Fog Count: Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Memorial Day, 11:15 a.m.

“What the hell do you mean you don’t know which one it is?”  Warden Ponder shouted.  “That’s why we got mugshots, and the fuckin’ inmate IDs.”

Captain Sullivan ignored the shouting, and the profanity.  Seated behind his tiny desk in his tiny office, he remained calm as he explained, “There wasn’t an ID on the body, and we can’t identify him without his head or his fingerprints.”

The warden ran both hands over his shaved head as he turned first to one wall and then the other, as if looking for a way out.  “What about common sense stuff, Sully -- height, weight, distinguishing marks?”

The captain consulted some papers on his desk.   “Gutierrez and de la Rosa were about the same size.  They also had identical tattoos.  They were in the same gang, so they had the same tats with the same body placement.  Quite a coincidence, really.”

The warden stuck his index finger in Sully’s face.  “First of all, there are no gangs here at Oakdale.”

The captain reflexively pulled his face away from the warden’s hand.  “Sorry, sir.  The inmates had the same former affiliations, so the same body art.”

Adding his middle finger to his pointer, the warden said, “Second, find his fuckin’ head.”

Sully nodded.  “We’re looking, sir.”

The warden looked around for a chair to sit on in the captain’s office, and couldn’t find one.  “Is there someplace I can sit, Sully?”

Sully stood, and rolled his chair from behind his desk.  “Take my chair, sir.”

“I don’t want your fucking chair, Sully,” the warden complained.  “I want one of my own.  Don’t you keep a chair in here for visitors?”

“Uh, no sir,” Sully said.  “The only visitors I usually get are inmates, and I don’t want them getting comfortable in here.”

The warden grunted, which might have been a grudging signal of approval.  Warden Ponder wasn’t really accustomed to any environment besides his own well-appointed office.  He almost never left his office, preferring to let his underlings do all the grunt work requiring actual contact with the inmate population.  The rare occasions when he did leave his comfortable second floor suite were always to address some type of incompetence.

Still standing, the captain picked up his phone, pushed a button, and spoke into the mouthpiece.  “Deshotel, bring me a chair in here.  One of those padded ones from the safety classroom.”  He hung up the phone, and looked up at the warden.  “Chair’s on its way, sir.”

Warden Ponder looked up at Captain Sullivan, slightly annoyed that the man was so much taller than he was.  Ponder was 5’ 10” and built like a linebacker.  Sullivan was a lean man, at least 5 inches taller than the warden.   “Christ Almighty, Sully,” Ponder said, “we got one fugitive and one corpse and we don’t know which is which.  What about DNA?  Get some blood from the corpse, and test it against the samples we got on file.  We got DNA samples from every prisoner here, right?”

Captain Sullivan was silent for a moment.  He bit his lower lip, then answered, “Uhm, not exactly, sir.  Oakdale’s a little behind on the DNA collection policy.  We got samples from all the sex offenders, but the drug offenders were a low priority.  So, no.  No DNA samples on these two.”

Warden Ponder’s voice became a menacing whisper.  “You’re shittin’ me.”

“Sorry, Warden,” Sully said.  “Wish I was.  But at least we’re not facing any penalties from Region, or the national office.  The BOP’s letting us slide a little.  They say we’ve got until the end of the year to complete DNA collection on the whole inmate population.”

Barely holding back the urge to scream, Ponder said, “What good does that do me right fucking now?”

A short, stocky officer pushed open the captain’s office door without knocking.  He rolled a chair in on its casters, then left the office as abruptly as he had entered.

Ponder kicked the chair, knocking it against the wall.  “What a clusterfuck.  Don’t you have any good news for me at all?”

Sully stood awkwardly behind his desk, wishing he could sit, but knowing he had to remain standing as long as the warden was refusing to sit.  He said, “U.S. Marshals should be here soon.  And the FBI.  And Region’s sending some people.  So, this shouldn’t be your headache much longer.”

“What part of that sounds like good news?” the Warden demanded.  “My replacement will probably be here by the end of the day.  Where’s the A.W.?”

“Local V.F.W.,” Sully answered.  “They’re having their Memorial Day pancake breakfast.  She helps out every year.”

“God bless the V.F.W.,” the warden said sourly.  “They invite her to their little shindig every year.  They never invite me, and I’m an actual by-God veteran of a foreign war.  Does she know what’s going on here?”

“Don’t know, sir,” Sully said.  “I doubt it.  I certainly didn’t contact her.  Chain of command and all.  I thought you would call her in if you needed her.”

The warden turned to the door, glad to have an excuse for leaving.  “I’m gonna call her.  I need at least one person here who’s got their shit together.”

Sully stammered, “Sir, I know it looks bad right now…”

Warden Ponder spun around to face the captain.  “Sully, if you know what’s good for you, for all of us, you’re gonna find out who this dead inmate is before any outsiders get here.”

“I’m doing my best, sir,” Sully said earnestly.  “We all are.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” sighed the warden.

Weekly Installments

Well... I did the math, and it's obvious that I can't finish this book in a year's time if I only post a chapter every other week... so I need to move to weekly installments.

Here's the math:

A commercial novel should be at least 60,000 words.  Since a standard page is 250 words long, that translates into 240 pages.  So... at least 60,000 words, at least 240 pages.  My chapters average 6 pages, or 1500 words.  That would mean my novel needs at least 40 chapters (40 x 1500 = 60,000).

Of course, my output isn't really dictated by the muse of mathematics (if such a non-romantic goddess sister ever existed, and I don't think she did).  My muse lives more in the right-brained universe, a muse of storytelling and imagination, quite untethered from any practical metrics.

But the "practical metrics" are, in a very real way, the purpose of this blog.  I need deadlines and measurements.  So... you will now read a new chapter of my novel every Friday.

Starting today.

Can two muses peacefully coexist in the same mind?

Probably not.

But we'll see.

Fog Count: Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Memorial Day, 7:50 a.m.

Joshua walked through the front door of the police station with his helmet under one arm and his insulated lunch bag in the other.  “Good mornin’, Chief Cardiff,” Emily Sonnier said, with almost-genuine cheerfulness.  “Mornin’,” he answered back, trying to be as nonchalant as possible concerning his macabre cargo.  He walked quickly to his tiny office, put the lunch bag and helmet on his desk, then stood in the doorway of his office, looking out at his overnight dispatcher.  “How was your night, Emily?” he asked, smiling an easy smile.

“Real quiet,” the slightly plump redhead answered.  “Not a single call.  I listened to some radio chatter from the sheriff’s office early this morning, some trouble with poachers in the southern part of the parish.  No calls from here in town, though.”

“No criminal activity in the bustling metropolis of Oakdale, huh?” he said, laughing slightly.

“No sir.  Quiet as a tomb.”  Her bright blue eyes searched his face.  “What’s up, Chief?”

His smile faded a bit.  “What you talkin’ about, Emily?”

“You know.  You got that look.”

He swallowed, and needlessly adjusted his collar.  “A look like something’s happened?”

Emily narrowed her gaze.  “A look like you done somethin’.”

“I ain’t done nothin’.”  He tried to restore his smile and said, “Besides, you ain’t known me long enough to learn my looks.”

She gave a slight snort.  “I’ve known you for a year now.  That’s long enough.  Men ain’t so hard to read.”

Joshua looked back over his shoulder at the helmet and lunch bag on his desk.  He asked as casually as he could, “How long you worked here, Emily?”

She answered, in a very clipped, sharp manner, “Twelve years.  You know that.”

He nodded.  “Eleven years longer than me.  And you lived here all your life?”

Emily punched a few function keys on her computer keyboard.  “Don’t remind me.  My whole damn life in this shithole.”

He watched her face carefully.  “It ain’t so bad,” he said quietly.

She barked out a scoffing laugh.  “Don’t make me doubt your sanity, Chief.  Ain’t nobody wants to live in Oakdale.”

Joshua sighed and said, “I moved here to take this job.”

Emily shook her head.  “Yeah, I still can’t figure that one out.”

Leaning back awkwardly on the door frame, pretending nonchalance, the police chief said, “Say… all that time you lived here… has the city’s police department ever had any problems with, uh, with the prison?  I mean, do our people cooperate with their people?  You know, if there’s ever an issue…”

Emily lifted her eyebrows.  “We about to have some trouble with the prison?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” he answered quickly.  “I just wondered… have there ever been any problems with… y’know, like with… investigations?”

“What you mean, investigations?”

“Like, if there was a crime that affected the prison and the city.  Ever have any jurisdictional problems?”

Worry washed over Emily’s face.  “What is it, Chief?  What kinda trouble we got?”

“It’s nothin’.  Really.”

“Chief.  C’mon.  Tell me what’s up.”

Joshua exhaled slowly, then said, “Emily… you ever done something just ‘cause you felt it was the right thing to do?”

Emily shook her head slowly and said, “You feed that homeless guy that sleeps under the stairs at fish market again?”

Joshua chuckled.  “No.”

“Did you give him money?”

Joshua waved his hand, as if to wipe the subject away.  “No.  Look, this isn’t about Gabby.”

Emily’s eyes widened.  “You know his name?”

 Joshua was growing more and more exasperated.  “Forget about the homeless guy, Emily.  I’m not talking about him, and I’m not talking about doing a good deed for someone.  What I’m talking about is more like… like some private thing.  Something you do in a moment, a moment when no one else sees what you’re doing.  Just you and God know.  And even though some folks might say it was the wrong thing to do if they knew what you did, you know it was the right thing.  You know it was the right thing to do, you just don’t understand why.  You ever done anything like that?”

Emily peeled off her telephone headset, dropped it on her desk, and stood up.  “Oh my God, what have you done?”

Joshua closed his eyes and sighed.  “Nothing.  I just… I collected some evidence.”

“Evidence,” Emily repeated, making the word sound hollow.

“Evidence of a crime in our town.  A crime that took place here in Oakdale.”

“What kind of crime?”

“Not sure yet.  Murder, maybe.”

Emily held her breath for a moment, then exhaled heavily.  “Murder?  What did you find, a weapon?”

Joshua looked around nervously, then lowered his voice to a whisper.  “I’ll show you what I got, Emily, but you can’t tell anybody.  Not anybody.  Fontenot and Broussard are due here any minute to start their shift.”

“Big Fontenot or Little Fontenot?” Emily asked.

“Little Fontenot,” Joshua said.

Emily made a thoughtful clucking sound for a moment.  “Yeah, you can’t trust him.  He talks too much.”

Joshua’s voice was urgent, filled with tension.  “Em, I can’t trust anybody.  Just you.  We can’t tell the guys who come in this mornin’, or the guys who worked last  night.”

“We prob’ly won’t see the guys from last night,” Emily explained.  “You know that.  They usually just go straight home, fill out their timesheets when they come in for their next shift.”

“But if they do come in, they can’t know anything about this.  And you cannot tell Angie.”

Emily shot a glance at the clock on the wall.  “She should be spellin’ me any minute.”

“I know,” said Joshua.  “That’s why I’m sayin’ all this.  You can’t tell anybody -- none of the officers, and definitely not Angie.  Not anybody.”

“My lips are sealed.  Swear to God.  Now, what you got?”

Joshua looked down at the floor, avoiding Emily’s gaze.  “And, uh… you can’t tell none of them boyfriends of yours.”

Emily managed a humorless chuckle.  “You ain’t gotta worry about that.  I ain’t had a date since Valentine’s Day.”

“That ain’t what Little Fontenot says,” Joshua teased.

“Screw what that piss ant says.  I told you he talks too much.  Now show me what  you got, Chief.”

Joshua walked behind his desk.  “Step in, and close the door behind you,” he said as he opened up his insulated lunch bag.  He spun the helmet around so that the gory neck faced Emily.  He then unsnapped the visor and pulled it off, revealing the corpse’s face.

Emily was shocked, but not by what she saw.  She was shocked by the implications of what she saw.  “My God, Chief, why didn’t you set up a crime scene wherever you found these?”

“I can’t say for sure,” he answered uneasily.  “I just knew it would be… complicated.  The case would’ve been taken away from me immediately.”

Emily thought for a moment, then asked, “Where did you find these?”

“Bonner Farm Road,” Joshua answered.  “North of the prison.  They were right out on the road.”

“Bonner Farm Road is in the city limits.  Why you think somebody’s gonna take the case away from you?”

Joshua heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “‘Cause there was a body tangled up in the razor wire at the top of the prison fence.”

Emily stared wide-eyed at Joshua.  “What the fuck you thinkin’, Chief?  You gotta notify the prison.”

“No,” he said forcefully.  “That’s exactly what we’re not gonna do.  These body parts are in our jurisdiction, so this is our investigation.”

“Don’t you think that body hangin’ in the razor wire should be a part of the investigation?” Emily asked.

Joshua nodded thoughtfully.  “Probably.  Eventually.  But not now.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because…” Joshua’s words trailed off as he looked down at the sleepy-looking head.

“Because why?”

“Because there’s somethin’ wrong with this,” he said, indicating the body parts with his outstretched hands.  “Somethin’ funny.  It’s like it was… it was staged.  Like somebody wanted these body parts found by somebody.   Found by somebody outside the prison.”

Emily turned to the door.  “Let me call the prison.  I know the warden’s secretary.”

“No!  Em, you promised!”

“I had no idea what I was promisin’,” she shot back angrily.

Joshua put his hand on her shoulder, then turned her around gently to face him.  “Em, listen.  How far back from the road is the prison fence?”

“How far… what are you askin’?” she asked, not looking at him.

“From Bonner Farm Road -- how far back is that prison fence?”

Emily shook her head, confused.  “I don’t know.  Twenty, twenty-five feet.”

“It’s thirty feet,” he explained.  “You think this head and these hands would’ve somehow flown across that space of ground and hit the pavement when that razor wire sheared ‘em off?”

She looked again at the body parts on the desk.  “No.  Not unless there was some really high winds blowin’.  Even then…”

“And were there any high winds last night?”

“No.  No storms this far inland last night.”

Joshua slapped the corner of the desk.  “Don’t you see?  Somebody put these things on the road.  Somebody wanted ‘em found.”

“Maybe some critters drug ‘em there.”

Joshua sat down in the chair behind his desk and stared down at the head and hands.  “Nah.  Animals would’ve taken ‘em on out into the woods.  Besides, there’s no sign that anything got ahold of ‘em.  Clean cuts, no indication of animals bitin’ or chewin’.”

Emily looked at him, finally meeting his gaze.  “Chief, it’s like you’re so bored you’re makin’ a mystery for yourself.”

Joshua smiled at her.  “Like that Sarah McLachlan song.  Building a Mystery.”

“Hell, I don’t know about that,” she answered, smiling back at the chief.  “If it ain’t Elvis, I don’t pay much attention.”

He motioned to the body parts again and said, “But I’m not just making it up, Emily.  The mystery was already there.  I came motoring up the road this morning like I do every morning, and there was a head and a pair of hands on the highway in front of me.  Apparently whatever happened had just happened, because the body was still hanging up on the fence.  The prison C.O.s should be finding the body before long.  I’m sure they’re doin’ a fog count this mornin.’’

“What’ll happen then?” Emily asked.

“That’s the million dollar question.”

The sound of the outer door opening prompted Emily to return to the outer office.  As she opened the chief’s office door, Joshua pleaded, “Not a word, Em.  Please.”

She turned back to him for a moment and said in a fierce whisper, “It’s against my better judgement, but fine.  Not a word.  But you better find someplace to store that shit on your desk before somebody sees it.  I don’t know what your plans are, forensics-wise, but I’d strongly suggest some kinda freezer.”

The Value of Contests

Not to brag or anything, but... I won an award this year (well, technically the production of my script won the award) for a script I didn't even know would be entered into competition.  Every year the Mark Time Awards are given for the best audio theater productions in the world (yes indeed, it's an international award).  The Golden Ogle Award is given for the best horror or fantasy production of the year.  Pocket Universe's production of my adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe's Masque of the Red Death won the Golden Ogle this year (If you'd like to listen to it, just click on the link you'll find to the right under "Audio Drama's I've Written," and you can listen for free!)

I received my crystal trophy commemorating the event in the mail the other day.  The producer, Bill Dufris, took home the trophy given at the awards ceremony (how dare he!), but I got one a month later with my name on it.

It's my first writing award, and I'm very grateful for it.  Right now I'm keeping the award packed away in its beautiful case until I have an appropriate shelf or mantle or whatever to properly display it.

But this post isn't really about awards; it's about contests.

I entered a novella-writing contest about three years ago, and created a "world" populated with characters I liked.

I didn't win the contest.

But I was left with these intriguing characters, and this well-developed world.  Those creations of my imagination were the trophies I won in that contest.

Earlier this year, I entered a contest sponsored by James Patterson to become his newest co-author.  It was an interesting contest, because in order to enter, I had to take an online class taught by James Patterson.  I learned an amazing amount of stuff about commercial fiction writing (especially about outlining).

I didn't win that contest either.

But I took the characters and fictional world from my novella, and turned them into an extensive outline for a novel.  The knowledge I gained from the world's most popular novelist, and the outline I created for the contest, were my trophies from that adventure in writing.

And now, I'm turning that outline into an actual novel -- a novel you will be able to read on this blog, chapter at a time.

I'm toying with the idea of entering the finished book into the 2017 Mystery Writers of America Best First Crime Novel Contest.  The winner gets a nice advance, and a book deal with St. Martin's Press!

But that wonderful prize isn't necessarily the reason for entering the contest.   Because I know...

even if I don't win the contest...

I'll collect a lot of trophies.

What's the Plan?

So... what's the plan exactly?  Am I going to post a chapter every other week until the book is finished?  If so, how to I plan to sell any books when the project is finished?  After all, who wants to buy a book if they can read the whole thing online?

Well... my answer to all of the above is... I don't really have a fully developed plan, but I do know this much:  I will publish most of the chapters online.  This blog will contain the first two parts of a three-part novel.  The first part will describe the crime; the second part will detail the investigation; and the third part will reveal the solution.  Hopefully the first two thirds of the book -- the sections about the crime and the investigation -- will be so intriguing and thrilling to my readers, they will be compelled to buy the book to find out how it all ends.

Hmm.  Maybe I do have a plan after all.

To Curse, or Not To Curse

I never curse.  Well, almost never.  Maybe when I'm cut off in traffic, or if I hit my thumb with a hammer... but as a rule, I don't curse.

Also, as a rule, I don't spend much time with people who are routinely vulgar in their conversations.  I don't like the atmosphere such language creates.  Unfortunately, I've had situations in my life in which I was forced to live with people who were constantly crass, vulgar, and insulting with their language, and I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.

However... when I'm writing fiction... some of my characters curse -- often, quite colorfully.

Why?  If I don't curse (and I don't), and I don't like to be around people who curse (and I don't), why do some of my characters curse?

My short answer is:  realism.  I'm trying to create believable situations in my writing, and some of the characters I create curse, depending upon the circumstances.  Mark Twain once said, "Under certain circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer."

Some of my characters will only curse when placed in difficult and stressful situations.  Others use vulgar language for intimidation, or for the expression of anger.  Still others, because of the way they were socialized, are the every-other-word sort of offenders.

I know that sounds like a lot of "cussing" -- and I suppose it is.  This current project seems especially ripe for vulgar talk -- a novel populated with convicts, low-lifes, and law enforcement officers.  I don't use vulgar language gratuitously, but I also don't try to hide the moral weaknesses of the characters.

Is cursing a sign of moral weakness?  Sometimes, I think.  At the very least it often signifies a lack of decorum, or absence of social conscience.  Sometimes, however,  it merely reveals the fact that a person feels comfortable enough to "be himself" around someone.  As with most things, it all depends on the circumstances.

And the circumstances in a modern murder mystery -- at least one I would write (or read) -- often require cursing.

Years ago, I toyed around with the technique used by Frank Peretti (arguably the father of modern Christian fiction), in which the reader is told when characters curse, but the dialogue isn't included.  For example, "He spat out a curse at the woman."  It accomplishes part of the goal -- it lets the reader know someone is cursing.  However, we as readers can never feel the shock or outrage the listener in the story feels, because we don't know what words are being used.

Forgive me for getting biblical here for a moment, but Jesus once said, "A good man out of the good treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is evil: for of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaketh. "

According to the Lord, the more good you have in your heart, the more good things come out of your mouth, and the more evil you have in your heart, the more evil things pour out of your mouth.  For me, that principle needs to be reflected in fiction in order for it to be believable.

Hmmm... doesn't the fact that I need to express vulgarity at all, even through fictional characters, reveal some sort of... moral inconsistency in me?

Probably.

I'm reminded of a story about David Lynch, the avant garde film director.  Lynch, whose films often include very vulgar language and imagery, once kicked a crew member off the set of one of his movies because the crew member was cursing.  For Lynch, it was acceptable for actors to say vulgar words as part of the art that was being created, but it was unacceptable for someone to use the same sort of language in real life.  Inconsistent?  Sure.  Hypocritical?  Probably.

But somehow... his reaction made perfect sense to me.

So... if you don't like vulgarity in your fiction, be warned:  you're about to encounter a bit of it.  Hopefully, it won't be too much.

Just enough to seem real.

Fog Count: Prologue, and Chapter One

PROLOGUE

A silvery fog rolled in across the prison compound, thick and damp and filled with echoes from the nearby swamps and bayous.  The fog unfurled over the thirsty sun-wilted grass;  it wrapped itself around the chain-link fences and concertina wire surrounding the prison; it covered the buildings in thick -- yet insubstantial -- blankets, forming blockish gray lumps on the landscape, like heavy square clouds set against the earth.

The fog set the pace of that summer morning at the Oakdale Federal Correctional Institution in Central Louisiana.  Inmates were released from the housing units in small, controlled groups to the chow hall between 6:15 a.m. and 7:05 a.m.; then, after breakfast, everything -- rec yard, work call, library, hospital -- remained shut down.  Everything waited for the fog to lift.

And the fog took its time.

Everyone waited;  the inmates, the guards, and, most patiently of all, the fog itself.

When the fog eventually lifted -- when it unwrapped and faded and sheared itself away from the prison compound -- the huge, emotionless, Infernal Machine comprised of men and women in blue uniforms conducted what is known as a fog count.

Counting inmates is routine.  It is one of the primary functions of the Infernal Machine;  random census counts to make sure inmates are where they’re supposed to be during the day;  the 4 p.m. stand-up count, to ensure that everyone has returned from work assignments; the 9 p.m. in-the-cell count;  and counts throughout the night to make certain that no one is out-of-bounds after lights out.

And then, of course, there is the fog count.

On the morning in question -- a particularly humid Memorial Day -- the fog didn’t begin to dissipate until approximately 8:15 a.m..  A stand-up fog count was conducted throughout the prison housing units starting at 8:30 a.m..

The Acadia housing unit, which ordinarily housed 200 men at full capacity (although it was designed to house only 70 men), had a count of 198.  In spite of the meticulous and ingenious counting methods employed by the Infernal Machine, the count was always two men short each of the three times it was repeated.

The officers eventually took the extraordinary measure of conducting an actual rack book count -- determining not only how many inmates were present, but also the names of the inmates.  As a rule, members of the prison staff did their best to avoid calling inmates by name; they avoided any activity which reminded them that prisoners were actual human beings.

The rack book count revealed the absence of Ronaldo “Blade” Gutierrez, and  Miguelito “Ice” de la Rosa, two low-level drug dealers.  Blade was from West Texas, and Ice was from New Mexico.  They were both members of the same gang (although officially there were no gang members at Oakdale).

At 10:34 a.m., an intensive prison-wide manhunt was initiated.

The manhunt stalled at 11:02 a.m., when the body of an unidentified Hispanic man was discovered tangled in the concertina wire at the top of the northern-most rec yard fence, blood-soaked and glistening with beads of moisture left behind by the still-retreating fog.  Prison officials were unable to identify the body because the head and hands had been sheared off by the razor edges of concertina wire.  Strangely, the head and hands were nowhere to be found.  

One inmate was dead, another was missing, and the vanishing fog was the only witness.

CHAPTER ONE

Memorial Day, 7:32 a.m.

Joshua Cardiff gazed down at the fleshy objects in the road.  He balanced his idling motorcycle with one leg, staring hard at the human head and hands lying on the  asphalt.  After a long minute he sighed heavily, killed the engine, popped the kickstand, and stepped off his bike.

He took off his helmet, hung it from one of the handlebars, then squatted down for a better look.  The head looked to be that of an Hispanic man in his thirties.  The left cheek lay against the black, cracked pavement, and the right half of the face, the part that Joshua could see, seemed to be grinning.

“Just who are you, hombre?” Joshua whispered, not really expecting an answer.  He brushed hair away from the decapitated man’s forehead with his leather-gloved hand, as if that would help him identify the corpse.  Joshua’s eyes moved from the body parts in the road to the high fence set back a few yards from the road.  A sign on the fence warned him to keep his distance from this dangerous federal facility.  Above the sign, through the clearing fog, he saw the silhouette of a body tangled in the concertina wire at the top of the fence.

Joshua stood, and looked up and down the road.  “Still quiet this time of mornin’, hombre,” he said quietly.  “By 8 o’clock the traffic on this road will be pretty lively, though.”  He went back to his bike, and opened the hard saddle bag at the back.  He removed his insulated lunch bag, opened it, removed the two tuna sandwiches and Doritos from inside, and placed them back in the saddle bag.  He then walked over to the body parts in the road, picked up the hands, and placed them inside the lunch bag.  He looked at the head in the road, then shook his own head, knowing it wouldn’t fit in the bag.  He closed the lunch bag, took it back to the bike, and placed it back in the saddle bag.  He then grabbed his helmet, stepped back to the severed head, bent over, scooped it up deftly with one hand, and firmly maneuvered the head into the helmet.  He returned to the bike, went back into the saddle bag for the helmet’s visor, then snapped it on the helmet, obscuring the dead man’s face with the dark opaque plastic.  He strapped the helmet to the back of the seat with some bungee cords, mounted the motorcycle, kicked the engine to life, and motored full-throttle down the road.

Joshua traveled eastward at exactly 55 miles per hour, enjoying the wind blowing through his helmet-free hair.  He realized he was violating state and municipal laws by riding without a helmet, but he knew there was very little chance of him being stopped or ticketed, since he was Oakdale’s chief of police.  He wasn’t worried at all about the helmet being off of his head.  He was worried about the helmet’s gruesome content, however, and the pair of hands in his saddle bag.

He wouldn’t have been able to explain to anyone why he had done it -- picked up the body parts off the road -- because he wasn’t able to explain it to himself.  It was something akin to a hunch; he simply had the feeling that something bad was going to happen to the head and hands if he didn’t secure them.  He thought he remembered someone long ago saying to him, “Sometimes the best way to preserve the evidence is to steal the evidence.”

But who was he stealing the evidence from?  Wasn’t he, after all, the chief of police?  Wasn’t the road he was traveling on within the city limits, making this his jurisdiction?  Wouldn’t he have been justified in establishing a crime scene then and there?

His doubts and fears all had to do with the prison, of course.  It seemed that whatever had happened -- murder, escape attempt, misadventure -- had happened inside the prison, making it federal jurisdiction.  The body parts had merely spilled out onto his road.  That’s the way it looked, anyway.  However, something churned in his gut… a  hunch that something was amiss.  It had been a long time since Joshua had felt that unsettling churning within him, and he had learned long ago not to ignore it.