Cheese Wrestling: A Lt. Jack Daniels/Chief Cole Clayton Thriller (2 page)

“And then?”

“I shot him.”

“Sorry?”

“I shot him. He had her bent over a sink and his pants were down and he couldn’t do nothing but stand there looking at me with his pecker hanging out. It looked just like a mushroom too, didn’t it?”

“It sure did,” the woman said, nodding. “Especially on the top part, all flat and smooshed up, like.”

Clayton sat there, straight-faced, not moving, and said, “When you shot him, did you kill him?”

“Nah. I just winged him in the shoulder and then put one in his ass as he ran out.”

Clayton let out a long, slow breath. “So what happened then? Aren’t there rules in your club about trying to kill one of your fellow members?”

“Uh,” Property of Poop said, leaning forward and raising her hand like she was in third grade. “He didn’t try to kill him. He just shot him.”

“Right,” Clayton said, nodding. “Does that happen a lot? You guys often shoot each other and trade women and such?”

“Not anymore,” Poop said sadly. “Things changed at the club. Now it’s a bunch of wannabe’s and yuppies. Geeks that watch TV shows and think they know what the life is really all about. It ain’t like it was back in the day.”

Property of Poop leaned forward and winked. “Back then it was fun.”

Clayton glanced up once more at the gold F.B.I. brick. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the brick was smirking at him. He’d gotten into this line of work to do some good in the world, to help people. But sometimes he wondered if there was any good left, or anyone worth helping.

“Mushroom used to be an okay cat, too. We cheese wrestled lots of times.”

Clayton wasn’t sure he wanted to ask, but he understood it was part of his job.

“What is cheese wrestling?”

Poop explained it, in excruciating detail, beaming as he did.

Clayton used up enough self-control for several lifetimes in order not to wince.

“And why, exactly, did you cheese wrestle?” he asked, his tone even.

“Sometimes for money. Sometimes for women. Sometimes for fun.”

“For fun?”

“It’s a hoot,” Property of Poop said. “You oughta try it sometime.”

Trying to steer this train wreck of an interview back on track, Clayton asked the pair more about buying and trading women. But even as he did, he knew the image of cheese wrestling would be forever seared into his brain.

Forty-five minutes later, his faith in humanity shattered, Cole Clayton walked out of his office, leaving the door open. He looked at the first uniformed state trooper he saw and said, “You moving out of my way? I need to get to the hand sanitizer. I might just take a bath in it.”

“I’ll get it for you, Chief,” the trooper said. Good kid. Ten foot five, strong enough to wrestle a Kodiak, but not bright enough to beat one at checkers. Just the way the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania liked them.

There were four other troopers waiting for him, investigators dressed in suits and uniforms dressed in short-sleeved uniform shirts with clip-on ties. Lieutenant Jason Forrest, the station’s head of criminal investigations, folded his arms and said, “Well? Did they tell you anything?”

Clayton shook his head and said, “Nope. Same stuff they told you.”

Forrest scowled and said, “All that time, and nothing about the missing girl?”

Clayton held up his hands innocently and lied to his face. “What can I tell you? I was wrong. I guess I got bad information.”

Forrest’s eyes narrowed on the Chief and he stepped forward, standing close enough that Clayton could feel the man’s breath coming through his nostrils. “Don’t you screw with me, you son of a bitch. You held up my men for an hour so you could go in there and hob-knob with that scumbag and his junkie whore, and you’re just going to stand there and—”

“Who the hell you callin’ a junkie whore, pig!” the woman shouted from inside the interrogation room.

“Shut your junkie whore mouth before I shut it for you!” Forrest shouted over Clayton’s shoulder.

“You can’t talk to her like that!” Poop shouted through the door.

“He can’t say that!” Property of Poop cried. “Chief, I wanna file a complaint!”

“Abuse, abuse!” Poop cried out. “Police brutalization of our persons! I want my attorney, pig!”

Forrest closed his eyes, shuddering as he tried to contain himself. He raised a crooked index finger at Clayton’s face and said, “If you are withholding information in a criminal investigation, so help me God, I will nail your ass to the wall.”

Clayton let out a slow breath. He wished, for a moment, he could deal with someone his equal. Or at least semi-professional. But they didn’t make them like that around these parts.

“Let’s be real, real clear about something, Jason. The missing girl is from my jurisdiction. You boys were asked to help me find two bikers who might have information about it.
Find
, not arrest. But they’ve already been booked and questioned, and the only reason you brought them to my jail and called me—at 3
A.M.
on a Wednesday—is because you couldn’t get anything out of them yourself. And now you want to threaten me on top of that?”

“He was drunk and stoned on his motorcycle going down the highway at eighty miles an hour!” Forrest said. “And she had an outstanding warrant. What did you expect us to do, look the other way?”

“Allegedly drunk and stoned!” Poop bellowed. “You ain’t got no blood results back yet, and I said I want my attorney!”

“Sometimes this job is about priorities, Jason,” Clayton said. “You ever stop jerking off to your own stats and you might ever figure that out someday.”

“Honey?” they heard the woman’s voice creak weakly. “I’m gonna be sick. I’m gonna—” and the unmistakable sound of retching came from inside the interview room, followed by a stench so horrific the troopers standing near the door covered their faces.

Well, junkies were nothing if they weren’t predictable.

“Point your head that way, girl!” Poop shouted. But then he started puking too.

Cole Clayton took the bottle of sanitizer from the trooper as the rest of them positioned themselves at the door, all of them yelling at one another, trying to be heard over the sounds of the two people projectile vomiting inside the small room. Clayton squirted the clear gel into his hands, rubbed them vigorously together, and let himself out.

He walked to his car and sat down inside, turning it on to get the engine running while he rolled down the windows. It was clear and bright that evening, the crisp, cold air chasing all the clouds out of the sky. He could make out a small patch of glittering lights in the distance and knew it was where he belonged. That was his town and his home, one of the few incorporated areas not protected by the State Police. Clayton pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed the first number that came up. “Hey, hon. It’s me.”

“You on your way back?” she said. She sounded tired, like she’d been trying to stay up waiting for him.

“I don’t think so. I’m gonna be driving for a while.”

“Where you headed this late?”

Clayton looked out the window again at the stars and the fields and the distance where he longed to be and said, “The airport. I got a break in that case I’m working on. Gotta catch a flight out to Chicago.”

ALICE MCDERMOTT

A
lice rolls onto her other side, bumps her head against the side of the cage.

A dog cage. She was in a dog cage.

She reaches through blurry vision for the door latch.

Locked.

She doesn’t understand why Sergei locked it. He didn’t force her into the cage. He bribed her with smack and she climbed in willingly.

Did the lock mean she’d get more smack soon?

Alice closed her eyes, hoping with all her might that it did.

JACK DANIELS

Y
ou read about the big cases. But most of them aren’t.

In my town, where homicides average one point five a day, the ritual killings and whodunits always grab headlines and make for good press, but they’re not the majority of murder cases I work. Most are much more low-key, typical, and sad.

People walk around in fear of a stranger coming out of the shadows to grab them. Some serial killing maniac with a fetish, or a stranger driving a white van ready to yank the first kid he sees off the corner of their neighborhood and take them to his own private hell.

The reality is, you’re in a lot more danger from the people you know. Friends. Co-workers. Most of all, the ones in your own family.

Especially the ones in your own family.

Herb was staring down at the dead bodies, leaning forward with his gut hanging over the crime scene tape. “I know how this happened. It’s a no-brainer.”

I glanced at the fresh clump of brain-matter spattered against the living room wall and then back at Herb, my face creasing into a frown. There was no need to say anything. We’d both put in fifteen hours, and the exhaustion, stress, and general unpleasantness of the day had turned me sour and Herb into a bad stand-up comedian.

He pointed at the couch where the woman was laying with her eyes closed, resting on the pillow with her hands tucked under it peacefully, despite the fact that the back of her head was gone.

“Husband comes in, see his wife on the couch, today’s the day, and he walks over to her and bam. Lights out. Then, when he realizes he’ll never have anyone to cook for him again, he puts the gun against his temple and enters the murder-suicide statistic books.”

“Because she won’t ever cook for him again? Is everything about food with you?”

“Of course not. I also fixate on sugary beverages.”

I stared at the dead man, the shotgun a few feet away from his body, consistent with him killing himself and dropping it.

“No note,” I said.

“Crime of passion, instant remorse. No time to write a note. Bet the coroner finds a BAC of at least point one five.”

I eyed the empty gin bottle on the sofa and decided not to take that bet.

While this particular case seemed to be about as open and shut as cases came, I asked the question anyway.

“How about foul play? A staged B&E.”

“And the perp made off with what? Hamburger Helper leftovers?”

“Back to food again.”

“This guy’s TV is older than my house. He’s wearing pants he inherited from Teddy Roosevelt. There’s nothing here to steal, Jack.”

“Their children did it. Wanted to get the insurance money.”

“You know there are no family pictures on the walls. You’re just going down this path because you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored,” I said, stifling a yawn because I was so extremely bored.

“I know that look, Jack. When was the last time a crime scene challenged you?”

“Maybe it wasn’t the husband. Maybe it was a twin brother who did it to cover up an affair with a crime boss.”

Herb nodded as I spoke, the thick folds of skin under his chin compressing like an accordion. “Want me to ask him? Here, I’ll ask.” Herb walked down the length of the tape to the other side of the living room and bent down to where a man’s body was face down on the floor. “Hey,” Herb said, poking the man in the shoulder. “Hey, you. Was it your twin brother, staging the scene to cover up an outfit sex scandal?”

He looked back at me and held up his hands like, what’s wrong with this guy?

“Does this show have a two drink minimum?” I asked. “Because I’ll need double that.”

Herb snapped his fingers and said, “Wait, I see what the problem is.” He reached behind the crime scene tape and picked up one of the man’s ears. It had been blown off with the rest of his head by the shotgun still clutched between his rigid fingers. Herb picked up the ear and held it in front of his face and said, “Can you hear me now, buddy?”

“Jesus, Herb. Show some respect. You’re acting like McGlade.”

“You sound irritated, Jack.” He held out the hand. “Need me to lend you an ear?”

The uniform standing in front of the door leaned back, watching us with a mixture of fascination and horror. He wasn’t a rookie but he hadn’t been in the gallows long enough to get the joke. It was a sick sense of humor you picked up along the way, because it was either learn to laugh at it all or do a half-gainer off your apartment fire escape.