Behind the Badge Page 7

  As had become their routine, Crockett and Smoot met at the diner about six on a warm evening in early May to discuss life in law enforcement.

  “When you and Satin getting married?” Smoot asked.

  “Whenever she tells me to, I guess,” Crockett replied.

  “Try and keep your enthusiasm under control, okay? Don’t make a scene.”

  Crockett smiled. “We’ve talked about it. Next month, probably.”

  “That’d be good. That way, if some ol’ boy shoots your ass, she’ll get the benefits.”

  “Your concern is underwhelming.”

  “A hundred grand in life insurance, twenty-five thousand a year beneficial income, a paid for house in the woods on a lake. Good lookin’ like she is, all that’d make Satin quite a catch for a widder-woman. Ol’ boys would be comin’ outa the woodwork to take a run at her.”

  “You having fun, Smoot?”

  Dale grinned. “Just exploring possibilities. You got anything on for tonight?”

  “Nope. Things have been pretty quiet since the recent big events. Just the way I like it.”

  “How’s that construction coming along up on 92 out there by Gilman Road.”

  “I was by there a couple of days ago. The main dozing is done and the slab is poured. The frame and sheet steel are stacked and waiting. Won’t take long. Those metal buildings go up in a hurry. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it. What’s the place gonna be?”

  “Another damn waterhole.”

  “No shit. That’s just what we need. Got enough bars and taverns now.”

  “This is supposed to be different. The way I hear it, some investors from Smithville and Liberty and other places want a nice club. Figure they’ll draw in traffic from all over the area, Smithville Lake, even North Kansas City.”

  “They might. Not much else up that way.”

  “The county cut ‘em a hell of a deal on taxes and stuff. They claim capacity at around six or seven hundred, I believe I heard.”

  “Jesus!”

  “You go twenty miles in all directions, you got a population base of two or three hundred thousand to draw from. Might work.”

  “They get walls up, maybe I’ll stop by and look it over. A friendly visit from your local law enforcement, don’tcha see. How can I be of service, what can the county law do to help, all the standard bullshit.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Smoot said. “Maybe you could be their official poster boy. Get your teeth whitened and change your name. Officer Friendly Pridemore welcomes you to an evening of fun and frolic.”

  Crockett grinned. “Are you fulla shit today or what?”

  “Aw, that fuckin’ Underwood is struttin’ around again. He was ragging me on traffic tickets today.”

  “Traffic tickets?”

  “Yeah. Says we’re not writing enough. Important revenue. Shit like that. I asked him if he wanted to issue quotas. I think he actually considered it until I told him we’d never keep something like that out of the media.”

  “Want me to write him one?”

  “What?”

  “He parks his truck out in front of his house facing against the flow of traffic. That’s an infraction. I can hang one on him if you like.”

  “Jesus Christ, Crockett. Leave him alone, will ya? I barely got your butt out of that last mess when you threatened to arrest his ass for talking to suspects.”

  “Take it easy. Just a thought.”

  “You scare me a little when you start thinking. Don’t fuck with him, all right?”

  Crockett stood up. “Sometimes he gets a wheel over into the handicapped parking spot at the community center about this time of day,” he said. “Maybe I should check on that.”

  Smoot stared at the tabletop and smiled as Crockett walked away.

  *****

  As was usual, Crockett stopped by the Sheriff’s Office to check in before he went on patrol. As was usual, Margie, the weeknight dispatcher was sitting in her cubicle. On weekends her sister, Martha, did the job. In their mid to late forties and significantly overweight, both women were competent and comfortable.

  “Once again, I am here,” Crockett said, striding into the room.

  “Once again, I don’t care,” Margie said.

  Crockett grinned. “Margie, old girl, I got a full pack of cigarettes and half-a-tank of gas. You wanna run off?”

  “If I’m gonna run off with anybody, he’s gonna have to be a lot younger than you are and have both legs.”

  “Rejected again,” Crockett said. “I guess I’ll go to work then. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  “If you call me, it better be about police business. I’ve got rights.”

  *****

  Crockett was still smiling when he got in his truck. On his way out of town he passed Morton’s Garage. On a whim, he pulled in. Jelly came walking out of the first bay.

  “Trouble?” he asked.

  “Not with me or the truck,” Crockett replied, stepping to the ground. He lighted a Sherman as Jelly waited for him to get to the point.

  “You’ve been in this area a long time, haven’t you, Jelly?”

  “My whole life, so far.”

  “Could I safely assume, then, with your business contacts and your exposure to the public, that you sort of have your finger on the pulse of Hart County?”

  Jelly grinned up at him. “I hear shit, if that’s whut yer askin’.”

  “What do you know about that new place being built out by 92 and Gillman Road?”

  “S’posed to be a purty big deal. Big ol’ Morton buildin’, a stage, live music four or five nights a week, a kitchen servin’ everthang from pizza to T-bones, pool tables, pinball an’ them electric games, big-ass dance floor, two or three bars, waitresses in short skirts and cowboy hats, even dancin’ girls on the weekends.”

  “Dancing girls? Strippers?”

  “Naw. Just gals they pay to strut around on stage when the band plays somethin’ fast. Probably just waitresses, I figger. They’s gonna be a rest’ernt too. Kinda like a diner off the other side a the kitchen. Open all night.”

  “All night, huh.”

  “Yow. Drunks, partiers, curbside cowgirls and pickup truck cowboys, a trucker or two, a whore now an’ then. You know. Could be okay. Could be a mess. That’d be mostly up to you and yourn.”

  “You know who owns it?”

  “Naw. Just some bunch outa Liberty or somewheres. From what I hear, they plan ta be open by the Fourth a July.”

  “How come you know so much?”

  “My wife’s brother toted mud for ‘em.

  “What?”

  “Drives a cement truck.”

  “Oh.”

  *****

  It started off as a quiet shift. Hart-five, Charlie Rogers, worked a minor wreck outside Sutton around seven-thirty. At a little after nine, Hart-nine, Arkie Bennet, got a call just a few blocks from the Sheriff’s office of shots fired at a family disturbance. Hart-five was only a couple of miles out of town, and hustled in as backup. Crockett drifted that way and stopped about a block up the street as Arkie came on the air.

  “Hart-nine, headquarters.”

  “Go ahead, Nine.”

  “Ah, headquarters, our complainant here is a Mister Ken Jennings. Says he and his wife got into it tonight over his relationship with her sister, and that Mrs. Jennings went into their bedroom, retrieved a Ruger .22 pistol from a nightstand, and took two shots at him where he stood in the kitchen. He was not injured, but there appears to be one hole in the kitchen ceiling and another in the refrigerator. The suspect, Sue Ann Jennings, fled the scene on foot with the weapon. She is described as a white female, age thirty-four, five-six, one hundred and thirty pounds, with long dark hair. When she was last seen, she was wearing blue shorts, a white sweatshirt, white athletic shoes, and a bad attitude. She’s been gone from the scene for about thirty minutes. Over.”

  “Ten-four Nine.”

  “Hart-five to HQ.”

  “Go Five.” />
  “The complainant also states that his wife is a determined kind of person, especially when she’s upset. We’re gonna hang around while he collects what he needs for their baby and goes someplace else for the night.”

  “Ten-four, Five.”

  Crockett got out of the truck, walked behind the house he’d parked next to, and began to ease his way through backyards toward the Jennings residence. He stopped under a large oak tree in their neighbor’s side yard and waited. Sure enough, in just a couple of minutes a woman in a white sweatshirt came slipping up through the Jennings backyard and around to the big windows at the side of the house, just ten feet from where he stood quietly in the dark. Through the windows, the two officers were easily visible as they stood in the living room. When the complainant, carrying a portable car seat loaded with a small child walked into the room, the suspect raised a pistol and pointed it at the windows.

  Crockett quickly stepped forward, grabbed the woman by the hair, and viciously slammed her to the earth on her back. The gun bounced out of her hand, and he struck her a hammer blow to the center of her upper stomach. Before her diaphragm began working again, Crockett flipped her over and cuffed her hands behind her back. With the return of breath, Sue Ann began to vigorously protest the treatment, Crockett, Crockett’s ancestors, her husband, her sister, and anything else that came to mind.

  Hearing her screams and expletives, Five and Nine came hustling to the scene to see Crockett holding the woman at arm’s length by the handcuffs, as she kicked backwards, attempting to disembowel him with her tenni-runners. Arky approached her from the front as she spit at him, and he tried to grasp her shoulder. The woman sank her teeth into his forearm and held on. Crockett dug a thumb into her left mastoid. She released Arky and shrieked. Charlie stepped in next, executed a quality leg sweep, and dropped her to the grass. While Crockett held her face down, he zip-tied her ankles together. He and Crockett carried her to the car and dropped her onto the rear floorboard.

  Panting, Crockett walked to the fallen pistol, picked it up by the edges of the trigger guard, and carried it over to Arky, where the young man stood, balefully regarding the tooth marks and blood on the inside of his right forearm.

  “Get me a bag, Arky,” he said. Arky complied, and Crockett carefully deposited the weapon and sealed the top. “Be careful with it. There’s probably one in the chamber,” Crockett went on. “Aggravated assault on her husband, aggravated battery on you, resisting arrest on all of us, discharging a firearm in the city limits, and reckless conduct. Hell, go for attempted murder if you want to, the worst they can do is throw it out. Get Margie to help shake her down and process her and make sure the cameras are on. That shithead might do or claim anything.”

  “Okay,” Arkie said.

  “Check the house for brass before you leave. As soon as that idiot is in a cell, get your ass to the hospital for that bite. Human bites are a bitch. You’re right handed, aren’t you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You lose that arm, it’s gonna fuck up your sex life. I’ll get a statement typed up before I go home. Keep strokin’ boy. We all get paid for this shit.”

  *****

  As Crockett was climbing out of his truck to get a to-go coffee at the café, he heard Five and Nine clear the scene. The Jennings female was a good lesson for the young men. They didn’t need him at the cop shop. Besides, he’d rather fight a man half again his size, than fight a woman half his size, again.

  *****

  It was a little after eleven when his radio crackled to life.

  “Headquarters to Hart-five.”

  “Heart-five HQ, go ahead.”

  “Heart-five, we have a report of a one vehicle 10-50 on that hilly section of Poston Road. The stretch that’s been blacktopped.”

  “Ten-fo’. Enroute.”

  “Reported as being a pickup truck sideways in the eastbound lane attached to a horse trailer. The trailer is on its side and contains a horse. The reporting caller is a bystander on scene. Says the driver is drunk and agitated.”

  “Ten-four, headquarters!” Charlie said, his siren wailing in the background.

  Realizing he was only a couple of miles away, Crockett flipped on his emergency lights, kicked the hemi in the ass, and took off.

  *****

  Slowing for the scene, Crockett dodged some wooden debris in the road. He pulled onto the narrow shoulder about a hundred feet behind the crash and clicked on his camera and driving lights. In the augmented glare, he could see into the rear of the crashed horse trailer. The horse was lying on its right side and struggling feebly.

  “Hart-two, headquarters.”

  “Go ahead, Two.”

  “I’m out at the scene of the 10-50.”

  “Ten-four, Two.”

  Crockett slipped on his sap gloves, hung his badge outside his pocket, unlimbered his flashlight, and got out of the truck. He noticed some long gouges in the asphalt roadway leading toward the rear of the trailer and looked in on the horse. My God! The mare’s left front foot was gone. All that remained was torn bone and flesh. Checking the trailer, he found a portion of the wooden bottom that would have been under the mare’s front legs, to be missing. He grabbed his pack set.

  “HQ, Two.”

  “Go, Two.”

  “We need a wrecker and a vet, headquarters. There a badly injured horse here that’ll have to be put down. We’ll also need some way to move the carcass.”

  “Ten-four, Two.”

  “And, get Arky out here for traffic control. We’ve got about five cars stopped now.”

  “I heard ya, Two.” Arky shouted over his siren. “I’m comin’.”

  It was pretty plain to Crockett what had happened. The horse had fallen through the floor of the trailer where it broke beneath her front feet. The driver, possibly too drunk to realize what was happening, had continued on until the mare, now sliding on the pavement, had her foot broken off. Possibly from that shock or drunken driving or both, the trailer had crashed to its side, causing the truck to go out of control.

  *****

  Crockett looked in the trailer again. The horse’s right front foot was also mangled, destroyed to the fetlock. The mare was in shock, trembling and issuing a ragged mewing sound with every breath. Sickened, he turn away. The trailer, which had no license plate, had maintained contact with the ball, twisting the battered rear bumper of the rusty old Ford pickup. The trailer chains were missing. The plates on the truck were expired. He looked in the cab. A half empty bottle of Black Jack was on the passenger floorboard, and the smell of whisky was nearly overwhelming. Across the road, a young man stood beside a red Toyota Camry.

  “You see the crash?” Crockett asked.

  “Nossir. Got here right after it happened.”

  “Where’s the driver?”

  “He went down the hill over there behind you. I think he had to pee.”

  “Thanks. Hang around, will ya? We’ll need to get a little information.”

  “Okay.”

  Crockett walked back to the trailer. The horse was still hanging on. The voice came from behind him.

  “Hey! Git away from my horse, motherfucker.”

  Advancing toward him and weaving slightly was a raw-boned man with greasy thinning red hair. He was around six-two and ropy, red of face and covered in freckles. He wore a sleeveless muscle shirt, stained blue jeans, and worn cowboy boots. He stopped about ten feet away.

  “You the driver of this truck?”

  “Ain’t none a yer goddam business.”

  “Sure it is. I’m a cop. Are you the driver of this truck?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Then you’re under arrest.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “The list is long and varied. Let me see your driver’s license.”

  The man peered at Crockett for a moment, then smiled. “How ‘bout I just kick your ass, motherfucker,” he replied, and charged.

  Crockett took a quick step forward to avo
id the coming punch and hit his attacker once, slightly off center and straight to the face. The man went down on his back immediately and violently, his head bouncing on the asphalt. He made no further sound or movement. Crockett checked his pulse to make sure he had one, rolled the still form over and, for the second time that night, cuffed a suspect’s hands behind their back.

  In another minute, a siren could be heard and flashing lights appeared around a bend in the road. Thirty seconds later, Charlie pulled up behind Crockett’s truck. Crockett waved him forward, and Charlie rolled up beside the trailer. He got out and looked at Crockett and the still form on the ground.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Crockett said, pointing to the prone figure at his feet. “He’s under arrest. Help me get him in your backseat before he comes to.”

  “What happened to him?” Charlie asked.

  “He tried to hit me,” Crockett said.

  They rolled the suspect over and Charlie gasped. “That’s Spud Cantral!” he said.

  Crockett couldn’t help himself. “Who?” he asked.

  *****

  It took over an hour to clear the scene, most of that time accompanied by a nearly endless stream of invective from the rear of Charlie’s car. Pictures were taken, measurements were made. They tracked the horseshoe scrapes on the asphalt for over two hundred yards. Two guys had shown up with the wrecker. One drove Spud’s truck back to town, the other towed the trailer. The mare died before the vet arrived. He winched her body onto a flatbed and headed to his office. Arky went back on patrol, and Crockett followed Charlie back to town. They dragged a bloody and struggling Spud Cantral down to the basement and, leaving the cuffs on, tossed him into a single holding cell. As soon as they walked out, Spud began kicking the door and screaming. Crockett looked at Charlie.