Evil Like Me Read online

  “I don’t know if you can answer this, but did they act funny, look spooked?”

  “Nope. Looked like they were where they needed to be. Our presence didn’t bother them. They didn’t pay attention to us, just the truck. Maybe the fire, I guess.”

  Wilcox watched people stop on the shoulders of the access road to drag a carcass to the bed of their truck or strap it on their hoods. “You don’t have a problem with people taking road kill?”

  Edelman smiled. “You’re not a hunter are you, Detective Wilcox?”

  “Only people.”

  “We hate to see fresh venison go to waste around here.”

  “That’s just sick,” Wilcox muttered.

  “If people don’t drag them off, the city will have a heck of a job cleaning this place up. They’d just toss good meat into Beatty’s land fill to rot.”

  “You sure this never happened before?”

  “This is a freak of nature,” Edelman said. “The big ones hung around the burning truck a while, like they were waiting for something to happen. After a while they left together. Very strange thing if you ask me. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it was kinda like they were making sure Mr. Dodson didn’t get out of that truck alive.”

  “You’re right, that makes no sense. Unless there’s more going on here than any of us know, Wilcox thought as he stepped closer to the smoldering grill.

  The county coroner walked up holding a handkerchief to his nose stepping over the carnage. “This is just lovely,” he said.

  “Morning Jake,” Edelman chirped.

  “Your people gonna snag me one of those bucks?” he asked.

  “Can do.” He pointed to Wilcox. “Jake Mandel, county coroner, Memphis Homicide Detective Tony Wilcox.” Wilcox didn’t look up. He stared at the steaming metal, his mind on the unexplainable. He had to get inside the cab for a look, but the heat was still too intense.

  “Memphis? You’re a long way from home,” Mandel said. “What’s your interest in this accident, or are you just passing through?”

  Wilcox didn’t acknowledge Mandel’s presence.

  Edelman answered the question. “We think Mr. Dodson, the truck driver, picked up a hitchhiker. A person of interest linked to homicides in Memphis.”

  “My understanding there’s only one ‘crispy critter’ in the cab,” Mandel joked.

  “We think there’s one person. We won’t know until the metal cools down enough to get in there. Detective Wilcox is here because the man they’re lookin’ for—the hitchhiker—could be in the cab with the truck driver.”

  “I see.” Mandel stepped between Wilcox and the smoking truck. “I thought you might be here to tell us how the big city does things.”

  Wilcox lifted his cold eyes. “Put your dick back in your pants and do your job.”

  Mandel smiled. “Guess the city boys are touchy,” he chided.

  Like a cobra strike, Wilcox grabbed Mandel’s shirt, pulled him in. “I’m in a bad mood. I’ll show you how I do things if you keep this shit up.” Edelman avoided the confrontation heading to the side of the cab where a fireman leaned a ladder. Wilcox released Mendel and followed.

  He expected a shattered windshield and Dodson burned beyond recognition. He saw a 500-pound buck poking through a dead man’s abdomen. Wilcox closed his eyes to get a grip.

  Reconstruction of events told the story. Dodson had cut the wheel sharp to avoid the herd. His semi flipped onto its side and skidded down I-55 rupturing a gas tank. Sparks ignited the spray and the flames heated up the illegal load of butane canisters. They blew and the legal load of mattresses and bedding fed the fire. Dodson’s covert money-maker did not kill him, but it did eliminate any chance at survival. The buck’s head buried in Dodson’s abdomen killed him instantly.

  There were no signs of Keller. Wilcox dropped from the ladder to the smoking tarmac to head to his car. Mandel watched from a crowd with his mouth closed. The local insurance salesman elected county coroner learned an important lesson at his first death scene—don’t get in the way of the professionals. Wilcox’s hunt for another sick bastard left no room for amateurs. Mandel was fortunate the top homicide detective in the Midsouth had released only a sliver of the rage boiling inside.

  Wilcox returned to his car without a word. Everyone left him alone. He had seen enough. With the circus winding down, he needed time to think. Looking through his bug splattered windshield, his empty stomach growled. If he had eaten, he could puke and feel better. Instead, he lit another cigarette and watched them slide Dodson’s charred remains into a crash bag. They left the stag’s head fused to man’s gut. They cut off 450-pounds at the neck. Mandel grew a brain. He signed the papers authorizing transport to the Shelby County Medical Examiner’s Office.

  As they shot the last animals kicking and they dragged them away, Wilcox watched the tow truck roll up to the smoldering pile of twisted steel. It was time to connect the dots. He hit speed dial, a number normally reserved for personal occasions. Although Abby Patterson could be described as a crazy blond, she was the top private investigator south of the Mason-Dixon.

  “Hey, baby doll.”

  “Hey, Tee. I was just thinking about you. How’s the homicide business, baby?”

  He watched them sling the body bag onto the ambulance. “Picking up.”

  “You don’t sound like your normal negative self. This must be a business call.”

  “I love your investigative mind, darlin’, and perfect body.”

  “I know you do. You know both so well. When’re you coming to see me?”

  “Depends on you. I’m up to my ass in cadavers.”

  “Here it comes, unbillable hours.” You never talk to me about business. This must be bad.

  Abby Patterson ran one of the most successful private investigation firms in the country. As a rule, Wilcox never mixed with PI’s. Most were law enforcement wannabes with small brains unwilling to take on real risk. In Patterson’s case, Wilcox made an exception. Her professional prowess caught his interest. However, the knockout blonde with the attitude caught him first.

  She could keep up with his shot glass, liked marathon sex, and told a story better than a man. Early in their relationship Wilcox realized Abby was one of those natural born sleuths. The modern day Sherlock Holmes on heels pulled down six figures working with top law firms in the southeast. Busting cheaters and tracking down anyone or anything hiding from the truth, she played the ditzy blond with the skill of a Broadway Diva.

  “Cadavers!” Patterson kicked off her heels and lit a cigarette. “I’m on surveillance, sitting in another rental car in another gated community waiting on another loser.”

  “It is how you roll.”

  “Right. When you gonna take me out of this hell hole, Tee? A sandy beach somewhere, emerald waves breaking and a harvest moon. I see us sipping Pina Coladas and rolling around under puffy comforters.”

  “Sounds good to me. How about when I’m a millionaire. Hey what are you doing later?”

  “I need to blend at a semi-formal brunch later, dear. A networking event.”

  “The event’s where he’s going to meet his mistress?”

  “Nope. She’s going to meet her boy toy.”

  “Keep forgetting it takes two,” Wilcox said.

  “Seems like I’ve been following a lot of cheating women lately. Tis a brave new world.”

  “I miss you girl. Bet you look great.”

  “Get to Atlanta and I’ll let you undress me.”

  Tony cracked a window and flicked his cigarette. “Don’t get me all worked up, Patterson. I have half a mind to head east, but I’m chasing a bad guy at the moment.”

  “Enough fun, talk to me. Where are you and what’s this call really about?”

  “Where I am is irrelevant. What is relevant, I have four unsolved homicides.”

  “Four! A record for you.”

  “They may be connected. Still waiting on forensics. My new ME—Petty—is sending brain tissue to DC fo
r some kind of advanced testing.”

  “So why call me, outside of wanting to arrange a night of bliss.”

  “I need the Patterson probe, someone with more than a half-brain to do some old fashion detective work. I need to find out how these guys are connected. So far I got nothing.”

  “Your people can run names as easy as me,” Abby said.

  “True, but the likely linkage is not obvious. And it may not be too recent. Could go way back like a multigenerational thing.”

  “What got you there?” she asked as her subject got in a car four houses down. “Tee, I need to roll, but I can listen.” Abby zipped her windbreaker and pulled on her baseball cap.

  Hypnotized by the fireman hosing the highway, Wilcox snapped back when a whitetail jumped his hood. “Shit!” Then he saw a dozen more standing at the edge of the cotton field. Seems like you guys lost your incentive and direction, he thought. Only their heads followed the tow truck as it pulled the twisted steel away. Then they backed into the field.

  “What just happened, Tee?”

  “Not sure.” He blinked and refocused. “Okay … My homicides. I have four. One killed at his place of business, a ‘one-man show’ savings and loan downtown, South Main. Stabbed in the back. Forensics says the killer walked him across the room with the knife in his back.”

  “And how do you know that?” Patterson asked.

  “The ME said no knife toggle. Did not see tissue tears above or below the knife at the entry point. If the victim crossed the room alone with the knife in his back, there’d be torn tissue. Someone had to be holding the knife steady … applying pressure.”

  “Sounds like voodoo magic to me.”

  “The important thing is the victim—Donald Deckle—dropped face down in front of a picture hanging on his savings and loan wall.”

  “Okay, and that’s important because why?”

  “I found a fresh fingerprint on the dusty glass. I think my killer pointed at a guy in the group picture. It was the 1968 Memphis State Tigers football team on bleachers.”

  “A piece to your puzzle. Your hunches often turn out to be correct, Wilcox.”

  “I want to give you names of my homicides without a lot of explanation. Don’t want to mess with your instincts. Need you to sniff around the Patterson way.”

  “So far I have Donald Deckle stabbed in the back.”

  “Two stabbed. Two strangled. ME says the forensics are clear—stabbings with identical entry points and aortic severing. And strangulations with the identical damage to the spine, the cervical vertebrae.”

  “Then you could have up to two killers, Wilcox.”

  “It’s a possibility, but I’m still thinking one. What has me scratching my head is that all four had eyes bulging out their sockets like a couple of fried eggs sunny side up—never seen that one before.”

  “Gawd! Are you serious? That is just hideous.”

  “Yeah. And all four faces were snow white and deformed. Creepy smiles. The lips were stretched back to the ears. No signs it was forced by someone or something.”

  “Sounds like they saw a ghost,” Abby teased.

  “They had lesions. Same part of the brain—amygdala. Until Deckle, never knew we had an amygdala.”

  “I’ve never heard of that. Were they hit on the head?”

  “No external head trauma. ME said it’s new for her too. Not in the books.”

  “I’ve got enough to get started. Give me the names.”

  “Thomas Bender Derby, William Trenton Hudson, Mark Tyler Pemberton, and you have Donald Francis Deckle. When I get back to Memphis, I’ll send you DOBs, socials, and DMVs.”

  “Those squirrelly middle names will help. I’ll let you know. I gotta go darlin’.”

  Wilcox smiled as he drove his cruiser across the grassy median and climbed onto the southbound access road. “I’m off to Sikeston on a long shot. Be careful. Not sure where all this is going yet.”

  He threw his cell on the seat squinting in the morning sun. His smile faded when the pickup passed. The pile of deer carcasses sprayed blood across his windshield.

  That’s just wonderful …

  Eight

  “Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked.”

  Oliver Wendell Holmes

  *

  Stringtown, Oklahoma

  *

  “If you want to stay alive, you better talk to me, Bone Jackson,” he called into the wilderness.

  Cameron Baily got off his four-wheeler all-terrain rental and stuck his helmet on the handlebars like he knew what he was doing. He spit and looked around the miserable, rocky scrub of southeast Oklahoma with disdain. The city boy did not enjoy the teeth-rattling, ten-mile ride into the hinterlands. The washed-out road along the endless barbed wire fence drove him nuts. He knew he had to at least try to find Bone Jackson.

  The battered teal camper was covered in bird droppings, broken sticks, and wet leaves. It squatted in dead grass under a fat tree on the edge of more tangled woods. Baily surveyed the immediate area wondering if anyone could possibly live in the God forsaken dumpster on wheels. Next to it was an abused 1982 Ford pickup with rusted fenders and bald tires. Under the weight of corroded junk heaped in the bed, it sunk into the mud up to the hubcaps. Then he found the prize, the backend of a mud-caked Sportsman XP 1000 four-wheeler.

  A drop from the fat cloud that followed him hit his nose when the grizzly-bear shaped man squeezed out of the camper. Baily reached for his gun instinctively as the man’s boots hit the ground and the crappy camper lifted eight inches. Under rage-filled eyes, a scraggly beard scraped the basketball belly. Sleeves got pushed above elbows in stride, as the man grabbed a metal pipe from the back of the Ford and approached in a straight line.

  “Are you threatening me black man?” barked the behemoth with the swirling metal pipe.

  Baily leveled his gun. All he saw was another white bigot coming after him.

  I don’t know who the hell you are, but I can shoot … you backwoods, racist redneck. I can scratch that lifelong itch right now once and for all. I’m not standin’ in the streets of Memphis under a damn microscope. I gotta be fifty miles in the middle of nowhere.

  That’s it—I’m gonna shoot this KKK-lovin’ redneck. I’m gonna get my justice. Baily pulled back the hammer and aimed at the head of the charging white rage with the pipe. Baily yelled, “You stop right there!” Please keep coming. But the approaching angry eyes dipped more and the pipe went even higher.

  Are you thinkin’ you can take a bullet you dumb hillbilly? You must be dying to put that pipe upside my black head. Baily instinctively pulled his badge and waved it. “I’m a Memphis cop looking for Bone Jackson.” One more step and I shoot. I scratch my damn itch once and for all. Come on. One more step you mother …

  The man stopped in his tracks and lowered his pipe. “A Memphis police officer? But you threatened me.”

  “I did not threaten you,” Baily said with his gun on his target.

  “You used extremely threatening words and tone.”

  “I said Jackson was in danger and best talk to me.”

  “No you didn’t. Your words were more like—if I want to stay alive, I best talk to you.” The man stroked his beard flat and tossed the pipe in the back of the truck. “Sorry about this. I’ve had a few negative experiences in these woods. Some people think remote areas offer opportunity to misbehave.”

  Still rattled Baily huffed, “You came out that camper mad as hell. And I’ve been bouncing my brains all over Oklahoma for the last three hours. Been on that pitiful dirt trail way too long.” He holstered his gun. “Guess I’m not thinking polite.” He extended his hand. “I’m Cameron Baily. Yes, with the Memphis police.”

  “I saw your badge. I am Buford Jackson.”

  “Buford?” I don’t know a Buford. That name did not come up in my talks in Stringtown. “You know where I can find a Bone Jackson? Maybe cousin or something?”

  “You’re looking at him. Bone’s
my nickname.”

  “Really. That’s a strange nickname, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

  “I know. I found a Sasquatch femur when I was a kid. I’ve been called ‘Bone’ ever since. Nobody ever let me forget I found that bone.” He turned back to the mobile home. “Are you permitted an alcoholic beverage, Officer Baily?”

  “I guess I’m off the clock.”

  Bone grabbed a wet bag of beers from the camper and led Baily to a cluster of bushes in front of an enormous boulder. He pushed through, Baily followed. They climbed a steep trail emerging atop the giant rock. There was a weathered picnic table sitting in its center.

  “What the hell,” Baily mumbled. “A picnic table in middle of nowhere. Hell of a view.”

  “Took me a month to get it up here. Highest point for miles. I spend hours sitting here looking for Bigfoot. One day he is going to cross that field over there. He’s going to enter the woods over there. It’s an ideal route into dense terrain, ample food and water. I am sitting in the perfect location. When I’m not here, I have a camera hooked up to a laser beam, motion detection.”

  “I don’t know ’bout that Bigfoot stuff,” Baily said as he studied the dirt road he came in on. “I can see way the hell up there—one side of the crappy road and barbed wire fence it’s flat fields, the other side is thick woods. Guess the change means somethin’ in the scheme of things, in Sasquatch’s world,” he chuckled. “But it is kinda peaceful up here. Do you leave those binocs out all the time?”

  “Yes. They are waterproof. On a clear night, I can see a couple miles with them. Sometimes I sleep up here.” Bone watched Baily scan the horizon with the binocs. It was time to find out what was going on. “So, what brings the Memphis police to Oklahoma looking for me?”

  “I’m a homicide detective. I’m working a case that we believe is connected to the Keller family homicides—now five years ago in Stringtown.”

  “I remember,” Bone said under his breath. “It was the worst day in Atoka County history. They never found who was responsible.”