The Fed Man (9 page)

And with that the chief, with his entourage in tow, resumed his walk to the door.

Driving back to town with the latest victim in the back of his aged and rusting vehicle, the sixty-seven-year-old Dr. Anthony wiped the perspiration from his brow and turned up the air-conditioning, even though it was not warm inside the converted hearse. He tried to remember just how he had ended up in Oak Ridge. He and his wife, Virginia, were young and happily married when he completed a forensic medicine fellowship following his pathology residency at the University of Wisconsin. They were excited about their future when he accepted a position in the medical examiner’s office of Hennepin County in Minneapolis.

It was shortly after beginning this dream job that his beautiful bride began developing some lower abdominal discomfort. Their worst fears were realized when her gynecologist confirmed the diagnosis of ovarian cancer. As he recalled those days of surgery and chemotherapy and the havoc it wreaked upon her, he began to rock back and forth behind the wheel as the tears flowed freely.

The disease claimed her life within two years and devastated him. His job performance fell off dramatically. He let his personal cares go and began growing a beard, which was now salt and pepper. In a fit of anger, he pounded the steering wheel. His face hardened, his eyes squinted, and he gripped the steering wheel so hard he thought he might be able to rip it off. He slammed on the accelerator, looked skyward, and yelled.

“Why?! Why?! Why me and my Virginia?! Why couldn’t we have the good life I see others enjoying?! It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!”

As suddenly as he lost it, he became aware of his behavior, loosened the grip on the steering wheel, and decelerated. But the tears continued to flow.

“Now look at my life, will you? I’m a quasi medical examiner in a podunk town in a podunk county living in a small house that is well below the standards of a man of my stature. I drive an old Mitsubishi that hasn’t been washed in years, but who cares. I have no children, no family, and no friends. Except for Leo, if you can count that ‘thing’ as a friend. The only things I have are my roses and my bonsai trees. They are the salvation of my mental being. And of this lousy job.”

Slinking down in his seat, he became sullen and forlorn as he continued the drive to his second home, the morgue.

His first thought was that it was an interesting church. Some may even have called it cute. Despite the day’s slight overcast, the sun’s weak rays streamed through the stained glass windows and cast a myriad of colors onto the light gray walls. He thought it interesting the way the colors seemed to dance on top of the plain casket as it sat atop its bier. He even liked the name, the Good Shepherd Community Church. The minister was preaching from an elevated pulpit located on the left side of the plain-looking sanctuary. He listened intently as the minister read the twenty-third psalm. His half-lip snarl appeared when he heard the words “I will fear no evil.” He thought to himself that these people had better fear the Garbageman if they were like the little need-to-be in the coffin.

Listening to the sobbing of the grieving family, he couldn’t help but think that they had no idea what kind of a person they were grieving for. Shaking his head, he thought: if they only knew. Then they’d be celebrating instead of wailing like idiots.

At the conclusion of the service he followed the mass of mourners to the basement. Suppressing a chuckle, he thought that at least he’d get a free lunch before heading back to work.

Pete slowed his metallic gray Chevy Silverado as he rounded the curve on the northwest side of Whitsell’s pit. He knew Sam Washburn’s driveway was at the boundary of the northeast edge of the pit, but you really had to look close if you wanted to find it. Pete spotted the two grass- and weed-covered ruts leading off the township road and up the hill to the east side of the pit. It didn’t make any sense to blade the driveway since Sam didn’t drive. If and when he wanted to go to town, he walked to one of the neighbors who took him in.

The trail was easy to follow and led him into a clearing in the small forest of oak trees on top of the hill. Pete had to admit, he was impressed at how neat Sam’s yard and home looked. It even had a fairly fresh coat of paint. He turned off the pickup and as he exited he was struck by the beauty of the view. He saw rolling fields of corn and oats with Oak Ridge sitting quietly in the background. Pete thought there were plenty of deer up here to hunt with his bow.

He heard the low growl of a dog as he ambled up to the door and, before he could knock, the door opened. There was old Sam.
He stood and stared at Pete with that
what do you want
look. Pete doffed his camo cap.

“Good afternoon, Sam. You think I could come in for a minute or two and visit? We’re investigating the two murders. Since you found the body this morning, we thought that perhaps you might be able to help us.”

Sam turned around and headed back into his home, leaving the door open. Pete thought that must be Sam’s way of saying come on in, so he followed him into the house. Pete caught the aroma of fresh brewed coffee and it smelled good.

“Coffee smells right good there, Sam. Mind if I have a cup?”

Sam’s nod was barely perceptible, and then he pointed to the cupboard and sat down at his small, uncovered table. Pete retrieved a fairly new and clean coffee mug. After pouring himself a mug of Sam’s brew, he moseyed to the table and sat across from Sam.

“First off, Sam, let me ask, just how are you doin’ up here by yourself?”

Sam leaned forward. He pushed up the sleeves of his black-and-white-checked flannel shirt and adjusted the left shoulder strap of his bib overalls. He stared over the lip of his coffee mug and through the rising, curling steam. With a hint of a smile he said, “As my old uncle Earl used to say, I’m finer than a frog’s hair split four ways. Now what’s truly on your mind, Pete?”

“We were wondering, Sam, if you heard anything last night or saw anything unusual? Anything at all.”

With a look of deep concentration on his weathered face, Sam began slowly. “I went to bed my usual time. And I made sure old Jackson there,” pointing to the black-and-tan coonhound lying in front of the trash- and wood-burning stove in the corner, “had her last run of the night. I turned in about midnight or so. Reading a good book, you know. But I got this thing where I need to get up every four hours to go to the bathroom.

“Well, when I got up old Jackson was standing at the door and shaking her butt something fierce. And she had the beginning of a low growl brewing in her throat. Thought she needed to go out so I got my bibs and boots on and opened the door for her. Thought I may just as well go outside. Save on the tank, you know. Well, old Jackson started for the trail that leads down into the pit that she and I always use on our strolls. Clears my brain and rests my soul to go on those strolls with that old coonhound. I was able to call her back, but it took some doin’. I got her to quiet down and we just stood there, the two of us, mind you, staring into the pit. We had the aid of a good light from the moon.

“Couldn’t tell at first, but then sure enough I spotted some movement along the bottom edge of the pit. Just below my home. Thought at first it was a deer, but when it stepped into the bright of moonlight I could tell it was someone walking. Looked like they were having a bit of a struggle with the walking. And it looked like whoever it was, was carrying something heavy. I wanted to watch some more, but whoever it was disappeared behind some piles of
gravel. Besides, my bladder was calling me big-time. So I took old Jackson back to the house, did my business, and went back to bed.

“When I woke up this morning I didn’t even eat. Old Jackson and I just took off to see who or what visited us last night. Don’t get any visitors out here at night. At least not that way. Occasionally some youngsters will drive into the pit and have a few beers, but this was different. You got to stop me, Pete, if I ramble. I don’t get many visitors so I don’t have anybody to talk to other than old Jackson, so when I get the opportunity, sometimes I have a hard time staying on track or shutting it off.”

“Don’t worry about that, Sam. You just keep telling me your story.”

“Well, like I said, me and old Jackson here started down our trail to the pit. Wasn’t hard to find the trail of our visitor. Made some deep prints in the wet sand and gravel. I didn’t mess ‘em up, though. Followed those prints right up to the body. When I saw that young feller with an axe in his chest, it nearly put a load in my britches. We backtracked might quickly and headed for the neighbor. You know John Townsend? Lives just down the road about a mile.”

“Yeah, I know him, Sam.”

“Well, Jackson and I hightailed it to his place and he let me use his phone to call the sheriff’s office. I spoke with the chief, told him my story, and then John brought me home so Jackson and I could have our breakfast.”

“You suppose you could show me those tracks, Sam?”

“Sure, Pete. But you just finish that coffee first. I’m not about to throw it away, you know. My mama taught me better than that. I don’t waste anything. And besides, those tracks aren’t going anywhere.”

After Pete finished what he thought was one of the best cups of coffee he’d run over his taste buds in a long time, he pushed his chair back from the table. Looking at Sam, who was still sitting in his chair and slowly turning his now empty cup in circles, Pete broke the silence.

“That was a right good cup of joe, Sam. I’m not sure if I should tell my Ali though. Might get her twirl in a twist, if you know what I mean.”

Nodding as if he understood, Sam pushed back his chair, stood with an audible creak from his old knees, grabbed the two cups, and walked to the sink. He started running some hot water and was reaching for the dish soap when Pete interrupted.

“Ah, Sam. Suppose we could mosey down to the pit now and take a look at those prints you found?”

Without turning to look at Pete, he replied, “I’ve got to do my dishes first. Then we’ll go. Like I just said, those tracks aren’t going anywhere. Another thing my mama taught me is to always clean up after you’re done eating. If something happened to me, I wouldn’t want somebody to come in here and think I was a sloppy housekeeper. It’ll just take me a moment or two. If you’re so inclined,
how about opening the door so old Jackson can trot outside. She’s twitching her tail a bit. And I want her empty before we go into the pit. Don’t want her to squat on any evidence.”

Pete rose and went to the door. “I’ll just wait outside with Jackson. You’ve got a great view here and I want to take it in while I’m waiting for you.” He opened the door, let out a soft whistle, and waited while the old coonhound slowly rose, stretched, and meandered out.

When Sam was done with his kitchen chores, he joined the deputy and coonhound outside. He began walking south from his home and motioned for Pete to join him. Jackson was already at her master’s heels. Pete could see the suggestion of a trail through the knee-high brush and winding between the tall, mature white oak trees whose leaves were just beginning to change color.

The trail ended abruptly. Pete walked up to Sam, who was gazing over the rim to the base of the pit that was about 150 feet below them. Sam shaded his aging eyes with his left hand. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the extent of the pit.

“Old Jackson and I were standing right here when we saw whoever was in the pit this morning. The person came from over there,” Sam gestured to the south, “and walked right below us and then in that direction,” pointing to the west where the large piles of gravel stood and were interspersed with black mounds of used asphalt.

“The trail that old Jackson and I created lies right over here at the base of this hollow. When we reach the start of the trail into the pit, we’ll only be about fifty feet from the bottom. Take your time
and follow me. I don’t want to have to fetch Naldie because you fell off the trail and hurt yourself.” He resumed their trek with his ever-present friend at his heels.

The trail became readily apparent within a few minutes of their descent, and Pete could tell that it took someone who knew where they were going to find and traverse this narrow trail that hugged the wall of the cliff. It was also apparent to Pete that this trail was known and used by more than Sam and Jackson. He easily identified the tracks of deer and raccoon.

Pete stopped about halfway down the trail and looked up at their starting point. He became nervous when he saw topsoil hanging over the edge. By the time they reached the base of the trail, Pete had gravel smudges on his right sleeve and pant leg and a few cockleburs on his deputy shirt. Sam turned to Pete and grinned.

“You okay there, young feller? Didn’t get hurt coming down, did you?”

Picking the cockleburs from his shirt, Pete smiled. “I’m okay, Sam. Now just where did you find the footprints?”

Pointing up at the rim, Sam began, “Right up there is where we started from and where I said Jackson and I were standing when I first saw someone. Like I said, it appeared that he, and I’m just assuming it was a he, was struggling a bit and was carrying something over his shoulder. He,” and then adding with more than a hint of conviction in his voice, “and I’m going to continue to say
he
, was right over there,” nodding at a spot about fifteen feet from them as he began walking in that direction.

Upon arriving at the spot, Sam bent down. “These are the prints, Pete. Easy to see that they’re deep and close together. I followed the prints, being careful not to step on them. They lead right up to where I found the body.”

Pete knelt down and removed a small digital camera he was carrying and snapped a few pictures from different angles. He then measured and recorded the width and length of the print. He knew that if the perp was toting a dead body that the stride length here wouldn’t help him estimate the perp’s height. Seeing no discernible tread mark, Pete assumed the perp was wearing shoe covers just like they found that morning. Still squatting, he pushed his camo cap back up on his head and looked up at Sam.