When Bill turned in at Edgar’s pasture, he could see Edgar’s pickup parked on top of a small rise in the middle of the field. Bill got out, opened the gate, and drove through. Seeing Carl pull in behind him, Bill motioned for Carl to close the gate behind him, then continued slowly into the pasture. The cruiser bounced and jostled its way across the pasture. Bill stopped the car behind Edgar’s pickup and got out.
Edgar Harvey was leaning on the side of his truck. He had a huge wad of tobacco in his mouth that swelled his right cheek tremendously. A twelve-gauge pump shotgun was resting in his arms.
“Did deer season slip up on me again?” Bill asked the old man.
“Don’t know ‘bout deer season, but some critter sure thinks it’s cow season.”
Bill walked up and shook hands with Edgar. Behind him another car door slammed and he heard Carl say, “Mornin’ sheriff. Mornin’ Mr. Harvey.”
Bill turned and replied. “Mornin’ Carl.”
Edgar nodded. Bill knew the nod was for his benefit, not Carl’s. Edgar Harvey was about as prejudiced as they come, and he didn’t like the idea of a black man being a Newton County Deputy.
Carl Price had been a deputy in Newton County for nine years, longer than any other current deputy. Four years ago Bill had named him chief deputy. This hadn’t been a political move to secure the black vote of the county; Sheriff Bill Oates didn’t work like that. The decision hadn’t been based simply on the fact that Carl had more experience than any other deputy either. Carl was simply the best choice for the job. He was efficient and reliable. He was intelligent and had a level head on his shoulders. Most importantly, Carl knew his way around the Sheriff’s Department computer. This made him invaluable to Bill, who didn’t even know how to turn on the computer. Carl had his faults, however. He lacked initiative — he seemed unable to make a decision without conferring with Bill, and his race also served as a liability since a quite a few people in the county had a shallow outlook similar to Edgar Harvey; they weren’t to keen on the idea of getting a ticket from or, even worse, being arrested by a black man.
“Well, Edgar, why don’t you show me what’s got you all stirred up this morning,” Bill asked.
Edgar spit heavily and said, “This way.” He turned and led them down a well-worn cattle path. The morning’s fog was now just above head level, and the dew was fresh on the ground. The morning air was still humid and sticky. Edgar, Bill, and Carl walked down the thin path, carefully stepping over or around several cow patties. As soon as they topped a small hill, the bodies of two mutilated cows came into view.
“Good Lord,” Carl gasped.
Without a word, Edgar continued leading them down the path toward the grisly scene.
The closest cow was lying on her left side facing the approaching group with her eyes wide open and her tongue lolling out. She was torn open from her last ribs to her rear flank, much of the meat and guts there seemed to have been eaten. The second cow was about twenty feet further, facing the other direction, lying on her right side. Her head was just barely attached to her body by little more than a strip of hide and was awkwardly positioned, making her appear to look straight behind her, over her own back. There was a large hole further down on her neck and two more in her left front flank.
Bill dropped to a knee beside the first cow, took a long look at the cow and its terrible wounds, then got up and walked over for a look at the second. He stooped down and felt inside of one of the holes in the second cow’s flank. He then started walking around the cows looking down at the ground. Every now and then he would stoop and take a closer look at the ground.
While Bill was investigating the cows, Greg's car arrived, followed closely by Emilio’s pale green Game Warden Blazer. Greg parked his patrol car near the other three, and got in Emilio’s SUV. The four-wheel-drive was able to descend further down the hill. Emilio stopped about thirty feet from the first cow.
No sooner were they out of the truck than Bill called out, “Come see what you think about this, Emilio.” The old Texan’s accent battering the newcomer’s name as it drawled out all four syllables.
Emilio Rodriguez was originally from Midland, out in West Texas. He had only been working in Newton County for two years, but the tall, wiry Hispanic had already proven himself a hard worker who knew his business. In the short time he’d been in the area, Emilio had earned the respect of the sheriff.
Bill was perched on the toes of his boots about twenty feet on the other side of where the second cow lay in a low muddy area. Emilio walked past the dead cows followed by Greg, Carl, and Edgar. When he got to Bill, he saw what had the sheriff’s attention.
“What have we here?” he said, taking a knee beside the sheriff.
It was a footprint, one as big as an average size man’s. In fact, the footprint looked a lot like a man’s. However, the toes were longer and the big toe was slightly further down on the foot. Not exactly like a chimpanzee’s, but somewhere between a chimp’s and a man’s. The most shocking sight was the claws; they extended a full two inches from the toes.
Bill took a fountain pen from his breast pocket and used it as a pointer. He ran the pen down the length of the claw prints. “Ever seen claws that big?” Bill asked Emilio.
Emilio shook his head. “No, sir.”
“That ain’t all.” Bill leaned over and pointed with his pen at another footprint. Bill then stood up and pointed out three more prints in the mud. “You can follow its tracks through this bog from here to over there.”
Bill then looked at Emilio, and in an almost nonchalant voice said, “It’s walking on two legs.”
Behind Emilio, Greg gasped, “Bullshit.”
Bill continued as if Greg hadn’t said a word, “I found more tracks over there.” He pointed toward a spot about thirty feet from the second cow, “Over there it’s travelin’ away from the cows on all fours. I haven’t heard of a bear in these parts for years, but a bear can get up on two legs. You think we may have us a bear here, Emilio?”
Emilio, still kneeling, studied the first footprint, then said, “I don’t think so. This isn’t like any bear tracks I’ve ever seen, not even close.” Emilio shrugged his shoulders and continued, “Plus, a bear’s slow when he’s on two legs, so how did this thing run down those two cows? He couldn’t have snuck up on them, that’s for sure. They’d have smelled him.”
“What else could it be?” Bill asked, almost to himself.
“I don’t know.”
Edgar said. “You reckon it could be some sicko? Maybe he hacked up the cows and then left fake paw prints in the ground.”
Emilio looked up at Edgar. “He’d have to be one sick bastard to have eaten this much raw beef.”
“Maybe he took chunks out to make it look like something was eating the cows,” Greg chimed in, causing Bill to give him a look that said, That’s the stupidest damn thing I think I’ve ever heard.
Bill’s head turned slowly as he took in the whole scene, then he turned back to Greg. “I want you to take pictures of the whole area. The cows, the footprints, everything. And, don’t forget to put something beside the prints for a size reference.” Bill turned to Emilio, “You’d better get a hold of College Station. I think the boys at A&M are going to want to look at this.”
Around noon Greg drove up to Shay’s Grocery, a local gas station and convenience store, to gas up his cruiser and get a bag of chips and a soft drink for lunch. He was just finishing up at the gas pumps when James came out of Shay’s. James was on his way back to the garage with his and Guy’s lunches — burritos and egg rolls, heating lamp specials. Half asleep, he almost didn’t even notice Greg, despite the hard-to-miss patrol car.