Bobby Cole - The dummy line

Outside everything also looked in order. R.C. walked back and forth through the yard searching for anything out of the ordinary. Careful of his steps, he methodically grid-searched the area in front of the camper and camp house. Then he saw it. Pools of dark blood that trailed back to the parking area, then ended. There was plenty of it. What in the hell? he wondered. I need to string some tape. The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up. With his pistol drawn, R.C. approached the camp house front porch. “Deputy sheriff…is anybody here?”

More silence. This was unnerving. He wasn’t accustomed to so much tension. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home!” R.C. stepped onto the porch. “Sheriff’s department!” he yelled, hoping nobody answered. The moment R.C. peered inside the camp house, he was drawn to the Playmate calendars, partly obscured by innocuous swimsuit calendars. He had hit the pinup mother lode. He studied each one, comparing them to Chastity. Time stood still…until his radio crackled suddenly with Ollie’s voice.

“I’m here, Chief,” he replied while studying, in great detail, Miss November 1999. “There’s definitely fresh blood in the yard…and lots of it, but no one’s here,” he added, shifting his attention to Miss October 1999.

“I’ll have Miz Martha call the hospital to see if anyone has come into the emergency room.”

“Ten-four. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

R.C. radioed Martha. While he waited for her response, he perused the calendars. Chastity is as hot as any of these girls. Maybe hotter.

“R.C.?” his radio crackled loudly.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, grabbing the shoulder mic.

“The ER’s had two folks in earlier this evenin’. One was a stabbin’ from down by the river. It was over a fishin’ hole. One guy kept gettin’ too close to where the other was catching some crappie. Stabbed him in the leg. He’s OK. Told the doctor it was an accident. They’d been drinkin’. Apparently the fish are bitin’.”

“Well, a good crappie hole is pretty valuable,” R.C. responded, nodding his head.

“And the second was a burn victim. Grease got too hot while she was frying chicken livers. Caught the cabinets on fire. Her hands got burned swattin’ the fire out.”

“Ouch!” he added.

“Does that help at all?”

“Yes and no…but thanks, Miz Martha,” he replied while admiring another calendar.

R.C. heard vehicles, so he stepped outside. The sheriff arrived first in his Ford Expedition with Mick Johnson behind. They parked behind R.C.’s cruiser and got out.

“Find anything new?”

“No, Chief. I can show you the blood, though.”

Ollie glared at him for the “Chief” reference. “R.C., hang on. Mick, let’s start at the beginning…and don’t leave out any detail, no matter how small,” Ollie said, leaning against R.C.’s patrol car.

Mick told his story. Ollie and R.C. glanced at each other from time to time, trying to mentally put it all together.

“Show me what you found, R.C.”

R.C. showed Ollie the pool of blood and how it trailed off, careful not to contaminate the area. The sheriff walked around, looked in the camper, and then walked toward the camp house. He was working several theories in his mind. He really needed daylight. The grass is so tall it would hide any evidence-if there’s any . He considered calling Jake Crosby’s family to see if they had heard anything from him. He hated to sound any false alarms. He’s just as likely to be at a bar somewhere, drunk . He knew a lot of guys used hunting as an excuse just to get out of the house. He’d ask Mick later if that was a possibility.

The three men walked into the camp house. Ollie and Mick sat down on bar stools. R.C. otherwise occupied himself.

“R.C., R.C.! Pay attention. Quit lookin’ at those calendars!” Ollie yelled across the room.

“Chastity’s as hot as any of these girls,” R.C said with pride.

“What do you think about this situation?” Ollie asked.

“There’s not much to go on. The blood bothers me…but it could be any number of things. No one’s checked into the ER that fits this scenario. I don’t know, boss.”

“Mick, do you think a jealous husband could have been chasing him?” Ollie asked, trying to think of the wildest scenario.

“I seriously doubt it. Nothin’ less than Charlize Theron would get Jake’s attention…Charlize Theron in a camo swimsuit maybe…he’s happily married, or certainly appears to be,” Mick replied.

“Charlize Theron has not been in the area; I would know,” R.C. said, smiling.

“Jake is a pretty levelheaded guy. He doesn’t get into trouble. I just wish I could have heard him better,” Mick added, growing anxious.

“And I’m pretty sure he’s got his kid with him,” R.C. added nervously.

Ollie sat quietly, weighing his options. He didn’t have the manpower necessary to launch a full-scale manhunt, even if it was necessary-which at this point it wasn’t-and he hated to call in any other departments on a false alarm at this hour. He had done that before and sworn he wouldn’t ever again. He placed his face in his hands. He needed to make a decision. He needed some sleep.

Morgan was looking forward to having the house to herself. She had the perfect evening planned. She rented two DVDs at Movie Gallery. Then she went by the liquor store to purchase a bottle of Barefoot California Merlot. Morgan tried not to be self-conscious in the store. She prayed her Sunday School teacher wouldn’t see her. West Point was such a small town, and Jake always bought the wine.

Not wanting to cook, she called Domino’s for a pizza packed with mushrooms and anchovies. Jake hated mushrooms and anchovies. After eating the medium-size pizza, she piled on the couch to watch Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give. The title of that movie described Morgan’s life. Something had to give. She had material things, but she wasn’t happy. She needed more; she wanted more. I’m entitled to more . She had decided to leave Jake-she just had some details to work out. Their marriage had grown to be so boring and predictable.

“Of all the trust-fund babies I dated, I end up marrying a broke guy who listens to NPR and loves the Weather Channel?” she said aloud with no small amount of disdain.

After the movie, Morgan decided to sit in her Jacuzzi, drink wine, and read a self-help book. She was enjoying the light-headedness and lack of responsibilities. Around midnight, with a slight buzz from the wine, she went to bed.

West Point was such a safe little town; everybody was lulled into a false sense of security. Morgan never even thought of turning on the alarm system. And since Scout was always raising Cain at the deer standing under the feeder Jake had behind the house, she was desensitized to Scout’s barking. She didn’t pay attention to it tonight, either.

Ethan “Moon Pie” Daniels, a longtime friend of Johnny Lee and Reese’s, lived in Tupelo, Mississippi. Moon Pie was making a drug run to Starkville-“Stark Vegas” as he called it-when he got Reese’s call.

Moon Pie owed Johnny Lee a big favor. Two years earlier Moon Pie’s live-in girlfriend Sheree had been cheating on him with a guy she’d met on the Internet who lived in Jackson. Moon Pie encouraged Johnny Lee to rough him up-send him a message. Moon Pie made sure he was seen at the Tupelo Fire Ants football game-a solid alibi. Sheree knew he had done it. The police suspected it, but could never connect him to the crime. And the computer geek in Jackson couldn’t send any more e-mails because he lost all the fingers on his right hand. Johnny Lee had done Moon Pie right. That’s what friends do, he thought.