Bobby Cole - The dummy line

Ollie Landrum was Sumter County’s first black sheriff. He was a county fixture now that he’d been in office nine years. Ollie had been a football hero at The University of Alabama-he’d blown out his knee beyond repair during a home game, ending his pro hopes. He’d been a deputy just a few years when the sheriff retired. The Alabama fans in the county showed Ollie how much they appreciated his football prowess in a landslide election to sheriff. He had married his college sweetheart, a lady who had dedicated her life to helping educate the poor about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Western Alabama leads the nation in SIDS, and she was consumed by her task. There were plenty of poor folks in western Alabama. She tried to educate them by day, and Ollie arrested many of them by night. Ollie and his wife hadn’t slowed down long enough to even consider having children.

The sheriff had fallen asleep on the couch watching Law amp; Order: SVU. He loved that show. New York City had the action, the serious crime. On the show, there were no boring driver’s license checks like he was forced to do weekly.

Even asleep, when the phone rang, Ollie knew it was Martha. This better be good, he thought, pulling himself off the couch. He glanced at the clock, cleared his throat, and said, “Hello.”

“Chief, Mick Johnson needs you to call him at his house. He says it’s urgent,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. She lit a menthol cigarette.

Rubbing his eyes, he asked, “Did he say what it’s about?”

“No, Chief, he just said it’s important,” she responded, ever the professional.

“OK, I’ll call him, and Miz Martha, please call me Ollie or Sheriff; don’t call me Chief,” he begged for the umpteenth time, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

“Yes sir.” She gave him the phone number.

Ollie had been to Birmingham that day to play golf in a charity tournament at the Greystone Country Club. His football legacy made him an in-state celebrity. He was exhausted from the day’s events and the not-so-small amount of alcohol he had consumed on the sly. Golf simply wore him out. It must have been the sun. He slowly walked into the kitchen intending to microwave a cup of coffee. But he sat down on a barstool and picked up the cordless phone.

“Mick. Ollie. What can I help you with?” he asked in his most official voice.

“Ollie, I got the strangest phone call from a friend of mine about an hour ago. I couldn’t understand all of it, but he said it was an emergency.”

“What’s his problem?” Ollie asked with a yawn.

“Well, he’s from Mississippi; his name’s Jake Crosby. I got him into the Bogue Chitto hunting club. I assumed that’s where he was calling from. We got disconnected, so I rode out there. And…well…it’s weird…all the lights were on in his camper and the door was open, but he wasn’t anywhere around.”

“Is that the place that backs up to the big area of wilderness along the Noxubee River on County Road Sixteen?”

“Yeah, that’s it, but listen…when I got home my pants were covered in blood…fresh blood.”

“Blood?” Ollie became fully alert. “Could it have been turkey blood?”

“Well…I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose, but there was a bunch of it.”

“Have you tried his cell again?”

“Yeah, I tried, but that area’s got awful reception. I couldn’t get him.”

“I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes, and you can follow me. I’m gonna call R.C. and get him on out there. He stays out in that part of the county,” Ollie explained, studying the kitchen clock.

“I’ll be ready.”

Ollie hung up the phone and pondered the possibilities. He needed details. This situation was much more interesting than his typical daily duties. He would call his most trusted deputy, R.C. Smithson. R.C. was a little eccentric, but Ollie could depend on him. He dialed the number. It was ringing when he put the receiver to his ear.

“Yes, Chief.” R.C. answered on the second ring.

“Quit calling me Chief, and how did you know it was me…you’re too much of a tightwad to have Caller ID.”

“You’re the only person who ever calls me at this hour.”

“Listen. Something serious may have gone down at the clubhouse at the Bo Cheeter something or other hunting club.”

“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for big-”

“Shut up, R.C., and listen,” Ollie interrupted and paused. R.C.’s trivia drove him crazy.

“A friend of Mick Johnson’s from Mississippi called him and said something about some kind of emergency. Mick thinks he was at that camp, and he lost communication with him. I’m about to roll and pick up Mick. I’ll be there in thirty to forty-five minutes. Go secure the area. See what you can find out. Be careful. We already know there’s a bunch of blood near the camp house. Don’t violate my crime scene if there is one, you hear?”

“Okey-dokey.”

“Quit saying ‘okey-dokey’…and get goin’. Call me on the radio if you see anything.” Ollie sighed deeply.

“Yes sir, boss,” R.C. said then hung up. He used the remote to turn off the TV. He had been watching a movie on his pirated HBO package.

R.C. Smithson was not unlikable. All he wanted for a career was be a deputy. He was single. He played video games at all hours of the night and read fly-fishing magazines, though he’d never held a fly rod. Two years ago, he’d met a dancer at Danny’s Strip Club in Birmingham; he now considered her his girlfriend. They had never been out on an actual date. Their “dates” were always at Danny’s, except once when she met him at the Waffle House and they ate pecan waffles as she told him about her crack-addict husband. She dreamed of being a Playmate. R.C. dreamed of going with her to photo shoots. Twice a month he went to see her dance and give her a couple hundred bucks, one dollar at a time. He talked about her like they had been married for years. Her name was Chastity. R.C. loved her huge fake boobs.

He was rolling down the road four minutes after hanging up with Ollie. He knew exactly where to go. I was born for this, he thought, flipping on the car’s radio.

R.C. slowed the police sedan to a crawl as he pulled through the camp’s opened gate. He turned off the Rush Limbaugh rebroadcast and forced his senses to full alert. He could see the lights of the camp through the trees and immediately stopped to radio Martha O’Brien that he had arrived.

“Bo what?” she asked.

“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for ‘large creek,’ but actually the Chickasaw Indians used it in their language as well,” he expounded, proud of his plethora knowledge.

“Whatever. R.C., you be careful now,” she responded.

“Ten-four.”

R.C. eased his cruiser into the camp. He parked on the gravel, got out, and walked toward the camp house. He shone his five D-cell flashlight in all the shadows, finding nothing that roused any suspicions. Because the camper lights were on and the door was open, he decided to check it out first.

After peeking in the side windows, with his right hand on the butt of his holstered weapon, he twirled the flashlight over, then with the end of it knocked on the side of the camper. “Deputy sheriff…anybody home?”

Nothing but silence. Without touching anything, he carefully looked inside the open door. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home?” he repeated, then stepped just inside the doorway. The warmth from the heater was inviting. He stood over it a few seconds while casting his gaze around the interior of the camper. Everything looked perfectly normal. Two people had been sleeping inside. One was obviously a child, probably a little girl.