Dave Zeltserman - The Caretaker of Lorne Field

“It’s nine-ten in the morning,” Durkin complained. “I’ve been left alone here almost eight hours.”

“I apologize for that,” Stone said. He took another sip of his coffee and then a bite of his glazed donut. Brushing the crumbs from his lips, he added, “As you can probably guess, we’ve been busy. Now, Mr. Durkin, why don’t you tell me what happened last night.”

“I already told Bob everything.”

Stone nodded agreeably. “I know you did,” he said. “And we appreciate your cooperation, but why don’t you tell me again so that I can hear it in your words.”

Durkin stared hard at Stone’s artificially friendly smile. He was sure the detective was struggling not to react to how badly he smelled. He knew full well he reeked with both the stench of burnt Aukowies and all those weeks outside by himself. Fine with me, he thought. Let him suffer if he’s going to keep me here all night like that. He shrugged and took the coffee that had been offered to him. “You got cream and sugar for this?”

Stone took some sugar and cream packets from the cardboard tray and slid them over to Durkin, along with a plastic coffee stirrer.

“I ain’t got nothin’ different to tell you than what I told Bob Smith.”

“Why don’t you tell me anyway.”

“I killed Dan Wolcott, just like I told Bob.”

“That’s the part I’m confused about when I read your statement. How’d you do it again?”

“Wolcott didn’t believe me about the Aukowies. I challenged him to walk into the field. When he did they tore him apart.”

“And that’s how you killed him?”

“Yep.” Durkin stared coldly at Stone as he drank his coffee. “I knew what they were going to do to him. He wouldn’t have walked out there if it weren’t for me.”

Stone opened the manila folder and searched through the papers in it. He found the one he was looking for and skimmed his finger over it as he read it. Like Durkin, he had thick stubby fingers.

“And what about the machete?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“You didn’t use the machete to kill Sheriff Wolcott and cut his body up?”

“Of course not.”

“Mr. Durkin, we know you bought a machete yesterday from Hallwell’s Army Surplus store. We found it at the field.”

“I told you what happened.”

Stone flipped through the manila folder and pulled out a photograph. He placed it on the table in front of Durkin. The photograph showed the lower part of a boot that had been cut off at the ankle. A severed foot was plainly visible inside the boot.

“We brought dogs to the field,” Stone said. “They found this foot in the woods. It’s Sheriff Wolcott’s, isn’t it?”

Durkin nodded softly as he stared at the photograph. “They must’ve flung it out there in their frenzy.” He jerked his head up to meet Stone’s red eyes. “You took dogs out there? I bet they wouldn’t step foot in that field!”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“’Cause of the Aukowies growing there, that’s why!”

Stone let out a heavy sigh. “There’s nothing growing in that field.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Mr. Durkin, I left there only a half hour ago. There’s nothing there but ashes and a burnt out jeep. Your setting fire to the field did the trick. I doubt anything’s going to be growing there for a long time.”

Durkin sat back in his chair, a confused look spreading over his face. “That don’t make sense,” he said.

“Mr. Durkin, where’s the rest of Sheriff Wolcott’s body?”

“What?”

“I know you cut up Sheriff Wolcott’s body and left his foot in the woods. I also know you did this because you wanted to be caught, the same reason you hung around waiting for Officer Smith to come by and arrest you. Mr. Durkin, for the sake of Dan’s family, what did you do with the rest of his body?”

Durkin closed his mouth, his eyes vacant as he stared at the detective. “From this point on, I ain’t talking to you without a lawyer,” he said.

Jack Durkin was taken to the County Jail for processing. When the warden saw him, he immediately had one of his guards get Durkin a clean set of clothing. “You change into this,” the warden told Durkin, putting the new clothes and a bag outside his cell. “Leave what you got on in this bag. We’re going to have to throw your clothes away. No use trying to save them.”

The warden came back a half hour later and saw Durkin frowning dourly as he sat on his cot wearing his new shirt but still wearing the same soiled and filth encrusted dungarees as before.

“How come you haven’t changed your pants?” the warden asked.

“I can’t get my work boots off.”

“What do you mean you can’t get them off?”

Durkin shrugged, his frown turning more dour. “I hurt my ankle a few weeks back and I can’t get the boot off my foot.”

The warden had one of the guards enter the cell to pull off the boots. When Durkin passed out from the pain, the warden decided he’d better have him taken to the hospital.

The emergency room doctor who cut off Jack Durkin’s boot blanched when he rolled off the wool sock and saw the severely blackened foot underneath it.

“Your ankle’s broken,” he said in a voice that sounded too calm to Durkin. “When did you hurt yourself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe four weeks ago.”

The doctor told him he’d be back and then left to consult with the warden who had accompanied Durkin to the hospital. “This is a very sick man,” he told the warden. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive. Along with being dehydrated, malnourished and carrying a high fever, he has one of the worst cases of gangrene I’ve ever seen. He needs to be admitted for surgery right away. How long has he been in police custody?”

“Since last night.”

“He should’ve been brought here immediately. There’s no excuse for this.”

The warden made a face. “I agree. Jesus, the guy’s nothing but skin and bones, and with the story he was telling them they should’ve realized he wasn’t right. So what do you need to do to him?”

“We need to cut off his foot and get him on some serious antibiotics.” The doctor left the warden to arrange for the emergency surgery. Twenty minutes later when Durkin was on the operating table, the anesthesiologist told him to count down from ten.

“Someone’s got to weed that field,” Durkin warned, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes rolling wildly.

“Please, just count down from ten.”

By the time Durkin reached six he was out.

During the next three days, Durkin flitted in and out of consciousness. When he woke up, his fever had broken and he found his left wrist chained to the hospital bed and his injured ankle throbbing worse than ever. For a long moment he stared blinking, with no clue where he was. Slowly the cloud fogging up his head lifted a bit and he realized what was on his wrist, then he remembered where he was. He also knew that it must’ve been days since the Aukowies had been weeded. Unless first frost had come early, it was already too late.

A nurse came by a short time later and noticed he was awake. “You’re finally back among us,” she said, her tone flat, her eyes and mouth plastic and expressionless. “And how are you feeling?”

He tried to talk but his lips and throat were too dry for him to do anything but croak out a hoarse whisper. She held a plastic water glass for him so he could suck on the straw. With his lips and throat wetted, he tried to talk again and whispered that his ankle hurt.

“If you press the button next to you, you can control your pain medication,” she told him.