Dumford Blood Read online

  DUMFORD BLOOD

  S.K. Epperson

  Copyright © 1991, 2019 S.K. Epperson

  All rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual person living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Without limiting the rights of copyright reserved above no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  PART ONE:

  Dumford

  The largest part of mankind are nowhere greater strangers than at home.

  —S. T. Coleridge, Table Talk

  CHAPTER 1

  Ben Portlock gazed at the lights of a distant helicopter in the night sky and wondered what the town of Dumford looked like from the air. Probably about the size of a Kennedy lawn, certainly not much bigger. His small, secluded town lay hidden away in Kansas foothills covered with lush bluestem grass. Beyond Dumford to the north and east lay the Flint Hills, to the south and west, the city of Wichita, the Peerless Princess of the Plains. In comparison, a newspaper had once called Dumford "The humorless hunchback of the hills, homely and poor, but full of character."

  Dumford's community square boasted a drugstore, a food store, a Sears outlet, two clothing shops, two eateries, a hardware store, a bank, a post office, a police station, and a newly repainted town hall building. Scattered outside the square were three school buildings, two churches, two taverns, two liquor stores, a mortuary alongside the hundred-year-old cemetery, and a long boxcar-like mausoleum with real marble steps. The Kennedy's would be proud.

  The party in progress at the town square had tables covered with flimsy crepe tablecloths lined up in a wide horseshoe around a crudely built bandstand, upon which an elderly band called Hubert and his Hoobers played songs that made teenagers cringe and old women cry. On the north side of the bandstand sat a barbecue station, and on the south side a table holding plastic cups and three floating kegs of Miller Lite beer. Women hovered around the food and used their napkins to swat at the last die hard flies of the season. Men hovered around the beer, taking deep chugs and swapping spit on a shared bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Ben Portlock turned his back on the party and walked up the darkened main street to check out Luther's Food Store. Luther's parking lot remained a favorite hangout for teenagers, but on this night proved deserted. Ben guessed most of them were either in the square stealing beer from unattended cups or slyly spiking Milly Bartok's all-occasion fruit punch. He did the same when he was a kid, and they hadn't come up with much of anything new that he could see.

  He picked up a few broken beer bottles in the lot and retraced his steps in time to hear Hubert and his Hoobers strike up a tinny rendition of the ancient Spagoni's Wedding Jubilee.

  Ben groaned to himself and slowed his steps. As he neared the square his bored gaze caught a flash of red. He saw Bryce McKee, a fellow police officer, standing near a pickup truck, talking to a girl in a bright red dress. Ben walked closer and smiled as he heard his friend's teasing voice. Beneath Bryce's police uniform beat the heart of a frustrated stand-up comedian. Too handsome to receive any credit for wit, women thought him a smart ass, a jerk, or a cynic, but few thought of Bryce as genuinely funny.

  “It's true,” Ben heard him say to the girl in the red dress. “We don't let just anyone into Dumford.”

  "I'm sure," the girl replied with a giggle. The September breeze scooped the hem of her red dress enough to show black lace panties and a pair of long, skinny thighs. She appeared not to notice.

  Bryce did. “We check out everyone who comes into town. Even people like you, who claim to be visiting a cousin. I’m checking you out right now, in fact."

  He drew a small bottle of Wild Turkey from his hip pocket and winked before taking a long drink. "We're pretty clannish around here. This party tonight? It’s sort of a town shower for Edie Jackson, wife of our little bank’s vice-president, Portis P. Jackson."

  "Portis?" the girl repeated. "Where'd he get a name like that?"

  Bryce's grin widened. His blue eyes gleamed beneath his dark brows. "Well, you see the Jackson’s had a mentally-challenged boy first. When Portis came along they decided to let their first kid name his new baby brother. Now, all this boy knew was his mama teaching him how to say 'Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold,' from a fairy tale book, so when he sees his brother for the first time he goes, ‘Portis Pea!’ That's how they named him."

  "You're shitting me," the girl said.

  Bryce held up a hand and crossed his chest. "Swear to God. That's how it happened."

  Ben shook his head.

  "Okay," the girl said. "So what about this Edie? She's pregnant, right?"

  "She is, and Portis is throwing the party because Edie's baby will put the population of Dumford at one thousand. That's big time, sweetheart. You live in a town with a population of a thousand and people remember your name. They say, 'Why that's old Bryce McKee there and I believe he lives in Dumford. Yessir, I'm almost certain of it. They got a thousand people in Dumford, you know. Lo, yes, a regular thrivin' metropolis is Dumford.’ Trust me, honey. A population of a thousand people is a landmark for a town like this. We might have reached that number a month ago, but Joni Wilkson's new baby disappeared the day after she brought it home from the hospital."

  “Are you serious?” the girl asked. “What happened to it?”

  Before Bryce could answer, Ben stepped into view. He tipped his hat to the girl and smiled at Bryce. "Officer McKee."

  "Hey, Ben," Bryce said. "Honey, this is my buddy and fellow officer, Ben Portlock. He's Edie's big brother."

  "Nice to—" The girl jumped in surprise as the bottle of Wild Turkey abruptly found its way into her possession.

  "I'd introduce you," Bryce said to her, "but I can't seem to remember your name, sugar."

  The girl punched him in the chest and walked away, her red dress swirling around her skinny thighs. Bryce winked at Ben and went after her. "Hey, I was just kidding, Jen—Jessica!"

  In the square the music stopped and Hubert announced a short break. Ben glanced at his watch. Close to ten o'clock. In another hour Hubert and his Hoobers would go home and leave the square to the town strays, with plenty leftover chicken bones, dropped globs of baked beans, potato salad, and several dozen inedible homemade dinner rolls, courtesy of Maisie West, who some said brought the same rolls every year and took them home again to put in the freezer for the next year.

  At a quarter after ten a wheezing, long-faced Calvin Horn approached the square and stopped Ben. “I need the chief. Where is he?”

  Ben pointed to the keg station where George Legget stood and emptied the last of the bottle of Jack Daniels down his throat.

  "What's up, Calvin?" Ben asked.

  The grizzled man stiffened his whiskered lip. "I got to tell the chief. This is bad, Ben. This is real bad."

  Ben nodded and accompanied the stale-smelling Calvin, sole owner of the town's trash-hauling business, over to the keg station.

  George Legget wiped his mouth with a huge hand and looked at them with bloodshot eyes. He frowned and swayed as he addressed Ben. "I asked you to walk the perimeter. We've got to have some form of crowd control on display."

  Ben gestured to the man beside him. "Calvin."

  The garbage hauler whisked the cap off his head and held it before him. "Chief Legget, this is awful. I wouldn't have come now, durin’ the party, but I figured it was my duty. I know how you like to get evidence fresh and all."

/>   George looked past him in annoyance. "What evidence, Calvin? Why are you here?"

  Calvin shifted his stance. "You know that bitch of mine that was gettin' ready to pup? Not the black one, but the red one. Kinda looked like she had some Airedale blood in her, but I never could find out for sure. I got some books with pictures and I—"

  "Calvin," George growled.

  "Okay. Yeah. Anyway, I've been takin' real good care of her, but tonight I come home to feed her and I find..." His voice lowered to a whisper that neither Ben nor George could hear.

  "What!" George barked. “Speak up!”

  Calvin held up his arms and pretended to cradle thin air. Then he made a slashing motion. "Gone."

  "For crissakes," George said. "Ben, will you please tell me what this idiot is trying to say?"

  Ben looked at Calvin. "Somebody broke into your place and killed the dog?"

  The trash hauler bobbed his head. "She's dead. The puppies are gone."

  George put down his beer. “Good God, Calvin, you came out here for that?”

  Calvin’s face crumpled. He burst into loud, braying sobs that made women’s heads turn. Men looked up from their bottles. George looked heavenward then took the garbage man by the arm to lead him away from the keg station. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Calvin. I know what your dogs mean to you. Have you got her here?”

  Calvin looked horrified. “No! I wouldn’t bring her to the party all stiff and everything. She’s back home. And I didn’t touch the knife either. I came straight here.”

  George nodded. “You’ve got the knife. That’s good. We’ll come and have a look, Calvin. Wipe your nose, okay?”

  Calvin used his sleeve. George turned to Ben. “Call Mickey and tell him we’re going out on a little run, then find Bryce to help watch things here.”

  Ben nodded and called dispatch before making his way into the crowd to find Bryce. When he returned he found the trash hauler in the passenger seat of George’s police car.

  “You drive Calvin’s truck,” the chief said to Ben. “I want to ask some questions on the way.”

  “Great.” Ben took the keys and swore under his breath as he climbed into the reeking cab of the garbage truck.

  Calvin lived five miles north of town in a tar-paper travesty built only yards away from the dump. He claimed four dogs and ten cats shared the one-bedroom house with him, but no one Ben knew had ever actually been inside Calvin Horn’s place to confirm this. No one had the nose for it, or the stomach, since Calvin was also fond of telling people his dogs cleaned the floor and his cats did the dishes.

  Two weeks after the Wilkson baby disappeared, Calvin had become momentarily famous by finding the missing infant in a plastic garbage bag. The townspeople patted him on the back with relief and gratitude—until it came to light that Calvin had stumbled across the corpse during a routine sorting of the town's garbage. The people of Dumford then became outraged. And paranoid. Many people began using their fireplaces and stoves early.

  Ben chuckled at the smoking chimneys, but at the same time it made him wonder. The killer of the Wilkson baby had yet to be apprehended. For a time, Joni Wilkson herself became the favored suspect of the town gossips. Then Calvin came under suspicion, for looking through trash and finding the dead baby. The police department had no suspects in the case.

  A cluster of tall elms hid Calvin's house and dump from the highway. Ben saw the taillights of the chief’s car disappear in the turn onto the dirt road. He caught up in time to see the entire back end take a dip as the rear wheels encountered an axle-breaking rut. The chief’s angry howl sliced through the night air and bounced off the rustling elms. Somewhere to the west, a coyote answered him.

  The truck Ben drove took the rut with only the slightest jolt. When Ben reached Calvin's drive the truck’s headlights picked out George's six-foot-five frame striding toward the front door of the house.

  "Don't you believe in lights, Calvin? I can't see a damn thing out here."

  Calvin rushed ahead of him and fiddled with some keys in his hand.

  Ben heard George's snort. "You keep this place locked? What the hell have you got that anyone would want to steal?"

  George tried the knob and Calvin batted his hand away. "I said I'll bring her outside, Chief."

  Ben climbed down from the truck and slammed the door. He approached the house in time to see Calvin open the front door to a flash of light accompanied by a deafening blast. Ben hit the ground. For an awful, terrible moment he thought he had seen Calvin Horn's head leave his shoulders. Ben scrambled onto all fours. Adrenaline pumping, he fumbled at his waist for his flashlight. When he pointed the bright beam he saw George on the ground, flat on his back. Ben shifted the beam and winced as the light picked up Calvin's severed head on the ground behind his still twitching body. Blood poured from the jagged flesh above the collar of Calvin's only shirt.

  Ben tore his stunned gaze away and forced himself to concentrate. A shotgun. Someone in the house had a shotgun.

  "Ben!" George shouted.

  "Here." Ben switched off his flashlight and moved across the ground to the chief. "Are you hit?"

  George clutched at his chest. "Get my pills out of my pocket. I'm having a goddamn heart attack."

  Ben reached for him and began to search his pockets. "Which one?"

  "In my right... Oh, God, this hurts."

  "Try to be calm, George." While Ben searched the chief’s clothes he darted glances over his shoulder to the house. The absence of yard lights and the tiny thumbnail moon in the sky assured them of adequate cover. It was too dark for them to be easy targets.

  George began to groan. "Right, dammit! Look in the right shirt pocket."

  Ben had already checked the pocket once. "No pills," he said. "Hang on, Chief. I'll radio for an ambulance."

  "Hurry, Ben!"

  "I'll be right back."

  Mickey, the night dispatcher, wasn't at his desk. Ben tried three times before changing tactics. "This is Officer Ben Portlock requesting assistance from anyone listening. I need an ambulance at Calvin Horn's place. This is an emergency. Anyone listening please respond. Over."

  A male voice answered, "This is Phil Taylor, Ben. I'll make the call for you."

  "Phil? See if you can get Bryce out here as well. He’s still at the party in the town square."

  "Will do, Ben."

  Ben sighed in relief and replaced the mike. Phil Taylor was a good kid, one of the few in the Taylor family who didn't hold a grudge against Ben.

  “Ben!” the chief called. “Ben, did you get anyone?”

  George's voice sounded weaker, more strained. Ben left the car and went back to him.

  "I got Phil Taylor. He's calling for help."

  "Thank God for nosy pissants with police bands," George croaked. "What happened to Mickey?"

  Ben turned to look at the house. "Try not to talk anymore, George. I need to have a look around."

  "Rigged," George said. "The door was rigged. I saw the wire when the gun went off. Someone rigged the shotgun to the door."

  "Damn." Ben sat back on his heels in surprise.

  "Yeah, get in and check out the place," George said, and he made a motion with his hand.

  Ben stood up and turned on his flashlight. He looked at George.

  "I'll be all right," the chief insisted. "Go on and check it out."

  Ben turned and walked toward the door. He didn't want to, but the hand with the flashlight automatically picked out Calvin's headless body on the ground. Ben swallowed the bile in his throat and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket as he stepped into the house. He didn't think he would need the handkerchief—anyone smart enough to rig a door would surely have thought to wear gloves—but he used it anyway.

  A twelve-gauge shotgun sat clamped to a small sewing table just inside the door. The wire attached to the triggers went around an old barber pole behind the table and ended in a twisted loop around the doorknob. Ben stepped on something that rolled beneath his foot.
An unused shell. He picked it up and exhaled through his teeth. Three-inch magnum, double-aught buck.

  Christ, he thought. Must've felt like being shot with a cannon.

  He abandoned the shotgun and looked around in dismay. Calvin's living area bulged with plastic garbage bags, some full, most half full. Trash lay everywhere, littering every inch of floor space. In one corner rested a pile of men's magazines, most opened and carefully folded to the centerfold. Beside the television sat a stack of DVDs and on the threadbare sofa he saw an inflatable doll with a round oh of a mouth. Her blond head appeared half bald, her left breast patched with black electrical tape. Covering her hips he saw a pair of blue boxer shorts.

  Ben shook his head and waded through the mess of the garbage hauler’s home. Beneath a small table supported by two legs and four bricks, he found a bag seemingly singled out from the others. Using the end of his flashlight, he opened the top and peered inside. The bag contained old books. On impulse he pulled one out and saw a tiny metal lock on the cover. A diary?

  "Couldn't be," he murmured to himself. Calvin Horn keeping a diary was unfathomable. He flipped open a page and immediately saw his mistake. Not Calvin's. Before he could investigate further he heard an ambulance siren in the distance. He shoved the diary back into the bag, and without stopping to ask himself why, he looked for a place to hide his find. The kitchen looked good, since it held even more refuse than the living room. He tossed the plastic bag behind the grease-covered refrigerator and had to duck as the freezer door swung open. He closed the door then paused and opened it again. He saw a green plastic garbage bag inside the freezer compartment.

  Garbage in the freezer?

  Ben opened the top of the bag, looked at the contents then he left the kitchen in three swift strides.

  Someone else could take the dog out.

  CHAPTER 2

  Did you hear the way that reporter talked to George?" Hannah complained. "Little worm acted like he thought the chief's having a heart attack during a murder was funny. But I guess all big city folks act like that. Right, Ben?"