Bad Things Page 2

  There's a single diner, two bars, one strip club (with a clever name), two grocery stores (the nice one and the other one), and one pizza joint. Oh yeah, and one gas station, if you don't count the two pumps associated with the nice grocery store.

  While most of the town sleeps, Dibs drives by, keeping an eye on things. The great protector, or at least he'd like to think so. That was the job he applied for. He rolls down the window and lets the fresh air slap him in the face. Lets it aid in the process of waking him up. The few sips of coffee weren't enough.

  A red light stops him at the corner of Snowbird Lane and Mountain Street. Dibs can see City Hall, the fire department and the police station not far away. It's a snow town, so there's also a large warehouse/snowplow workshop down the street. Dealing with the elements is a cottage industry around here.

  The radio switches over to The Doors. In the fraction of a second between the changeover from Plant to Morrison, he hears Carol hack-cough then seamlessly slide into a speech about adult responsibility. Dibs can’t help but smile. This is his morning commute. Not bad.

  A stray dog, part German Shepherd, part Lab maybe, wanders into the intersection. Looks lost. Hungry. Jimmy knows it's no use, but he slips the Blazer into park, wanting to bring the dog in. Help it out. At least set the dog up with some food and a slurp of clean water. He opens the door with a creak of age and metal. The stray whips its head toward him. Something is hanging out from the dog's mouth.

  “Easy now. What you got there, buddy?” Jimmy puts his hands out in front of him. A universal sign to the animal kingdom that you’re cool. Not going to hurt it. “You hungry?”

  The dog takes off like a shot, dropping what was trapped in its jaws.

  A mauled Denver Broncos cap tangled up with a surgical mask flops down into the middle of the road. Dibs squints his tired eyes, searching the corners of his mind. Just the other day someone was telling him something. Remembers hearing about a dude in a Broncos cap who was pushing a cheap high around town. That happens in New York City every second of every day, but here it's a significant story.

  Leaning down, he studies what the dog dropped in the road.

  “Damn.” Dibs grunts. “Meth is a mean bitch.”

  Chapter Three

  The station is tiny.

  Dibs calls it The Closet of Justice. In reality, it is slightly larger than a Dairy Queen.

  The dispatcher, Carol, sits at the front desk perched like a gargoyle. She fills dual roles of dispatch and desk sergeant. Does neither one with a whole lot of skill or pizazz. He's never asked, but he guesses she's clocking in at around sixty or so, though if you told him she was a hard forty he wouldn't be surprised. He imagines she's seen some things over the years, and nothing ages a person like hard living and a lifetime of chimney-smoking like a bartender on break. Carol came with the job, much like the furniture in the dinky station.

  Carol grunts a greeting in his direction as a form of good morning, then hacks up half a lung.

  "Hi, Carol," Jimmy yells louder than necessary.

  She mumbles something disparaging about his mother as she waves him off.

  There are two offices toward the back. One of them is empty, the other is Chief Dibs’s, even though he rarely sits in there. Drives him crazy to be idle for too damn long. He walks in and sifts through some mail. Looks over some Post-it notes, not really reading any of it. The desk aspires to one day become a mess. An avalanche of papers and whatever else is scattered across the surface like a layer of fresh snow covering dead bodies. The gold nameplate reads DIBS, shining through the muck like a diamond in a goat's ass as the only newish looking thing in the station. The nameplate was a gift from the mayor. Dibs was told by the mayor’s people to have the ten-dollar gift in plain sight just in case he stopped by.

  Carol rolls her chair into his office. Stares at him. Hacks. Stares some more.

  “Yes, Carol?”

  “You gonna handle that?” Carol thumbs her bony thumb behind her. “She’s been waiting.”

  Dibs looks past Carol back into the lobby of the station. Seated along the far wall is a middle-aged woman dressed in a denim shirt with reddish, almost purple streaks across it. Similar stains are blotched in larger spots on the thighs of her old blue jeans. Her face is solemn as hell, as if she’s given up. Hope hardened by something. Her distant eyes stare off into the void.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dibs squeezes past Carol, who’s unwilling to move her chair that’s blocking the doorway. As he moves toward the woman, he whisper-barks, “Asshole.”

  “I did tell you, dammit.”

  He throws his hands in the air. “When?”

  “Just now.” She hacks. “All that cheerleading pussy makin’ you deaf?”

  Dibs holds up a finger for her to shut it. “Told you not to say that shit anymore.” This relationship with Carol is exhausting. “We had a deal.”

  “Whatever, man.” Carol stares at him like a blank computer screen.

  “You can’t say cheerleading pussy. Gives the wrong damn impression. I'm doing the slip and slide with a grown woman, and it's goddam fantastic." He adjusts his shirt, runs a hand through his hair. "For both of us."

  She snickers.

  He snaps his fingers.

  Carol rolls away.

  He regrets sharing some of his life with Carol. It was late one night and they'd been sitting there doing nothing for hours. The boredom was crushing so they started talking. Pleasant enough conversation at first. A rare thing for Carol. Felt nice to get the secret off his chest. He thought he could trust her. He'll never do that again. She's held it over him ever since. Only good thing is that she doesn't have any friends, so the damage caused by any gossip should be about zero.

  "Hi." Dibs adjusts his attitude to that of the caring lawman as he saunters over to the woman seated by the wall. “Chief Jimmy Dibs."

  She shakes his hand but only as a gesture. Her expression doesn’t remotely change, nor does she offer much in the way of a squeeze. The dead fish handshake creeps Dibs the hell out, but he hides it well. Masks his willies with a plastered-on smile, one he’s mastered over the years as a cop. The limp handshake is the one thing he can’t deal with. He can deal with the blood and guts, but this, it freaks him out. He fights the good fight, only shudders for a second or two.

  “How can I help you?” he says.

  “I’m Rose.”

  Long pause.

  Dibs raises his brow. Waits for more from Rose. He looks to Carol for something, anything. Carol shrugs. You’re on your own, Chief. Dibs shakes his head in disgust, considers firing her sorry ass for about the hundredth time this week, then turns back to his concerned citizen.

  “Rose. How can I help you?” Dibs puts on his best compassion face. He practices it.

  “Some of my cows were slaughtered.”

  “What?”

  “Some gutted.” Rose looks to the reddish-purple mixed with orange streaks and spots that are scattered across her clothes. “Some of their heads…” She trails off, as if taking a break from reality. Shakes herself, then starts talking again. “Ripped them clean off. The heads. Other cows seem like they were straight taken. My husband, Ronald, Ronnie, he’s out right now rounding up the strays best he can.”

  “This happened when?”

  “Not sure. Last night sometime late, after midnight best guess.”

  “I’m sorry.” He holds up a finger. “Moment, please?”

  Rose nods.

  Dibs marches over to Carol. His face red, blood boiling. “Why in the name of sweet fancy balls didn’t you talk to her? She’s all fucked up over there and you, what? Sat here like an uncaring, geriatric blob from hell?”

  “That’s offensive. You can’t make age jokes. That’s a thing.”

  “Sorry. Apologies.” He turns away then whips back around, unable to let it go. “You are a cop, correct?” He looks her up and down, waving his hand around like a crazy person. “I see you got the starter kit. Uni, badge, gun,
cuffs and shit.”

  “She asked to see the chief. You’re the chief.” She blinks. “And the chief was busy getting pussy.”

  Dibs breathes in deep and hard. Feels his teeth grind. Wants to shoot her. So, so badly. Nobody would blame him. He walks away.

  "Chief Dickhead," Carol says, putting a little more on it than even she intended.

  “Stop!” Dibs yells. He closes his eyes, swallows his rebuttal, increases the pressure on his grinding teeth and finds his center. “Officer Carol. Please find Officer Larson and have him meet me.”

  He walks over to Rose, forcing his plastered-on smile once again.

  “Rose. Let’s go have a look at that dead livestock of yours.”

  Chapter Four

  Jimmy slides the Blazer into park.

  The old machine shimmies, jolting sputters while the engine shuts down. It’s getting colder outside and Dibs’s favorite cruiser is getting a little temperamental in its old age. Rose sits in the passenger seat with that same faraway gaze she had at the station. Hasn't spoken since they left. Dibs tried to engage with some small talk. Perhaps get her to warm up some. Didn’t work. She's too far gone. Retreated back into her own mind. Dibs didn't push it. He's seen this before with people. Simply put, when something terrible happens, some people rage and some shut down. The ones who shut down worry Dibs the most.

  Rose looks out over her farm through the Blazer's cracked windshield. The farm she and her husband have spent the better part of her adult life caring for. They started it together many years ago. A plot of land they cultivated and turned into a way to make a living. Formed a life. Dibs knows it's about more than money. Something she and her husband care deeply about has been harmed. As he looks out at what she sees, he feels bad about that dead livestock of yours comment he made back at the station. He’s struggled with sensitivity at times.

  Scattered out across the open field are lumps of meat and bone. Had Dibs not been told, it would be hard to know that these were ever cows. Steam rises from the open, thick slices and chunks taken from their flesh. Several heads have been removed from the bodies. He’s not sure why someone would do this. It’s a little extreme for around here.

  Dibs realizes that Swedish supergroup ABBA has been blaring at about an eight on the ride over, and while fun as hell, it probably isn’t the proper soundtrack for this display of death and destruction. Dibs reaches over and shuts off the radio. “Sorry.”

  Rose’s chin quivers. Tears begin to roll. Her farm, her family business, is in shambles. Her body begins to shake as she lets go, shedding the stoic expression she'd put up to hold back the raging waters behind her eyes. Finally letting loose what she'd been holding back since the station.

  Dibs looks her way. He hates this part. Hates the tears. The feels, they call them. He’s held many a parent after a gang shootout. Comforted an old lady after a home invasion. Watched children be taken in by Protective Services while being taken away from junkie parents. If you let it all in, you’ll dissolve. Your soul will simply drift up, out, and into the air like smoke from a cancer stick. He thought it would get more comfortable.

  It never did.

  As Rose trembles, Dibs puts his arm around her, guiding her head to his shoulder.

  “It’ll be okay,” he says, trying to offer up something. “It doesn’t seem like it now, but it will.”

  "Chief Dibs," she says between the tears. "You were a police officer in New York City, right?"

  “I was.”

  “Were you good?”

  “Like to think so.”

  “Ever kill anyone?”

  “Rose—”

  “Did. You. Ever kill someone?”

  Dibs swallows. “Yes.”

  “Then you need to kill who did this to my cows.”

  Dibs knows she doesn’t mean it. Rolling emotions make people say all kinds of things, but she’s a good person and when push comes to shove she wouldn’t want anyone to be killed. Dibs looks out over the land, at the carnage, at what used to be a peaceful farm. The rolling land with lush greens on the verge of changing with the season. Aside from what looks like a bloody Civil War reenactment starring livestock, it's a nice-looking piece of land. Something to take pride in. Something to care for. Looking at Rose, he can tell she's done both of those.

  He squeezes her shoulders tight, then raises her chin with a finger, making sure he gets eye contact. He nods then releases her. Not promising anything, but letting her know that he heard her loud and clear. She's upset and rightfully so, but Dibs isn't in the murder for vengeance business. He's been on the wrong end of that before.

  Dibs slides out from the Blazer, inspecting the scene. As he gets closer, it is clear whoever did this was out of their minds. Since he's been here, he's seen the beginnings of what could grow into a minor meth war. Nothing like the drugs he's seen in New York, but it doesn't take much to bring down a small town. Still, he can't imagine this was a pack of meth heads flipping the hell out. Nor can this be high school kids doing stupid shit while north of blotto on cheap bottles of pink wine.

  Dibs’s feet crunch the grass as he steps with care, not wanting to disrupt the crime scene. Leaning down, he looks over what's left of the closest cow to him. If he didn't know better, it would seem like something, or someone, took a bite out of this one based on the shape and appearance of the ripping and tearing. Next to several of the bodies are black marks etched into the ground. All of them decent sizes too. Almost looks like God ran a finger across the land. Scanning the area, he doesn't see signs of a fire. No stray burns. Only these sporadic burn-cuts scattered here and there across the farmland. Around the carcasses.

  He walks farther along, seeing similar types of wounds on the other cows. There's a progression he's seeing, however. As if there was an improvement in the process. Like whoever is responsible was learning how to be more efficient at what they were doing. The first few cows were crudely ripped open, with bones cracked, shattered and splintered. As Dibs moves along, the wounds look cleaner, more precise. Seems like they tried to go at some of the animals from the side, and others they went for the head. He stops at the last cow.

  “What the hell?” he says to himself.

  It’s simply the hide of the cow with its head lying next to it. Like a severed head laid out in the field next to a calfskin rug. Both are clean. No signs of blood. Only the meat and bone removed.

  He hears a car pull up behind him back where he parked his Blazer.

  "Hey, Chief," Larson calls out.

  Dibs closes his eyes. Even Larson’s voice pisses him off. It’s this semi-high-pitched hillbilly thing that drives Dibs absolutely insane. Something Dibs never experienced before coming here. Not to mention, Larson is dumber than shit. Dibs sucks in a deep breath, hopes for strength, then turns around, forcing a smile.

  Larson stands next to Rose about thirty yards back. He’s skinny, real skinny, but with a gut ballooning out. Like a thin snake that swallowed a beach ball. His hair is kept short and tight. Dibs knows it’s because Larson fancies himself as Special Forces. Plays video games all night at his mom’s house. Affecting the kid’s brain.

  “Whatcha got there, Chief Jimmy Dibs?”

  Dibs shuts his eyes. Hates that Larson uses the full title and name thing. Turning back to the scene, Dibs sees something that captures his attention. Beyond the perfectly removed cowhide are marks in the ground. Lots of them. Like something has been dragged off into the woods that surround the land.

  The wind blows and leaves rustle in the breeze.

  This doesn’t make any damn sense, Dibs thinks. None.

  “Yo, Chief.” Larson’s call grates like claws on a thousand chalkboards. “You got some strange stuff going—”

  Dibs holds up a finger, silencing his dumbass subordinate mid-sentence.

  “Get samples.” Dibs points to various spots around the field, then the drag marks. “Get pictures. Lots of pictures. So many pictures.”

  Larson stares back at him with his mouth c
losed tight.

  “Jesus.” Dibs rubs his eyes. He likes the town, he does, just hates the people. Some of them. Well, most of them. “Nod, Larson. Nod at me if you understand.”

  Larson nods like a frantic bobblehead.

  The radio crackles. Carol’s voice joins the party. “Chief?” Hacking mixed with laughter. “Chief Cheerleader Molester?”

  Rose looks his way with concern stamped across her face. Larson smiles big with a thumbs-up. Dibs scrambles for the Blazer, racing across the field, dodging and leaping over dead cow meat along the way.

  “Hey,” Carol calls way too loud. The speaker cracks off the power of her voice. “Chief—”

  He snatches up the radio in his thick fist. “Dammit, Caro—"

  "Oh, right, you're actually working."

  “I’m…” Dibs closes his eyes. “I swear to God I’m going kill—”

  “Hold that thought.” Carol hacks. “Laura Christiansen called.”

  “What?”

  “Laura Christiansen. That nice little dental hygienist. You know her.”

  “No, no I don’t.” He grunts. “What does she want?”

  “Says her twin brothers are missing.”

  “They go missing often?”

  "No. They're dumber than hell, but they usually hang out in their trailer drinking beer, doing drugs, making meth. That kinda shit. Don't recall them going thin air or anything of the sort."

  Dibs looks out over the cows. The gutted bodies. The severed heads. The drag marks into the woods. He lets the idea of meth churn behind his eyes. Meth heads might do this, but it’s still a little much. He glances over to Rose. Could she, maybe her husband, be involved in some sort of small-town drug war? This slaughtering of her livestock some sort of warning? Not likely by looking at her, but Dibs knows looks mean nothing with it comes to criminal activity. Some of the sweetest-looking people on the planet could cut your throat while you sleep. A best friend could try to have you killed.