Percival Everett - Assumption

“No, Wilson, the guy who cleans the toilets, he found him and then he came and got me. I saw him, though. It was awful.”

Warren nodded.

“His chest looked like it was blown open.” Baker looked at the west rim of the canyon. “I ain’t never seen anything like it. I met his wife one time.”

“Did you see anyone else around that morning?”

“I didn’t get here until three. Wilson, I don’t know what time he got here.”

“Is he here now?”

“Yeah, he’s washing some graffiti off the raceway wall. Do you want to talk him?”

“I do, but first can you show me where he found Terry?”

“Sure, this way.”

Baker led the way past the hatchery and past the little dam. He then walked downhill to a trail that led to a shallow muddy beach of the Red River. Baker with his sneakered feet stepped into the mud as if it were nothing and turned to face Warren.

“Here?” Warren asked.

“Right where you’re standing.” Baker pointed with his chin, then his finger. “Faceup, eyes open like he was looking at the sky.” He turned to watch the river.

Warren looked down at his boots. “You notice anything else around here?”

“I didn’t look. But the state police crawled around here on all fours for hours.”

Warren nodded. With all the rain there would be no sign of blood anywhere, but there was possibly a slight depression from where his body had lain. At least he thought he could see something. He felt something. A column of red ants marched through the sand where Warren imagined the dead man’s head.

“Can I talk to Wilson now?” Warren followed Baker back up the way they’d come. “And you didn’t see anybody else that day?”

“Nope.”

Wilson was walking toward the office with a bright yellow five-gallon bucket and cleaning supplies when Baker called out. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

Wilson put his bucket down outside the door.

“This here is Deputy Fragua.”

“We’ve met,” Warren said. Warren had taken Wilson in for public drunkenness some months back. Thinking that his boss might not have known about it, Warren said, “Mr. Wilson helped me get my truck started one day.”

Wilson shook Warren’s hand. “Deputy.”

“Well, I’m going to go in and do some paperwork,” Baker said.

Warren thanked him.

Baker entered and closed the door.

Wilson said, “Thanks for that.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“What can I do for you?” The large man wore the sickly sweet smell of an alcoholic. That odor mixed with the ammonia of the cleaning fluid made Warren feel queasy.

“I want to hear about the day you found the warden’s body. Tell me what you can remember.”

“Not much to tell. I came to work about one, one thirty, cleaned the men’s room, and then took my walk.”

“Walk?”

“Yeah, man, these chemicals I use to clean these toilets smell real strong. They’re real toxic like. So, I always take a little walk between doing the men’s room and the ladies’ room. Just to clear my head, you know?”

Warren understood.

“So, I walk down to the water and there he is. First I thought he was sleeping. Then I saw the blood. Scared the shit out of me. I mean I didn’t know if the guy with the gun was still around or what.” Wilson started to shake a bit. He needed a drink.

“What time did you find him?”

“You know, I told all this to them other policemen.”

“I know. One more time.”

“Like I said, I just cleaned the men’s room, so it must have been two thirty, something around there, could have been two or three. I don’t wear a watch.”

“Were there any vehicles in the lot before or after you came out of the men’s room?”

“Just the warden’s truck.”

“Where was it parked?”

“Over there in the lower lot.”

“Was there sign of anybody else? Litter? Cigarette smoke? Anything?”

Wilson thought about it. “I did pick up some trash. Lunch trash, you know. A part of a sandwich. A wrapper from one of them yuppie candy bars, a power bar.”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“I didn’t taste it.”

“Thanks, Wilson. That’s all I need.”

Warren walked through the lower and upper parking lots, listening to the birds and staring at the asphalt. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just listening to the birds, waiting for them to tell him something. One of them must have been there that day.

Ogden’s trailer looked abandoned. The place looked as if it had been empty for years. Warren stopped his rig in the front yard and killed the engine, ate a couple of piñon nuts. He looked around for Ogden’s dog and realized he hadn’t seen him for a while. He got out and walked around the trailer. Then he walked inside. Ogden never locked the door.

Inside, Warren sat at the little table that faced the front window. The surface was messy, but he had seen worse. His own desk was an example. There was a glass tumbler on the table, whatever had been inside, probably orange juice, was dried. There was a Denver Broncos mug next to the sink on a little wooden cutting board. The green tea bag was dried hard to the inside wall. He looked out the window at the sage. Where was Ogden?

Eva Walker came out of her house to meet Warren as he stepped from his rig. She didn’t have to say anything for Warren to know what she was asking.

“I’m looking for him,” Warren said.

“Oh, Warren, he told me he was in trouble. He was scared, I never saw him like that. Oh, Warren.”

“Let’s go inside.” Warren helped the woman onto the porch and into the house. She sat on the sofa and Warren stood. He looked out the window at the sky and the weather. That seemed to be all he was capable of doing, looking through glass, windshields, house windows.

“What’s going on, Warren?”

“I don’t know, Eva.” He was not going to tell her about the three dead bodies up north. “Ogden knows how to take care of himself. You just remember that.” Warren looked at the old woman’s eyes. “Did Ogden mention anyone and anything that was worrying him? I don’t mean just the last time you saw him, but recently. Not even recently, did he ever say anything that made you worry or wonder?”

“No.”

“Notice anything different about him, the things he did, a change in habits, shampoo?”

“Not really. He was coming around a little less. He always said he had a headache.”

“I know I don’t need to say it, but I’m supposed to: If Ogden contacts you, in any way, please give me a call.”

“All right, Warren. Find my boy.”

“I’ll find him.”

Warren went back to the station. The medical examiner’s report was sitting on his desk. Cause of death was what everyone knew, gunshot wound to the chest. But there was a note about lividity. The examiner believed that Terry had not been shot there, but somewhere else and moved there. It also placed the time of death at fifteen hours before discovery. Warren closed his eyes and imagined the crime scene he’d visited earlier. With the rain and the trampling there was no way to tell from sign what might have happened. But given where Terry had been lying, the shooter would have been standing in the river. Why put him there?

“You see that report?” Bucky asked. He was out of his office and holding a chocolate doughnut.

“Yep.”

“I’ll tell you what this is, it’s two gallons of shit in a one-gallon bucket.” He bit into his doughnut. “The pictures from today are there, too. Positive ID on Derrick Yates. The little guy was a Mexican named Luis Guerrero. A record as long as my arm. Nobody knows the third guy with the flip-flops.”

Felton stopped by Warren’s desk and picked up the photos. “Hey, I know this guy.”