“Mick. Ollie. What can I help you with?” he asked in his most official voice.
“Ollie, I got the strangest phone call from a friend of mine about an hour ago. I couldn’t understand all of it, but he said it was an emergency.”
“What’s his problem?” Ollie asked with a yawn.
“Well, he’s from Mississippi; his name’s Jake Crosby. I got him into the Bogue Chitto hunting club. I assumed that’s where he was calling from. We got disconnected, so I rode out there. And…well…it’s weird…all the lights were on in his camper and the door was open, but he wasn’t anywhere around.”
“Is that the place that backs up to the big area of wilderness along the Noxubee River on County Road Sixteen?”
“Yeah, that’s it, but listen…when I got home my pants were covered in blood…fresh blood.”
“Blood?” Ollie became fully alert. “Could it have been turkey blood?”
“Well…I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose, but there was a bunch of it.”
“Have you tried his cell again?”
“Yeah, I tried, but that area’s got awful reception. I couldn’t get him.”
“I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes, and you can follow me. I’m gonna call R.C. and get him on out there. He stays out in that part of the county,” Ollie explained, studying the kitchen clock.
“I’ll be ready.”
Ollie hung up the phone and pondered the possibilities. He needed details. This situation was much more interesting than his typical daily duties. He would call his most trusted deputy, R.C. Smithson. R.C. was a little eccentric, but Ollie could depend on him. He dialed the number. It was ringing when he put the receiver to his ear.
“Yes, Chief.” R.C. answered on the second ring.
“Quit calling me Chief, and how did you know it was me…you’re too much of a tightwad to have Caller ID.”
“You’re the only person who ever calls me at this hour.”
“Listen. Something serious may have gone down at the clubhouse at the Bo Cheeter something or other hunting club.”
“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for big-”
“Shut up, R.C., and listen,” Ollie interrupted and paused. R.C.’s trivia drove him crazy.
“A friend of Mick Johnson’s from Mississippi called him and said something about some kind of emergency. Mick thinks he was at that camp, and he lost communication with him. I’m about to roll and pick up Mick. I’ll be there in thirty to forty-five minutes. Go secure the area. See what you can find out. Be careful. We already know there’s a bunch of blood near the camp house. Don’t violate my crime scene if there is one, you hear?”
“Okey-dokey.”
“Quit saying ‘okey-dokey’…and get goin’. Call me on the radio if you see anything.” Ollie sighed deeply.
“Yes sir, boss,” R.C. said then hung up. He used the remote to turn off the TV. He had been watching a movie on his pirated HBO package.
R.C. Smithson was not unlikable. All he wanted for a career was be a deputy. He was single. He played video games at all hours of the night and read fly-fishing magazines, though he’d never held a fly rod. Two years ago, he’d met a dancer at Danny’s Strip Club in Birmingham; he now considered her his girlfriend. They had never been out on an actual date. Their “dates” were always at Danny’s, except once when she met him at the Waffle House and they ate pecan waffles as she told him about her crack-addict husband. She dreamed of being a Playmate. R.C. dreamed of going with her to photo shoots. Twice a month he went to see her dance and give her a couple hundred bucks, one dollar at a time. He talked about her like they had been married for years. Her name was Chastity. R.C. loved her huge fake boobs.
He was rolling down the road four minutes after hanging up with Ollie. He knew exactly where to go. I was born for this, he thought, flipping on the car’s radio.
R.C. slowed the police sedan to a crawl as he pulled through the camp’s opened gate. He turned off the Rush Limbaugh rebroadcast and forced his senses to full alert. He could see the lights of the camp through the trees and immediately stopped to radio Martha O’Brien that he had arrived.
“Bo what?” she asked.
“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for ‘large creek,’ but actually the Chickasaw Indians used it in their language as well,” he expounded, proud of his plethora knowledge.
“Whatever. R.C., you be careful now,” she responded.
“Ten-four.”
R.C. eased his cruiser into the camp. He parked on the gravel, got out, and walked toward the camp house. He shone his five D-cell flashlight in all the shadows, finding nothing that roused any suspicions. Because the camper lights were on and the door was open, he decided to check it out first.
After peeking in the side windows, with his right hand on the butt of his holstered weapon, he twirled the flashlight over, then with the end of it knocked on the side of the camper. “Deputy sheriff…anybody home?”
Nothing but silence. Without touching anything, he carefully looked inside the open door. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home?” he repeated, then stepped just inside the doorway. The warmth from the heater was inviting. He stood over it a few seconds while casting his gaze around the interior of the camper. Everything looked perfectly normal. Two people had been sleeping inside. One was obviously a child, probably a little girl.
Outside everything also looked in order. R.C. walked back and forth through the yard searching for anything out of the ordinary. Careful of his steps, he methodically grid-searched the area in front of the camper and camp house. Then he saw it. Pools of dark blood that trailed back to the parking area, then ended. There was plenty of it. What in the hell? he wondered. I need to string some tape. The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up. With his pistol drawn, R.C. approached the camp house front porch. “Deputy sheriff…is anybody here?”
More silence. This was unnerving. He wasn’t accustomed to so much tension. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home!” R.C. stepped onto the porch. “Sheriff’s department!” he yelled, hoping nobody answered. The moment R.C. peered inside the camp house, he was drawn to the Playmate calendars, partly obscured by innocuous swimsuit calendars. He had hit the pinup mother lode. He studied each one, comparing them to Chastity. Time stood still…until his radio crackled suddenly with Ollie’s voice.
“I’m here, Chief,” he replied while studying, in great detail, Miss November 1999. “There’s definitely fresh blood in the yard…and lots of it, but no one’s here,” he added, shifting his attention to Miss October 1999.
“I’ll have Miz Martha call the hospital to see if anyone has come into the emergency room.”
“Ten-four. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
R.C. radioed Martha. While he waited for her response, he perused the calendars. Chastity is as hot as any of these girls. Maybe hotter.
“R.C.?” his radio crackled loudly.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, grabbing the shoulder mic.
“The ER’s had two folks in earlier this evenin’. One was a stabbin’ from down by the river. It was over a fishin’ hole. One guy kept gettin’ too close to where the other was catching some crappie. Stabbed him in the leg. He’s OK. Told the doctor it was an accident. They’d been drinkin’. Apparently the fish are bitin’.”
“Well, a good crappie hole is pretty valuable,” R.C. responded, nodding his head.
“And the second was a burn victim. Grease got too hot while she was frying chicken livers. Caught the cabinets on fire. Her hands got burned swattin’ the fire out.”
“Ouch!” he added.
“Does that help at all?”
“Yes and no…but thanks, Miz Martha,” he replied while admiring another calendar.
R.C. heard vehicles, so he stepped outside. The sheriff arrived first in his Ford Expedition with Mick Johnson behind. They parked behind R.C.’s cruiser and got out.