation. There's something there, too. It seems darker over there, if that's possible.”
The younger detective stood on the pier, not wanting to sully his shoes, as the older detective stepped off into the swamp. He took two steps, then a cautious third.
“This could be solid under here, but there's quick places all over.”
The third step proved him right as Ed Riggs slipped, sinking right up to his neck. He tried to raise a hand, but doing so only pulled him down further, his chin and mouth dipping below the surface. When he pulled his head up, his chin and mouth were covered with gray-brown mud.
“Quick place, Frank! Help me out!”
Frank Morton squatted down on his feet, close to the water. He put his arms on his knees, his hands dangling inward.
“Are ya goin' under, Ed?”
“Yes, you fool, can't you see I'm going under? Pull me out of this crap!”
Frank Morton turned his flashlight off, took a deep breath and looked around. Then he looked back at his partner.
“Well, I would, Ed, but then you wouldn't have the pleasure of meeting Clara Miller while you're down there. Sorry!” Frank chuckled, just enough to let his partner know that he was not sorry. He was not sorry at all.
The thin man watched his partner sink slowly down into the muck. He continued to watch the water churn as Ed Riggs struggled. He watched until the water is still.
“Say 'Hi' to Clara,” he said to the surface of the bog.
Frank Morton stood up, turned on his flashlight and made his way back to the black '52 Ford parked on the dirt road at the edge of the bog. He got in and started the car. Taking the microphone from the cradle he called in.
“This is Frank Morton. Ed Riggs and I came up here to see about the missing Miller girl. Ed fell into the bog and got sucked under before I could get to him. I'm afraid he's gone.” Frank ended the conversation before there could be another side to it. He returned the mic to the holder on the dash and gave the dark woods one final glance, smiling.
“That worked out well,” thought Frank Morton, as he put the car in gear and released the clutch.
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