Edward Lee: Header

"Shee-it, Grandpap. you were right. Head-humpin's a kick!"

"Told ya so, boy," Grandpap obliged. He was jackin' hisself whiles he' was watchin', and had already creamed his belt buckle with a li'l spurt of his old man juice.

"Ain't nothin' like a good header, Travis. No one been doin' it out these parts fer awhiles, but it's high time we'se get back ta the old ways. We'se gonna have ourselfs a head-humpin’ most any chance we git, yessir! An’ lemme tell ya somethin’, son. Yer daddy’d be damned proud knowin’ you just spewed a load of yer peckersnot in that blammed Reid girl’s head!”

........

Cummings 'mind fell aswarm with thoughts. First off, Kath, of course—run down all the time, lethargic, sick. But she still had a smile for him every night, didn't she? Then some harder things, like Spaz, and this dope peddler Dutch. He knew it wasn't exactly conduct becoming of a federal agent, but what else could he do? He needed the money. It wasn't like he was robbing banks, for Christ's sake, or taking down old ladies on Crotchet Lane for their social security. I'm going to knock over a drug dealer, for crying out loud... These guys sold crack to kindergarten kids. They put 13-year-olds out onto the street to turn tricks. They didn't give a shit about the kids, so why should Cummings give a shit about them? He'd be doing the world a service.

And as long as nobody found out...

He'd just turned off State Route 154 when he saw the lights. Flashing red and blue lights. Croll's field, up past the dell. Cummings veered his federal unmarked up the incline, then stopped. A state police cruiser sat there, lights thrumming. Russell County was unchartered—no municipal departments and no county police either—couldn't afford it. The state responded to any major case.

Crickets tremoloed through the dell when Cummings got out. It was hot, humid. A full moon lazed over the treetops.

"Cummings, ATF," he announced. Though in his field uniform, he also flashed his leather-clad badge and ID as he approached the lean, whitewalled state trooper bending over a—

A dead body. Cummings noticed at once.

"Need any assist?"

The trooper rose and walked over, shaking his head. His face looked blanched as he lit a cigarette. "Thanks, but no. This one's over."

"What've you got?"

"Sig 64." the trooper recited. "White female, looks about 20. Dead for a few hours, looks like to me. I was heading back to my HQ for shiftchange, and there she was lying right there in my lights."

"What's the C.O.D.?"

"Blunt trauma to the head, it looks like."

"And it looks like she wasn't killed on site." Cummings remarked, shining his Streamlight on the corpus delectus. A pretty girl, young. Cutoff jeans and a halter lay aside. Pretty blond hair too. But he could see the hole in her head, and he could see a suspicious lack of blood-saturation on the ground.

"Yeah, 10-to-1 some redneck did her somewhere eles, then dumped her here. County coroner's on the way. I gotta wait till he gets here to secure the crime scene."

"Right. Good luck. Guess I'll be on my way."

"Thanks for stopping by to check it out. Shit, man, out here in the boonies — we appreciate it."

Tell me about it , Cummings thought. "Later." Then he tromped back to his unmarked and headed home.

........

"Shee-it," Cummings heard next morning when he entered the FO. The Russell Counly ΒATF Field Office was actually a 72-toot trailer located behind the bingo hall in Larchmont, and the hearty "Shee-it" had been uttered by Peerce. How a man the likes of Peerce had ever been promoted to Special Agent in Charge was beyond Cummings. I'se from around these here parts, Cummings, Peerce had bragged more than once. I knows these folk up here, hows they think, hows they act, and I'se right good at sniffin' 'em out. Jesus. The job of this illustrious three-man squad, of course, was to deter the manufacture of unliscensed alcoholic beverages — namely corn liquor — and to furthur deter its unauthorized distribution and sale. In a county where unemployment topped 40 percent, moonshine was big business. It was also, for whatever reason, illegal.

"what are you shee-ittin' about?" Cummings queried upon entrance. He set down his DOR log, his gunbelt heavy on his hip.

"Fuckin' state cops just wired us this 64." Peerce testily waved the fax, one side of his mouth boluslike from the eternal wad of chewing tabacco. "Some cracker girl from Luntville. 'FYI' it says. 'Please file and note.'"

A 64 was a death report relative to suspected homicide. Frowning Cummings took the fax and read it.

FM: VSP/VIOLENT CRIMES UNIT

TO: SAC/BAFT FO RUSSELL COUNTY/IMMEDIATE

RECEIVING OFFICE: FYI, PLEASE NOTE AND FILE VIA FEDERAL LAW ENFORCEMENT COOPERATION ORDER. SHOULD RELEVANT INFORMATION BE BROUGHT TO YOUR ATTENTION, IMMEDIATELY NOTIFY VSP HQ

SUBJECT: REID, IREE, A. W/F DOB: 2 AUG 79 HAIR: BLD EYES: BR WT: 116 - VICTIM (DECEASED)

The date of file was late last evening. "Oh. yeah." Cummings offered "State trooper found her in a field just off the Route; I talked to the guy. Said he saw her just lying there, was waiting for the M.E." Peerce made no reply, crow's feet around his eyes. Then Cummings read on.

PROFILING AND CONSULTATION: VICTIM FOUND DEAD VIA UNUSUAL CRANIAL INSULT, A 3-INCH OCULUS, APPARENTLY INFLICTED BY A POWER TOOL MANMADE LATERAL RENT APPROX. 6 INCHES DEEP INTO CENTRAL SULCUS AND OCCIPITAL POLE OF THE BRAIN, PROBABLY INFLICTED WITH A KITCHEN-TYPE KNIFE WITH A DOWNWARD SERRATED EDGE.

NOTE: FURTHER AUTOPSY DIAGNOSIS REVEALS A PECULIAR ASPIRATION OF HUMAN SEMINAL FLUID IN PROXIMITY TO THE INSULT.

Cummings' vision cruxed down on the stark fax paper. He'd seen plenty of strange state police wires in his time, but— What in God's name is this? ' he pondered.

"Cain't believe it. A fuckin' header."

Cummings glanced up. "What?"

Peerce was leaning over to retrieve his spit-cup. His previous comment had been more of a mutter to himself than something he's said directly to Cummings. "I thought you were supposed to be gatherin' intelligence on McKully's stills?"

"Yeah," Cummings answered. "I got most of them tagged and marked: be ready to bust them any day. But what was that you said? Something about a header ? What's a header?"

Peerce sat down behind his dented, federal-gray desk, chawing fiercely as the sudden glint came to his eyes. "So how come you ain't out there now? It's tax dollars payin' your salary, ain't it? Don't be worryin' about no damn death report from the state cops. It's there 64 so let 'em handle it. Shee-it McKully's probably just shipped out another truckload of 'shine while's you been standin' here jackin' your jaw."

"Come on, J.L. What the hell is a header?"

Peerce shot a staged gape at his watch. "You still here?"

Talk about avoiding the issue. True, Peerce was Cummings' superior, but he'd never given him the kiss-off like this. A header? Cummings thought, walking out of the FO to his unmarked.

The morning was blooming: the grand sun rose high over the mountain ridge. Pocked within that ridge, he knew, like termites in wood, were countless dozens of family stills run by the dirt-poor for generations. It was Cummings' job to sniff them out, or as was the case since Kath's illness, to let certain operations slide for a little grease, and to mark the liquor runs. That's what he should be worrying about. And he had something else to worry about too: tonight he was meeting with "Dutch." He was about to go to work for a dope dealer. Get your mind back on the important things , he told himself, and pulled the unmarked out onto the county road. Dust followed him like an amorphous contrail, something gaining on him.