THE SNOWDRIFT MURDERS

By

Stan Grimes

EXCERPT

NIGHT BREEZES WHISPERED LIKE batwings through the cracks of the derelict barn.  The long forgotten structure groaned under the winter wind, making its inhabitants squirm like snakes in a pot of hot water.  Although abandoned for decades, it was still home to many creatures.

The rats, pigeons, and one big screech owl paid no attention to the man wrapped in a blanket, peppered with more holes it seemed than the old barn itself.  The man looked as tattered as the flimsy blanket around him.  Dust balls and old spider webs covered his grey hair like a raggedy hairnet.  He was sound asleep unaware of his near frostbitten condition.  His dreams were as frigid as the early starlit January morning.  Nightmares had bitten him with their venomous shadows and meaningless chatter.  The chattering never left him, awake or asleep.  Burt Lacing slept as frost crawled into his marrow and into his troubled mind.

Almost a mile away from the rattling old barn stood a twelve-point buck deer staring down at one of his does.  She had been gutted and left for the world to see.  If the buck had a logical brain he would have understood the tracks leading to and from his dead sister.  He would have followed the trail of blood.  Instead, he raised his head and snorted, a warning to the rest of his herd.  He jumped the fence line and joined his family in their daily search for food.  They knew nothing about the sleeping monster. 

Burt slept through the day, as was his habit.  He couldn’t feed during the day without being caught.  Just two days earlier he had relished in a girl’s death.  She was a sweet one.  Burt would have taken time out to introduce her to his little monster, but he was pressed for time.  A train passed about every hour and he didn’t know when the last one had gone through. The girl was walking along the railroad tracks alone.  Now what kind of parents would let that happen?  She didn’t hear him behind her.  She was busy singing some kind of song while balancing on the cold steel rail.  Burt came up behind her and slapped his hand around her mouth.  He stuck the steel blade into her side.  Pulling it out quickly he rolled her on her back.  Before she could let out a scream he rammed the blade into her mid section thrusting upwards with the force of a wild animal.  He could see a hint of her pink panties, but he pushed the thought aside.  It would have been a sweet piece of meat.  Burt felt his pants tightening no matter how he tried to erase the idea.  He licked the blood from his knife and began his bloody ritual out of sight of a southbound train.  It was just the monster and his prey dancing a wicked dance beneath snow-laden oaks and a clouded, mottled night.  He was getting hard even now in his bitter cold sleep.

*  *  *  *

   SHERIFF TOM HADN’T SLEPT for two days, too many problems.  His jail had blown a few sewer pipes.  He had to double and sometimes triple up his cells so the plumbers could fix the entire mess.  Of course there was the matter of asking the county council for more money for his plumbing situation.  Out of the twelve, there would always be four or five whining about cost and cutting expenses.  “Bastards,” he thought. Tom lifted his six-five frame off the bed.  He saw no sense in trying to sleep.  He needed some coffee and a cigarette.

Two days ago Cross County had had its first murder in seven years, a horrendous event.  Jenny Whitestone had been found next to a railroad track north of town.  She had been gutted and missing a few organs.  Tom had seen nothing like it.  Although he had seen a few of his buddies in Vietnam blown to pieces, they had not been gutted like an animal.  None of them had been girls, pretty girls. She was young.  He had remembered her from the Up-With-People choir, a talented girl.  Her family had been devastated when Tom told them the news.  “Mr. and Mrs. Whitestone I’m not sure how to tell this to you…” The sentence haunted him and tore the girl’s parents into shredded putty.  How do you tell parents?  It’s not in the manual.  Shoving the manual up the county council’s collective ass seemed like a good idea.  Of course he wouldn’t.  Don’t want to create waves now do we?  His phone rang, probably a fucking council member.

“Sheriff Becker.”

“Hey Tom, how ya doin’?”  It was Heywood Thomas, the plumber.

“Not worth a shit.”

“Man, I heard about Terry Whitestone’s girl.  Sounds fucked up.”

“It is.  What’s up, hey?”

“Bad news my friend.”

“Just what I need.”

“Your drainage system is screwed up all the way to the street.  It’s going to cost big time and it’s going to take time.”

“How much time?”

Hey hesitated, Tom assumed the plumber was calculating time in his head.  “We probably can’t get down there until spring.  Ground’s frozen and this blizzard didn’t help matters?”

“Get me an estimate, Hey.  You know I’ll have to run it by the building commission, the council, the mayor, and maybe Genghis Kahn.”

Heywood laughed. “Yeah it’s a pain in the ass.  I’ll get back to you.  Later.”

Tom hung the phone up and headed for the coffee maker.  His cigarettes were on the kitchen table.  If Judy were still alive he’d be smoking out on the back porch.  She hated the smell of cigarette smoke.  After her accident he moved his habit to the kitchen.  In fact, he moved his memories to the kitchen along with a small coloured television and a CB receiver.  His memories of Judy crowded every part of the house; every corner was filled with her art, her designs, and her heart.  The kitchen was his safest room.  Tom didn’t understand why.  It just felt safer.  It seemed like a church’s foyer leading to the inner sanctum or the holy room.  He was not ready for the holy room.  The hairs on his neck bristled whenever he attempted entrance to Judy’s world.  He could not defile the sanctum sanctorum.

The sun hadn’t made its way through the clouded eastern hemisphere.  Five o’clock and he had smoked his first two cigarettes.  The coffee was nearly finished brewing when his second call came.  It was Michelle Whitestone.  “Sheriff?”

“Yes.”

Michelle sounded distressed.  Her voice was shrill like a siren.  “My husband is dead.”  The words cut like a jagged piece of glass.  “The police are here and the paramedics.”  She began to sob softly.  “My God, Sheriff…” She began choking on her words.  It sounded like she was vomiting.  “Help me.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”  Tom turned the coffee pot off, and grabbed his cigarettes.  He ran out the door to his brown and tan.  What the hell was happening?

*  *  *  *

THE PARAMEDICS HAD TAKEN the body, which meant Jake Freeman, the elected coroner, had already made the pronouncement.  Tom pulled in as the ambulance pulled away, no lights or siren.  He made the short trip from his car to the house, feeling more dread than when he’d had to tell the Whitestones about their daughter.  The door stood partially open as Jake said his farewells to Michelle.  He nodded to Tom and motioned for him to follow him outside .  “She needs to go to the hospital.  No way is she gonna survive in this house tonight.” 

Tom nodded.  He understood.  After Judy died, he slept in the Holiday Inn for three weeks.