I think the great Oscar Wilde once said “live life with no excuses, travel with no regret.”
Clearly, he’d never traveled with Sheriff Paul in a cop car for nearly two hours to retrieve a bloody hand that had been stepped on by his daughter, a whiny majorette who, rightfully, ended up with a busted ankle as a result.
As a writer, I feel the need to set the scene for you, dear reader: Think a bachelor pad on wheels complete with empty fast food containers, stubbed-out cigars in the ash tray, and wrinkled street clothes in the back seat. The heater, blasting directly into my face, blew air that reeked of onions and the gas the Sheriff had just pumped.
“Fresh tank,” he said proudly as I climbed in and reached for the seat belt.
You don’t say? I thought, then composed myself.
“Sheriff, I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to meet with me today.”
Sheriff Paul waved his hand in the air. “Not a problem … sorry about before, I think Bernie’s going to miss you. You know how it is around here though. The streets talk!”
I nodded. I had been a bit taken aback that my status in town was a topic of anyone’s interest let alone my former editor and a source. And, in spite of my chosen profession, I’m not a fan of gossip. But I was way beyond their Trash Day Talk at this point. Cassie’s story about Mick and his sordid past had piqued my curiosity. And now, with no Bernie hovering around me, I was in maverick territory.
I also didn’t have any income.
Choosing to put that sobering fact aside for the moment, I pulled my notebook from my coat pocket as we crossed the bridge and turned North.
“So, Sheriff … where do things stand in these investigations? I mean, it’s been months since the hand and the foot were found, and that image on the video … we haven’t been getting daily updates of late, or at least Bernie hasn’t been picking them up in the Dispatch … so I figured this would be a good …”
Sheriff Paul slid the car off the highway and onto the shoulder.
“A good time for what? I mean, is that what this is going to be? Two hours of the third degree? We have everything under control, John, and what the hell is your interest anyway? Who’s paying you these days, the QuickShop Circular? I hear they need some nice write-ups about sirloins and cheese.”
It dawned on me that, perhaps – just perhaps – I’d played this incorrectly. What had Cassie said about him? Everything was about him … the way he held court in the bar, the way he talked about his cases. He wanted admiration, recognition … he wanted to be “the guy.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean … or rather, I didn’t want to … If you want to drop me off down here, I can call a cab … it’s really no big deal … I didn’t mean to …”
I didn’t know what I didn’t mean to do because, of course, I had meant to ask him questions. But I had forgotten who was in charge here.
The sheriff placed both hands on the wheel. “It’s alright …. I know we haven’t been issuing statements or holding as many press conferences … we just … we just don’t have that much to go on, you know? Everyone’s pretty freaked out as it is. And what’s my job today? Picking up a dead person’s hand.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar. As he lit it, he rolled his window down slightly and took a long drag.
“I don’t know, John. I just don’t know.”
This was the time, I thought. I moved in.
“Well, okay, we know about the hand and the foot and the shirt. What about Mick’s murder? Any news on that?”
The sheriff’s mouth curled up around his cigar into a smile as he pulled back onto the highway.
“What I know about Mick’s murder might make your hair curl, young man. This is some dicey territory.”
I smiled. “What’s dicey?”
The sheriff took a few more puffs as he merged into traffic. “I know who killed him, I know he deserved it, I’m glad about it, and this entire conversation is off the record. Get me?”
I put my notebook back into my jacket pocket and nodded. “Who killed him?”
Sheriff Paul added the lit cigar stub to the other 11 or so sticking out from the console and stubbed it out. Smoke drizzled from his mouth as he spoke.
“I did.”
The sheriff glanced toward his sideview mirror and turned on the left blinker, signaling a lane change, then turned on the car’s siren. He pressed the accelerator. Cars flew by on my right. He began to weave in and out of traffic, dangerously cutting off fellow drivers as if he was playing a video game and not on a real interstate.
I curled my fingers around the car door handle and, just as I did, the door locked automatically.
“I’m doing 80. You won’t live if you jump, so don’t bother.”
I closed my eyes. The sounds of drivers honking horns and the g-forces washed over me. I was finally able to catch my breath and speak.
“What … what are you doing?”
The sheriff smirked a bit as he rolled down the window and spit into the wind.
“Taking you out for a ride. No one’s gonna stop me, you know … they all know me. Everyone here knows that if I’m speeding off somewhere, there’s a damn good reason.”
I opened my eyes enough to see the speedometer surpass 90.
“Sir, seriously … Sheriff Wilson. What is … what is the problem? What are you …?”
I lurched forward in the seat, the belt holding me in place as it should, and Sheriff Paul let out a cackle. I opened my eyes and in front of me was a sign:
Cornell University
“Thirty-nine minutes my foot,” he said, unlocking the car doors. He looked at his watch. “Try 20. Okay, let’s go.”
[…] national broadcasts.) In any event, with some help from John (and after hearing his harrowing account of a very strange afternoon in the car with Sheriff Paul), I had Cornell University send the specimens to Jim for him to consider and so we could […]