M. Sellars - In the bleak midwinter

“Gotta verify the case notes,” he said with a knowing tenor in his voice. “Good’a place ta’ start as any.”

“That’s another strange thing,” she explained. “I read through the file and thought I was up to speed when I arrived here. But it turns out our documentation on this case is sorely lacking. All sorts of important information is missing.”

“Lost?”

“That or worse. Maybe pure negligence. Or even incompetence. I don’t know just yet.”

“Think someone coulda screwed with it on purpose?”

“I hope not, but I don’t know why anyone would. It’s not like this is a RICO case where there could be payoffs or something. It’s a serial killer.”

“True,” Ben grunted.

“Except…”

“‘Cept what?”

“Something that was in the file is that the victim is always dumped in the same location.”

“And so this is still an open case why?”

“Apparently the body just shows up. Whoever is doing it makes it past the surveillance without detection.”

“Bullshit. That’s why your file is screwed right there. You’ve got a dirty cop on your hands. Maybe Sheriff Sherlock is your guy.”

“I would think that too, except all four agents prior to me have been on the stake outs as well. I can’t see all of them being complicit in this, and why cover up for a small town sheriff if they were?”

“Yeah, I see your point. But then you’ve got that effed up case file…” he offered.

“I know…” her voice trailed off.

“You talk ta’ any of the other investigators?”

“Not yet. I left a message for one of the previous agents,” she told him. “Hopefully I can find out more when he calls me back.”

“That’d be good,” Ben agreed. “Just be careful. You never know, and if you uncover somethin’ somebody doesn’t want found out…”

“I’ll be on my guard.”

“I’m not kiddin’ here. Especially since you don’t have any backup.”

“I’m a better shot than you are, remember?” she chided.

“I’m serious, Constance.”

“I know you are… Believe me. I’ll be careful.”

She heard him breathing on the other end of the line as a heavy silence fell between them.

Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, “So…I assume you’ll be in Podunkville for Christmas then?”

Constance sighed and watched as her breath condensed in a thick cloud then instantly disappeared. “Unless there’s a miracle, I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. I know we had plans.”

“S’okay…” he told her. “It’s the job.”

The whoosh of weather-stripping against a metal threshold sounded in Constance’s free ear, and she looked up to see Sheriff Carmichael trundling through the opening and then down the short flight of stairs. He glanced at her and pointed toward the diagonally-parked police cruiser that was nosed in at the curb several feet away from her own vehicle.

“The sheriff just came out; I need to go,” she told Ben.

“Okay. Don’t worry about Christmas. We’ll celebrate when ya’ get home.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she replied.

“Won’t be too hard,” he countered. “Remember… Be careful.”

“I will. I’ll try to call later. Bye.”

“Sounds good. Bye.”

She slipped the cell phone into her pocket then pulled her glove back onto her bare hand. As she walked over to the passenger side of the sheriff’s department cruiser, she thought about her relationship with Ben. It had been a tumultuous on-again, off-again ride that spanned several years now. The length of the breaks varied, but somehow they always came back together, so it was obvious that they cared for one another.

That much was evident in the words they exchanged.

And in the time they spent together.

And the sex… The oh-my-God-sex that was better than she had ever expected it could be, what with him being fifteen years her senior. She’d dated men half his age who couldn’t keep up with him, so there definitely weren’t any complaints there. At least not from her, and he always seemed more than satisfied.

Then she wondered silently why even with all that, neither of them ever seemed to be able to bring themselves to say to the other, “I love you.”

Under the circumstances, who knew? But maybe that was a good thing.

“Afternoon, Martha,” Sheriff Carmichael greeted the woman as she drew herself up from her chair and made her way over to the front desk. Then he asked, “How is she today?”

Constance glanced around the clean but small lobby area. The squat, somewhat new sign at the entrance to the semicircular drive read Holly-Oak Assisted Living Facility. Inside, the building itself looked more like what her grandparents use to call a “rest home.”

Holly-Oak was obviously well maintained, but from an architectural standpoint it had definitely been around a while. Of course, that seemed to be an ongoing theme in Hulis, as with many other small towns where time itself seemed to be on an extended holiday. It also hadn’t escaped her notice that a funeral home was located directly across the street, well within view from any of the facility’s front windows; in her way of thinking, not exactly the most comforting vista for the residents. In fact, it brought the old adage, “location, location, location,” right to the forefront of her thoughts.

“Afternoon, Skip.” The woman returned the sheriff’s greeting, then answered, “She’s Merrie,” punctuating the words with a shrug, as if that simple statement and gesture said it all.

Given the knowing nod the sheriff offered in response, for the two of them, apparently it did.

“So, how’s Kathy?” Martha asked as Sheriff Carmichael signed the visitor’s register. From her posture it was readily apparent that she was ignoring the fact that Constance was even present. There was also an audible tension in her voice that more than indicated the pleasantries, while sincere, were for some unknown reason forced.

“Feisty as ever,” he replied. “I stopped tryin’ to keep up with her a long time ago.”

She nodded. “Smart man. And the girls?”

“Fine, fine. Doing fine,” he replied. “Cyn came home on break Friday.”

“This is her last year at Mizzou, isn’t it?”

“Supposed to be,” he grunted. “But she takes after her mother, so she’s making noise about going after her Masters.”

“Good for her.”

“So, Martha,” Carmichael said, shifting the subject toward the inevitable as he wagged a thumb at Constance. “I’m sure you know why we’re here. This is Special Agent Mandalay from…”

“I know, I know,” she replied before he could finish. “I’ve been expecting you all morning. Then I got the call from Stella not fifteen minutes ago.”

“Yeah, not surprised. She’s got a big mouth, just like her mother.”

Constance reached in to her jacket to extract her credentials, but the woman stopped her. “Don’t bother. You’re with Skip, that’s all I need to know…or want to know, for that matter.” Her voice held more than a hint of disgust as she almost spat the comment.

“I’d like to speak with Merrie, if that’s possible,” Constance said, leaving her badge case stowed in its pocket and slowly pulling back her hand.

“When are you people going to leave that poor girl alone?” the woman demanded. “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”

“Calm down, Martha,” the sheriff said. “She’s just doin’ her job. You know that.”

“I thought her job was to find whoever is doing this killing,” she replied, directing herself solely at him. “I don’t know how dredging up the past for that poor girl every year is going to do that.”