M. Sellars - In the bleak midwinter

Before the standoff could turn into a prolonged stalemate, the sheriff spoke up, breaking the silence with an offhanded announcement. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

He slowly rocked the old desk chair forward on the complaining springs, and then leaned to the left and tugged open a drawer. Without further pomp or comment, he reached in, withdrew a sealing-wax-dipped bottle of bourbon, and settled it on the desk blotter. He followed that by extracting two short tumblers from the depths of the drawer and placing them next to the fifth of booze.

Carmichael shoved the drawer closed with a thump, then unscrewed the cap on the bottle, tipped it up, and carefully poured a measure of the dark amber liquor into one of the glasses. When he finished, he gave Constance a questioning look and nodded toward the empty tumbler.

“What the hell… Yeah…” she muttered, pushing away from the doorframe and stepping over to the straight-backed chair opposite him. She draped her coat over the back then parked herself.

“If you want ice, you’ll have to check the break room,” Skip told her as he filled the second glass and then spun the cap back onto the bottle. He pushed the three fingers of booze across the desk to her before picking up his own tumbler. He took a healthy sip then cradled it in his hands as he allowed his creaking chair to rock back once again.

Constance emulated the latter two actions: sipping, and then using the bulk of her coat as a cushion for the hard back of her chair as she leaned against it. She stared at her hands, contemplating the bourbon for a moment, and then finally she sighed and looked up across the desk at the sheriff.

“I just came back from Highland County Hospital in Mais,” she said.

“Yeah…” Skip nodded. “Not surprised. I figured you might decide to talk to Edgar after all.”

“He had some interesting things to say about December twenty-fifth, nineteen seventy-five.”

He snorted, but there was no derision, just sullen acceptance. With a shake of his head he added, “I’m sure he did.”

“Should I assume he was telling me the truth?”

“Guess that depends on how much sense he was making at the time.”

“What if he wasn’t making any sense?”

“Him, or what he told you?” he asked in return. “There’s a difference.”

“Yes… I suppose there is.” Constance sipped the whiskey again and let its smooth burn run down the back of her throat, spreading warmth in its wake. Then she asked, “Okay, then; why the lies, Skip?”

“Like I said this morning, you wouldn’t have believed me until you saw it for yourself. Just like you wouldn’t have believed Edgar if he’d told you his story yesterday instead of today.”

“But what about the rest of it? You could have filled me in this morning. Especially after what you showed me at the crime scene.”

He shook his head. “Neither of us was in any shape for that and you know it. That’s why I came by the Greenleaf this evening. I figured once you and I had both had some sleep we could talk about it and you wouldn’t think I was completely insane.”

“Fair enough,” she agreed. “Well… I’m here now, and I’ve had that sleep. I assume you have too?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’d like to hear your version,” she said. “I think you may be able to fill in some of the blanks Edgar left.”

“Yeah…” he said. “You know, you’ll be the first since Agent Graham, and he thought I was crazy.”

She nodded. “I know.”

Skip looked at the tumbler in his hands, then brought it to his lips, tipped it up and drained it in a single gulp. Rocking back forward, he refilled the glass with another healthy measure of the amber alcohol and then carefully brushed his mustache, apparently pondering his words. After a long pause, he pursed his lips and sighed, then settled back in the chair once again and swallowed hard. His eyes were vacant and fixed. He was no longer staring at Constance, he was staring through her; looking thirty-five years into the past as if it were happening before him right now.

He cleared his throat and began, “Everything I’ve already told you about the abduction and finding Merrie is true; I think you’ve already seen that… It’s just some of the things since that have been altered a bit…to protect the innocent, as they say…”

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “And there are the things you left out.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s the part I’ve been trying my damnedest to forget for thirty-five years.”

“Go on…” Constance urged.

He drew in a deep breath and continued. “Our first concern that morning was Merrie, of course. She needed immediate attention, so I actually didn’t join the search for Colson right away… Fact is, I went with her to the hospital and stayed until her parents arrived. By the time I got back, Sheriff Morton, and Edgar, and everyone else had canvassed several blocks and found the house on Evergreen.”

“Why didn’t they just follow Merrie’s tracks back to it?” Constance asked.

He stifled a thoughtful snort. “Edgar didn’t tell you? There weren’t any.” He took a swig from his drink and contemplated the tumbler for a moment before continuing. “Well, anyway, I arrived to a crime scene crawling with Missouri Highway Patrol and Feds, as well as just about everyone from our department. Sheriff Morton was waiting for me when I got there, and the first thing he asked was if I was absolutely positive the little girl I’d picked up was Merrie. I told him yes, and he just asked me the same question again. I was starting to think the old man had lost it because he had seen her before we left for the hospital… He knew damn well it was her…but…then he took me inside.

“Well… You know what it looked like in that basement. You saw it this morning yourself. Not exactly how you want to introduce a green cop in a small town to a murder investigation, that’s for sure, but I held my coffee down, which was more than I can say for some of the State guys.”

Skip paused, falling silent once again. He continued to stare through her as he had been at the outset. His face masked with grief, he was obviously playing it all out in his mind in vivid color, just as he probably had for an untold number of times throughout the years. Constance couldn’t help but feel compassion for him.

“But there was more than just the brutality of Colson’s death,” she prompted.

“Yeah… There was…” he mused quietly. “Colson wasn’t…” he began, then stopped and tossed his head back, breathing deeply. He closed his eyes, and a fugitive tear rolled from the corner to trace across his cheek. After a trio of labored breaths, he rolled his head back down and spoke again. “Sorry… I live this… Especially this time of year… I can’t get away from it…but… I haven’t actually talked about it with anyone in a long time.”

“I understand,” Constance told him.

“Well…” he huffed, obviously forcing himself to continue. “I’m sure Edgar already told you. Colson’s body wasn’t the only one they found. Merrie’s was there in the basement too.”

“So Merrie Callahan was deceased,” she stated more than asked.

“Yeah. According to the autopsy she succumbed to her injuries and to exposure. They found her body behind the furnace, which was inoperable at that time, of course, since the house was abandoned. It looked like she was probably trying to hide from that bastard. After everything he’d done to her, he had kept her locked in that basement with no heat and just what was left of her school uniform. We found her coat upstairs. She didn’t have a chance.”

“But you had already found her standing in the middle of the street several blocks away,” Constance said. “And John Colson had been killed and dismembered. Were they certain it was her body?”