Murder in the Palouse Read online

  Ignoring Bessie Mae’s slight and disrespectful comment (Nelly knew it was made in jest, as always) Nelly replied, “Well, it seems that the person possessing the DNA is female, 28 years of age, and some would term her ugly as the rear end of a baboon is also from the Northwest at Pacific Beach. She spent 4 years in juvy detention and 4 more in State Prison … at the age of 14 she murdered one of her girlfriends for fucking one of her own girlfriends … she beat the victim with a baseball bat and then spit a copious amount of tobacco juice onto to the victim’s face … just for good measure … that is what the trial record reports.”

  Sue reached across the table and picked up a couple of cookies and said, “Okay what is the wench’s name and other stats?”

  Nelly took a swig of her Salty Dog and said, “Missy Day that’s her name … and we know she likes or at least liked chewing tobacco when she was 14 years of age and I assume she still does like to chew. She is from Bremerton and grew up in several different homes and was passed on because she hated authority and could not get along with anyone and was last berthed at Pacific Beach. Other than that there is no info that the police have except they have a photo of her at 24 years of age when she was in prison and about to get released. Bessie Mae is making copies of the photo one for each of you.”

  “That a huge break for us, maybe,” Patch said while picking up another cucumber.

  “Yes, for sure. And what is interesting is that the DNA extracted … the ones not clear enough or complete enough to identify a single person were made by multiple people. The lab examiner said that she though there might be as many as 7 or 8 people other than Missy Day who touched to tobacco pouch,” Nelly stated and then held up the photo of Missy Day for all to see.

  Patch chomped down on a fresh cucumber and chew on it vigorously and then said, “Well, that helps … we know, as we first expected that we are dealing with multiple offenders … they seem to be a team that just slaughters innocents.”

  Bessie Mae slid another cookie sheet full of soon to be burnt bottom peanut butter cookies into the oven and turned toward the table and her partners and said, “I can make up a couple thousand copies of that Day woman’s photo and we might want to run from one end of the Palouse to the other and post as many as possible … especially in the small towns around here.”

  Sue asked, “What do you think of that idea, dad?”

  Patch chewed on a chunk of cucumber, took a swig of his Salty Dog and replied, “Bad idea.”

  Bessie Mae was shocked and almost dropped another stray of soon to be burnt bottom peanut butter cookies. “Why do you say that, Patch?”

  Before Patch could respond Mustang Sally asked, “You must have a better idea … seems like you always do … is that the case?” Sue got a big kick out of the way Mustang Sally asked her father that question because Sally was smiling with those big round eyes right at the love of her life and Sue thought that was a kicker … and real fucking funny, indeed.

  Indeed, for sure, Jose, Paco and Maria.

  After holding up his empty glass signaling to Bessie Mae for a refill Patch responded. “Actually passing the Day woman’s photo around is a great idea and we need to do it. The problem I have with it is the posting. We do not want to post because she or her compadres will see it and then know that we are at least on to her and thus we may be close to identifying them and finding them … not a good idea.”

  “Okay, so what is a good idea?” Hell asked.

  Bessie Mae set another full glass of Salty Dog in front of Patch and he took a sip and then said, “What I suggest is that we make the photo copies for sure … and then instead of posting them we need to spread out all over the Palouse from as far away as Coulee City to almost or to the Oregon and Idaho border areas … the southern and eastern parts of the Palouse. I think if we do that and then show the photos to all those who sell chewing tobacco in the small towns we may get lucky.”

  Two Green Eyes who was giving Hell a squeeze to her sweet spot under the table said, “Yes, that makes sense.”

  “So, we need more vehicles or Harleys to be able to spread out all over this region and start showing photos,” Sue said.

  “Yes, that is what I suggest we do,” Patch said.

  “Well, shit … after we sleep and get up tomorrow let’s saddle up and get her done,” said Bessie Mae Sowers.

  Right on, snowflakes, Jose, Paco and Maria.

  ********

  Note: From Jake Your Narrator—Earlier in the day Sue wrote out a vehicle list of who gets what and who rides with whom, etc. Later that day the Curmudgeons along with Detective Jane Sharp got into the 3 SUVs and took off for Spokane. On the outskirts of Spokane they found the perfect rental place that they needed; it is a car and motorcycle rental establishment. Sue rented four cars and four Harleys. Sue made the assignments as follows:

  SUV—Patch and Bessie Mae (Patch does not like to drive anything)

  SUV—L. Lovey

  SUV—K. Lovey

  Rental car—Two Green Eyes

  Rental car—Crockett

  Rental car—Sharp

  Rental car—Hell/Nelly

  Harley—Sue

  Harley—Mustang Sally

  Harley—Brown Eyes

  Harley--JoAnn

  Earlier when Sue wrote the above list on the conference room whiteboard there were a few oohs and aahs but no one complained out loud. Two Green Eyes squeezed Hell on her sweet spot between her legs again and Hell smiled but other than that they all had a fresh Salty Dog and Patch laid out the plan; that is, he laid out the suggested routes they should take.

  “Okay, when we rent what we need and you all grab your vehicles I think Bessie Mae and Me will go straight south from here to almost the Oregon border … we will visit every small town on the way. Sue you need to tell the others where to head with their photo flyers.”

  Sue took the lead and assigned each Curmudgeon and Jane Sharp a sector of the Palouse to check out. Everyone agreed and before noon they all headed off in all directions of the compass, so to speak.

  Bessie Mae and Patch headed directly south toward Oregon but made a few stops before reaching the Oregon border. One of the those stops was Starbuck, Washington.

  ********

  They headed out onto the various roads toward their assigned areas and spent hours stopping at every store large and small and displaying the photo of Missy Day and asked the same question: “Have you seen or do you know this lady?”

  In every case the eastern, northern and western teams received negative replies from all the store clerks they showed Missy Day’s photo to.

  Bessie Mae and Patch had the same response as the others until they hit paydirt. They had no idea that when they passed the green sign with the yellow letters stating Welcome to Starbuck that they were going to get a hit.

  After passing a grain elevator alongside the road they pulled into a gas station/store. While Patch gassed up the SUV Bessie Mae entered the store, bought a package of beef jerky and asked the store clerk if she had ever seen the women in the photo. The clerk looked at the photo closely and sort of stumbled on her words and reluctantly answered with a “I don’t think so.”

  Bessie detected instantly that the clerk was lying to her but she did not press the issue. She left the store and walked toward the SUV and a young man was coming her way toward the store entrance when Bessie Mae held up the photo to him and asked if he had ever seen the lady in the photo. Almost instantly the young man answered, “Yeah, I think so … no, I am sure that is the lady who chews a lot of tobacco and has them rotten teeth and is always dressed in farmers’ coveralls. She is actually a looker but them bad teeth and all that spitting is something else. If it weren’t for that terrible mouth and habit she does have some positives (that’s man-code for ‘I would love to fuck her’).”

  Bessie Mae then asked the obvious. “Do you know where she lives or stays or is from?”

  The young man did not hesitate. “Well, sometimes she shows up here at this stor
e to buy tobacco and other things and sometimes has a couple of other young gals with her … they all chew that crap too … saw them spit outside here several times.” He scratched his balding head and added, “To answer your question I have overheard them once or twice and they called a … hmm, trying to remember. Think they said compound … yeah, that’s it they mentioned a compound of some sort and it must be close by. That’s all I know lady … is she a missing relative or something?”

  “Yeah, she is … a close one at that and I appreciate your information … will try to locate her and deliver some messages,” Bessie Mae said as she headed toward the SUV where Patch was leaning against the vehicle’s front-end chewing on one of his cucumbers.

  “Let’s drive down the road and park … got some info for us,” Bessie Mae said as she climbed into the driver’s side and Patch into the passenger side. They drove down the two-lane road about a mile when Bessie Mae spotted a dirt road turn off and she pulled off near it and parked.

  Patch was all ears as Bessie Mae laid out what she had found out back at the gas station/store.

  When Bessie Mae finished her account Patch sat there in the passenger seat trying to determine their next move. Finally, he decided it would be best to notify the others via cell phone and bring all of them back to the motel for dinner and a late-night plan of action.

  Bessie Mae agreed and turned the SUV around and they headed back to their motel.

  CHAPTER 9

  TIME TO FRY A LITTLE GOOSE

  From the Creed of Liberty’s End: “Shitters are the only real enemy we have. Remove shitters from the scene and the root cause of Pestilence, War, Famine and Death will be abolished forever.”

  W.W. called all his kittens together for a meeting at Liberty’s End assembly hall; his kittens numbered 21 total at the present time. He had fed a few of his kittens that he no longer wanted or desired to the occupants (the fishes) of the compound pond but was able to recruit 4 more runaway girls aged 16 to 19. He had already dipped his wick into the new ones a few times and decided that they were worth keeping around—for a while, at least.

  “Okay, my kittens we are gathered here tonight to discuss our next adventure in taking out some more of them shitters. I figure with all the killings we have accomplished to date that the authorities will have all the trails around here well-guarded or under surveillance making it dangerous for us to go after the shitters on the trails.”

  “Yada, Yada, Yada.”

  “For sure … so I think it is time for us to fry a Little Goose … I’m speaking of the Little Goose Dam just 20 miles northwest of here … easy to get to and not that well-guarded. And just think about all the shitters down stream when we blow up the fucking dam and release all that water downstream and flood out and kill so many of the shitters we hate so much.”

  “Yada, Yada, Yada.”

  “And frying the Little Goose is just the start for us … shit, we will do the dams all along and within the Columbia River Basin. Shit, how good is that! It will be like the Missoula Flood all over again … just think of the glory of flushing them shitters down the river drain. Ha, Ha, Ha.”

  W.W. noticed that when he laughed that there was one of his male kittens in the back of the assembled group who rolled his eyes and did not laugh with the rest. That poor soul met his destiny contributing to the feeding frenzy in the pond later that day.

  The Liberty’s End group of kittens was now down to 19 females and 1 male—and the life expectancy of the last remaining male was questionable—very much so.

  But of course the male kitten did not know how W.W. felt about him.

  Nor would he survive to find out.

  You got that shit right, Jose, Paco, and Maria.

  CHAPTER 10

  IT WAS NOT A DAYWARE OR NIGHTMARE

  When the Curmudgeons returned from their canvassing of the Scablands and Palouse, they briefly met in the motel conference room and were given the information that Bessie Mae obtained from the young man at the gas station/store in Starbuck, Washington. Patch suggested that they all eat dinner, relax and think about anything but the problem at hand. He told them that he wanted to sleep on the problem and would offer suggestions in the morning on what to do next … and that he wanted their input before deciding what was next.

  So, after consuming a few burnt bottom peanut butter cookies and washing it down with a Salty Dog they all said goodnight and headed for their rooms and to bed.

  ********

  After they had all showered one at a time, using up all the hot water so that when Patch got into the shower it was a cold wet awakening for him. No one talked; they were too tired for anything but sleep. Within a few minutes after they had turned in Patch in his own bed could hear Mustang Sally, Brown Eyes and Bessie Mae breathing the slow cadence of the breath of sleep coming from them while he tossed and turned in his sleep. He wanted to figure out what to do next but at the same time he wanted nothing but sleep. And sleep did finally come but it was a restless one with the visit of an enduring memory. No, not a dayware or a nightmare but instead it was that same dream that took possession of him now and then … more often now than then.

  The dream?

  That night the dream was pretty much the same:

  He lay on a makeshift cot of rough-hewn boards. He was inside a large structure that smelled of hay and manure. He guessed he was inside a barn. The light was dim and the air was cold. Outside a strong wind was blowing violently. Somewhere close by a door was banging loudly. He could see moonlight sneaking through the cracks and crevices of the doors and the high wall in front of him. Through the dim light he could vaguely make out the bigness of the room. Directly above his head he could see what appeared to be a hayloft. To the right were dozens of stalls. Two large doors were in front of him. There didn't seem to be anyone else around. At least, he couldn't see or hear anyone.

  He felt stiff, sore. He was hot, then suddenly cold. His back was killing him. He could feel the nubby imperfections of the thick boards digging into his back. He was covered with a couple of thick grey blankets. They smelled of horses.

  He thought he heard a noise outside, just behind the large doors. He did hear a noise—a creaking sound. He slowly raised himself up on his one remained elbow and peered toward the doors. He watched as a sliver of moonlight became larger as the doors slowly opened.

  The doors were open now and the wind whipped through the barn with a fierce howl and a sharp biting edge. He wrapped the blankets around him tightly. A man stood in the doorway. He was having trouble focusing his fevered eyes, but even so, there was something vaguely familiar about the silhouette standing there in the doorway. He recognized the height, the stockiness, the carriage of the man. The man's face was hidden in darkness but the outline of his full beard was unmistakable against the backdrop of moonlight. He was dressed in a tailored suit or uniform. A uniform he guessed ... it looked military. It was difficult to be certain but the uniform looked grey in color. Grey with what looked like gold embroidery stitched along the sleeves of the jacket. It looked like a Confederate Army officer's uniform—a general's uniform. It was.

  "How do you feel, Stonewall?" the stranger asked in a voice that was strong and clear but also full of compassion. Stonewall felt dizzy; it was difficult for him to keep his head propped up. He was confused. Delirious, he had to be. "Who are you?" Stonewall muttered, bewildered, afraid.

  "Who am I? I'm a soldier just like you, Stonewall ... a soldier, fighting for the same cause. I've come up here to Fredericksburg to wish you a speedy recovery, Stonewall. I need you. We need you."

  Stonewall's brain was swimming. His thoughts were muddled; his body wracked with pain. He had to lay his head back down. He knew who the stranger was now, but he couldn't believe it. "I'm dreamin'," he told himself. "It can't be," he added as he struggled to prop himself up on his only remaining elbow again, straining his eyes in the dimness for a better look.

  "I'm sick. All I want to do is to lay here and rest ... it's so co
ld ... it's all so hopeless ..." Stonewall muttered, laying back down, hard, exhausted.

  "You'll recover, Stonewall. And it's not hopeless. That's why I came up here to see you. You're my right arm. I need your help. The cause needs your leadership, your drive," the stranger said with determination and strength rolling off each syllable of each word.

  "I'm too sick. So many miles, so many forced marches ... over and over again ... up and down the valley. The men ... I don't know why they continue, why they put up with it, why they keep fighting," he said weakly. Then he coughed, his body heaving in uncontrolled spasms.

  There was a pause. Then the stranger, in a voice full of sadness said, "Yes, you're right, Stonewall. The men have suffered much. They've all endured a horrible winter, most of them without food, shelter, clothing or even boots. They're men who didn't start this war, men who don't even know why they are fighting. Men who don't even realize that we are lost," the stranger said sadly as he moved up alongside Stonewall.

  Stonewall propped himself up again and peered through the dim light at the stranger's face. It was a face full of sadness, showing the ravages of strain. Stonewall shook his head and said, "I can't believe you said that ... that we are lost. We're not lost til the last one of us falls," he said, his voice raising. "Yes, the men have suffered right much. Yes, they don't understand the causes or implications of this war. But I disagree with you on one major point: They do understand why we're fighting, why they must fight to the very end." He lay down again, dizzy and gasping for air. Somehow, from somewhere deep within his very being he seemed to muster up just enough strength to go on. "We're fighting for our right to live as we wish to live. We're fighting for our homes. We're fighting for the glory of the South. We're fighting because any two of us Rebs can lick any ten Yanks ... and if that ain't enough, we're fighting because it's our duty to do our best for the greatest fighting General the world has ever known ... They'll bleed for the South, for the cause and for you!" he said, getting stronger with each word, feeling the fever and the wraps of hopelessness ebb from his body. "We're fighting because we must! We're fighting to win! And, if the Lord is willing, we will," he added, sitting up now.