Patricia felt guilty getting a laugh out of the tragedy. . . . But it is kind of funny when you put it that way. “There’s this rumor down here that there was some oddity relating to the decapitation, and I haven’t gotten anywhere with the local police chief. I really need this, Tim. The autopsy report is in the morgue at the county hospital in Luntville.”
“I’ll make a call. Just go to the place tomorrow, and it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thanks, Tim. It’s just that there’s some weird stuff going on here, and I’m curious about it.”
“Hmm. Well, remember what curiosity did to the cat. I don’t really like the idea of my star attorney running around down in Hooterville inquiring about decapitations.”
“The weirdest part is that there have been several more murders just since I’ve been back—”
“What!”
“Drug-related stuff. It’s very uncharacteristic in a place like this.”
Now her boss lost his levity. “Why don’t you just come home? Don’t tell me some other people got their heads cut off too.”
“No, but it was pretty brutal stuff. I just want to check some things out, get my sister squared away; then I’ll be back.”
“You’d damn well better, ’cos let me tell you something. If you wind up getting your head cut off . . . I’m going to be pissed.”
A final laugh. “Thanks for your help, Tim. And I will be back soon, with my head securely attached to my neck.”
Nine
(I)
Chief Sutter was looking at Pam’s legs as he pretended to write up his daily operating report. He needed diversion—from the very loud fact that people in his town were suddenly dying right and left—and Pam’s legs provided this necessary diversion and then some. Pam was a local cutie whom he’d hired as the department’s radio dispatcher and office manager. She was great at both jobs, so the fact that she had a body that could start a riot in a monastery maximized her purpose in the office. She made for a positive working environment, and that was important to hardworking, overstressed police officers, wasn’t it?
Trey sat at the opposite desk, pretending to go over the county blotter, and he, too, seemed to be musing over Pam’s legs as she sat at her own desk, typing. The legs, by the way, could be described as coltish. Long and lean, well toned without being “muscular”—ultimate legs as far as men were concerned. The rest of her was equally flawless: trim and curvy; alert, prominent-nippled breasts; and a tight, to-die-for little butt. Short auburn hair framed a cute little angel face with bright hazel eyes. Any male sexist slob’s archetypical meat for a spectacular daydream: the total office package.
Sutter seethed to himself when she suddenly crossed her legs. The delectable—and tiny—triangle of fabric shouted at him. Fuck, she’s wearin’ a T-back. Just what I need . . .
Then she got up to take something to the file room. The chief’s eyes riveted to the shifting little butt in the tight blue-jean miniskirt, then slid down to the legs. All that tight, fresh, tan skin seemed to glimmer beneath fishnet stockings. Her high heels ticked across the floor until they disappeared.
Trey was shaking his head. “Jesus, Chief. Those are some damn fine walkin’ sticks on her, ain’t they? Wouldn’t mind havin’ ’em wrapped around my head for an hour or three.”
Sutter shot a reproving scowl. “Is there anytime when your mind ain’t in the trash can, Trey? That happens to be our employee you’re lustin’ after.”
Trey grinned, slapping his knees. “Chief, you practically been droolin,’ lookin’ at those gams for the last twenty minutes.”
“I have not,” he insisted. “And shut up. We need to be thinkin’ on what we gotta do about this drug business in Squatterville.”
“Not much we can do. State narcs are investigatin’.”
“Yeah, but this is our town, Trey. So maybe some a’ this is our fault.”
“How do ya figure?”
“All these years we took it for granted that Squatterville’s crime-free. Maybe if we’d had a better presence out there, none a’ this would have happened.”
“Horseshit. People turn to scum because it’s their time. We cain’t be lookin’ over every damn shack on the Point.”
“That ain’t what I’m sayin’. What I mean is—”
Pam came back to her desk, the image of her legs chopping off the rest of the chief’s remark like a carrot end. Oh, God, those legs are killing me. . . . Just as she was sitting down, the hazel eyes flashed at him once. Then she smiled and returned to her work.
Jesus, save me.
He and Trey both looked up from their desks when the bell on the station door chimed.
It was Ricky Caudill who strode in. He looked like he always did: slovenly, fat, not particularly clean. But his usual cast of arrogance made no appearance on his face today.
Instead he looked scared.
Just as peculiar—Sutter noticed—was the expression on Sergeant Trey’s face upon noticing their abrupt visitor. For a split second, something like dread washed over his face, but he quickly buried it beneath his authoritative police veneer.
What’s with that? Sutter wondered. Was it just his imagination?
“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Trey said, and stood up at his desk.
Sutter was too tired, so he didn’t bother. “What’choo want, Ricky, ‘cos the only thing you’re gonna get here is somethin’ you don’t want: an ass kicking.”
“I wanna be locked up,” Ricky declared from where he stood.
“You have to break the law to be locked up,” Pam told him, surprised. “You broken the law lately?”
“My brother’s dead,” he said with no hesitation.
Now Sutter stood up. “You confessin’ to murder, Ricky?”
“Hell, no. I didn’t kill Junior.”
“Then why you wanna be locked up?”
“ ‘Cos I want protection from the person who did. They’ll be after me next.”
Sutter frowned and sat back down. “You’re drunk, Ricky. You’re talkin’ shit. Now get out of here unless you want a big pile a’ trouble to leave with.”
“I ain’t drunk—”
“You smell like a brewery,” Trey said. “I can smell it across the room.”
Ricky’s hands curled up into frustrated fists. “I’m tellin’ ya, my brother’s been murdered. Go to the house ‘n’ look. It was Squatters who done it.”
Sutter stood back up. “Go check it out,” he told Trey.
“Why don’t you check it out, Chief? This guy can be a handful. Let me take care of him.”
Sutter stared Trey down. He didn’t like the innuendo here. “Go check it out. Now. I wanna talk to this one.”
Addled, Trey grabbed the cruiser keys and left.
“You want me to call an ambulance?” Pam asked the chief.
“Ain’t no reason to,” Ricky spoke up first. “My brother’s dead. Call the undertaker. But lock me up,.”
“You’re talkin’ crazy, boy. Now you’re gonna turn around and walk out of here right now. I’m too busy to be foolin’ around with you.”
“Lock me up,” Ricky repeated. “Otherwise I’ll be killed.”
Sutter smirked. “Yeah, sure, by the Squatters. So you’re sayin’ it was Squatters who killed Junior, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You saw ‘em?”
“Yeah.”
Sutter pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. “Ricky, you’re tellin’ me you saw Squatters kill your brother?”