Oklahoma Blue

By S.D. Gripton and Sally Dillon-Snape

A serial killer is on the prowl in the Panhandle of Oklahoma, and he has been killing for years. He thinks he's a kind of superhuman, uncatchable, untraceable, never apprehended, never charged with any crime. The killing is investigated in Cimarron County by Detective Aldridge, Deputy John Hedges of Boise City Sherrif's Department and by Madison Griffiths of OSBI. But Deputy Callista Hedges, sister of John, who's trying to put her personal life on to some kind of stable footing, has taken against men who beat their wives and scare their kids. She really has taken against them. Other OSBI Agents are called in to investigate. Meanwhile, the serial killer goes about his business apparently impervious to law enforcement and all the power it brings to an investigation. Maybe it's time the serial killer concentrated more and kept his wits about him. A brilliant, fast paced brand new crime novel from the imagination of new author, s.d. gripton.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.D. Gripton
• Release date: Dec 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465848772

S.D. Gripton

S.D. Gripton novels and real crime books are written by Dennis Snape, who is married to Sally who originate from North Wales and Manchester respectively and who met 18 years ago. I work very hard to make a reading experience a good one, with good plots and earthy language. I enjoy writing and hope readers enjoy what I have written. I thank everyone who has ever looked at at one of my books.

Book preview

Oklahoma Blue

A

Crime Novel

By

S.D. Gripton & Sally Dillon-Snape

Copyright © Sally Dillon-Snape & Dennis Snape (2022)

The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with The Copyright Act 1988

All characters and events in this publication other than those of fact and historical significance available in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living and dead is purely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher

Boise City, Oklahoma is pronounced the same as voice and not the same as Boise, Idaho

If you are reading this novel or have given it as a gift to someone but have not purchased it, could you please return to Smaswords.com and purchase your own copy. Please have some respect for the hard work and toil and effort put into the task of writing this novel and others, thank you

A Smashwords Edition

This novel is dedicated to our mothers and

Our fathers

All deceased

Hopefully we make you proud

Rest in Peace

Chapter 1

There had been no rain.

The sky was cloudless, wide and high and the color of Oklahoma blue. Heat bore down oppressively and would have been unbearable if not for the western breeze that just about made living comfortable for everything and everybody.

It didn't comfort Zeke Gardner, though.

He couldn't remember the last time he’d been comfortable or felt rain on his face or in his hair; it had been months, maybe years. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt pleasantly cool, not chilled like he felt in the harshness of winter, but just cool. He couldn't remember such a time but then there were many things Zeke couldn't remember. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done a full day’s work, he guessed it was when he got thrown out of the grain elevator for mauling and causing a melee; around the same time he'd stopped loving his wife; the last time they'd made love; the first time he'd raised a hand to her; a time when he’d enjoyed a beer instead of just drinking it; when he’d liked to dance, to jig and smile to the sounds of country bands; sometimes even accompanied by his wife. He could just not remember; it all seemed so long ago.

He stood and stared out of the kitchen window of his ramshackle home, leaning on a metal drainer, a cold bottle of beer held in his right hand. He was dressed in boots, jeans and check shirt, his angular, brown-eyed face covered in a couple of days growth and a sheen of sweat, his unkempt blond hair bathed in it too. He stood looking out at his eight-year-old daughter, Avaline, who was sitting on the steps of the porch, rocking back and forth, her hands wrapped tightly around her knees, her head down on her chest. He couldn't tell if she was crying or not.

His wife, Jolene, lay on her side in a corner of the untidy kitchen. Blood bubbled out of her nose and ran from the corner of her mouth. Her left eye was blackened and closed, her right merely blackened. She was bruised on her arms where she'd been thumped, on her legs where she'd been kicked, and on her hands, where she'd fought back. Her lips were split and swollen because she'd shouted, profaned and answered back. Her breathing was shallow though she was conscious, her one good eye staring at her own blood as it pooled on the floor in front of her. She hurt in her stomach where she'd been both hit and kicked, at the bottom of her back where Zeke had stamped on her and in her fingers, three of which were broken on her right hand. When she'd whispered for Zeke to call medical services, he'd popped a beer instead.

She'd been asleep.

When he'd returned from doing all kinds of shit chores for the poor folk of Boise City, doing his best to earn a crust, she'd been asleep on the couch, Avaline playing on the floor close to her momma; Avaline being the one who tried to wake her momma when she heard the truck pull up outside. But she was too late. Jolene was still waking when Zeke entered, temporarily blocking out the sunlight shining through the door, tall, sinewy and bad tempered, tossing his hat across the room, striding forward, stepping over his daughter to grab his wife by the hair, dragging her up, throwing her across the room, Avaline screaming, pulling her own hair, shaking her head, stamping her feet, rushing outside to the porch, not wanting to see what she had seen too many times before.

She’d been asleep.

Zeke Gardner couldn't believe it.

Asleep in the afternoon, him having made only enough money for a few beers, no meal for him on the table, nothing cooked. Zeke considered his wife to be a non-person, someone he'd once loved but who’d let him down, who hadn't come up to his standards and it served him right for marrying somebody from Texas. He should've stayed with an Oklahoma girl, maybe even a Cimarron County girl like that Cissie Cater; she’d wanted him way back, he should have married her, it wasn’t his fault his marriage had gone wrong, he'd done his best. His wife hadn't even tried. He lifted the bottle, put it to his lips and drank, deeply.

Goddamned women.

Not worth two cents.

None of them.

He finished the beer, threw the bottle, smashing it against the kitchen wall and walked out of the house before climbing into his truck and driving off. He had just enough money for some more beers.

It was Avaline who called emergency services. She knew how to do it; even at the age of eight.

***

Where've you been?

To see Jolene Gardner.

John Hedges looked up from the letter he was reading.

Callista Hedges dropped her hat on the hat-stand, poured cold water from a fridge into a plastic container and flopped down on to a chair on the opposite side of the desk from where her brother sat and she drank the water.

How's she doing?

She didn’t look so good but she was asleep, I never spoke to her. He really beat her this time. The Memorial Hospital folk have been great with her though.

Boise City P.D. on to it?

The Sheriff has taken Zeke into custody and uniform cops will be speaking to him shortly. They’ll be charging him with spousal abuse. It sounds like nothing, don't it?

Nope; not to me.

It does to me. Spousal abuse sounds like he might have profaned at her a coupla times, called her names, maybe locked her out of the house; not beat th’shit out of her. That’s more than spousal abuse and he might go down for this one; this time he really hurt her but then again, maybe he won’t. He seems to get away with it every time. He should be put away for attempted murder. Fuckin' spousal abuse; its not severe enough. I want to talk her into going back to her parents in Amarillo when she gets out of hospital and taking little Avaline with her, I’ll tell her to get some peace of mind away from Zeke.

He won't like that.

He can shove it.

He might follow her.

Texas cops won't take shit from him. Maybe it'll help make him see the light, doing some time in a good ol'-boys gaol, down there in Texas.

Callista Hedges smiled.

Her brother smiled, too, leaning back in his chair and holding up a letter.

The Sheriff says he's looking at closing this office.

No! Shit! That ain't fair. We do a good job out here, keeping the shit-kicking Okies in line.

We are a shit-kicking Okies.

No; really? Damn, I thought you'd forgotten about that, big brother. Can we fight it; can we appeal the decision? What are we gonna do if they close this place?

Dunno, Deputy Sis, guess we'll just have to go and find something else to do.

No room for us in Boise City?

I don't think so.

We can't do anything else. Daddy nurtured us from kiddies to be Deputies or Sheriffs, just like he was; he never wanted us to be anything else, Mom fed it to us with her milk. We’ve tried other stuff but look at us, Deputies both.

True enough.

You could always run for County Sheriff then I could do your job, Cal said.

The Sheriff's got two more years to serve and he’s a very popular man; next term will be his third, people like him; they don't know me.

Sure, they do. Wildcat’s quarterback, winning season, High School superstar; people still ask about you when I walk the streets.

Sure, they do.

They do.

Anyway, running for Sheriff is out of the question, we don't have enough money for a campaign. It wouldn’t be for two years minimum and you can be sure he’ll run again.

Does the letter give a date for closure?

Nope, it just states that a decision is to be taken soon.

Soon? Well, we both know how these things work, the Sheriff won't be too keen to see us go, who the hell else is he going to get to patrol this piece of Oklahoma, this scrub-land, this dust covered piece of hell; who else except us good ol' Keyes folk, born and bred?

She smiled, he didn't.

Maybe we are just too small-town for him now; maybe Keyes has become so small that no-one cares for it any longer, John said, a certain sadness in his words.

And shutting us down will help send it on its way to total destruction. There will be nothing left if we go.

Its still got the bar and the grocery store.

And that is all.

The grain elevator and the railway.

The railway is run from miles away, it ain't local to us.

Passes through, fills up with grain, provides jobs for our boys.

Listen to yourself. Burlington Northern Santa Fe.; that's the name of the railway company. Any of those places round here?

It provides some jobs.

Yeah, I guess it does. I don't want this office to close."

Neither do I.

Cal rose from her chair, tossed her plastic cup into a waste bin.

Where are you going now?

Thought I'd go and speak to the Sheriff, find out what's happening.

She took down her hat, placed it on her head.

Our family have been Sheriffs or Deputies in Boise City for nigh on eighty-years. We can't let that come to an end. We’re a little piece of Oklahoma history. We have to do something; we can't just sit here on our butts, Callista said.

You're gonna see Zeke Gardner, aren't you? John said edgily.

I might speak with him while I'm in the City.

Be careful with him.

I'm careful with all men.

John Hedges laughed.

That's for sure, he said.

Cal threw a finger at him and strolled from an office that was situated on County Highway in Keyes. She climbed into a Cimarron Sheriff's official vehicle and headed for Boise City. She was gonna do a little more than speak with Zeke Gardner.

***

Hi, there, Bill-Bob, just come to speak to Zeke.

P.D. has already spoken to him, Cal; he has nothing to say. He reckons Jolene won't press charges.

Avaline was traumatized this time, Bill-Bob. Memorial says she won't leave her Momma's bedside, holding her hands, not speaking, not eating. Both of them were scared to hell this time and I gotta make Zeke aware of that.

Okay, I guess. Are you taking him into the office?

In the cell will do. I just wanna quick talk to him.

Bill-Bob Watkins, the Sheriff's gaol Deputy, jangled his keys, headed off, followed by Cal. They passed one empty cell then came to one that held Zeke Gardner.

On your feet, Gardner, Deputy wants to speak with you.

Zeke lay on a bed with his eyes closed. He looked up, opened one eye, stared out of it at both Bill-Bob and Cal and closed his eyes.

I don't wanna speak to the Deputy, he said.

Open the door, Bill-Bob, then go away until I call for you.

I can't do that, Cal.

Sure you can, Bill-Bob, I won't be but two minutes. I just have a few life-enhancing comments for Zeke, that's all.

Bill-Bob Watkins stared down at her. He stood six-feet-seven-inches tall, six inches taller than John Hedges and a height that made her five-nine look small. He was the size of a small tank, he’d served two terms in Afghanistan, took one in the shoulder that did some damage, lucky to be alive, but he was a real nice guy. Everybody said so.

Two minutes?

No more.

Bill-Bob unlocked the cell door, stood aside as Cal stepped in, locked it behind her and strolled back to the office.

Didn't you hear th'fuck I said, boy, Zeke shouted after him. I don’t wanna speak to the queer bitch.

He climbed from the bed, stood with his legs akimbo, hands on his hips; a big man; a hard man with a tough reputation. So, he thought. Cal stepped further into the cell and put him down with one perfectly aimed vicious kick with her shiny right boot between his legs. Zeke grabbed at his crotch with both hands and curled forward.

Who you calling queer? she asked.

She swatted him with the back of her left hand and his head twisted round as he staggered to his right, still crouched. His belt and boots had been taken from him, so she took the opportunity to stamp on his right foot, hurting some toes, and he groaned and tried to lift his foot, only to fall over. Cal walked over to the bars and banged her face against one of the bars, causing a small cut to her right cheek.

Jolene don’t ever want to see you again, you fuckin’ animal, she said.

Zeke Gardner moaned something unintelligible, so she kicked him in the ribs and stepped back to the bars which she grabbed with her hands.

Bill-Bob! she shouted.

Bill-Bob strode in with the kind of unstoppable force usually associated with B-52 Bombers.

What th'hell? he asked, as he unlocked the cell door.

He threw me against the bars before I could even speak, Cal said, pointing to her bloodied right cheek. He attacked me and I had to restrain him.

Bill-Bob stared down at the writhing figure of the floor.

You restrained him good, Cal.

I was fighting for my life here, Bill-Bob.

She's fuckin’ lying, Zeke growled.

Shut th'hell up, woman-beater, Bill-Bob said. You want him charged, Cal?

Sure, I do; for an assault on a Sheriff's Deputy. That should put him away; even if beating his wife to pulp don’t.

I'll call P.D. You'll have to make a statement.

That's okay. Lock him up again, I'll go to the ladies room.

She splashed her face with cold water, patted it dry, looked at her reflection and smiled. The things I have to do for justice, she thought, as she stared at the cut that was becoming a bruise, something that would prob’ly become a permanent scar on her right cheek.

Zeke Gardner was charged with assaulting a Sheriff’s Deputy and with spousal abuse occasioning grievous bodily harm. No one waited for Jolene Gardner to make a complaint, Callista Hedges’ testimony would be enough. She gave her statement to Boise City Police Department, signed it and went home.

Zeke screamed and shouted in his cell about the injustice of it all.

Cal thought exactly the same thing.

There was beef stew and rice waiting for her when she arrived back in Polk Avenue, Keyes, where she lived with her brother John, in a house that once belonged to their parents, before they were killed in a truck accident on I-56 returning from a shopping trip in Guymon. Their car was side-swiped when a couple of tires blew out on a big truck, causing it to slide, slamming into their vehicle, turning it over six times, killing both of them instantly. John rushed to the scene from his job in Boise City D.A.’s office; Cal travelling from her work at an Art Gallery in Oklahoma City. John felt obliged to give up his apartment in Boise City and move back into his parents’ home, the one where he'd been born thirty-eight years earlier, where he'd grown up playing in the dust, running up and down the streets with his friends, attending Elementary School. Cal took a little longer to move in, leaving it until she split with her partner who owned the Gallery, not becoming a Deputy until two years ago, just before her twenty-eighth birthday.

Both John and Cal had current partners.

John's partner lived only a few streets away in Keyes, on Madison Avenue, and her name was Madison, confusing he knew, but he'd known her since Elementary School, through High and University where they'd both studied law. They'd argued, broken up, had lived with other partners, but they'd always gotten back together; she now worked as an Agent for the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation based in Guymon, the largest town on the Panhandle, in Texas County, fifty-two miles away from Keyes, her career in policing being several worlds and many levels above John's. They would marry eventually, though neither of them seemed to be in a hurry to do it.

Cal's partner lived in Oklahoma City and was a private Drama and Dance Teacher. Her name was Greta Ackermann, the surname being German for farmer, and she came from the original stock that established themselves in the early days of Oklahoma and founded the State. Greta was forty-three years of age and at six-feet in her bare feet she was taller than Cal; and where Cal was normally tanned from sitting in the sun all day, wearing no make-up and with badly cut, wild mousy-colored blond hair, Greta was pale of skin, sternly dark of eye and expression, neat in hair, clothing and manner and made-up in a very Germanic way. She visited Keyes rarely because she hated the Panhandle because of the heat, the dust and the wind, and she often said that instead of resembling the handle of a pan, the Panhandle counties more resembled an accusatory finger pointing all the way to California, wanting to know why it got all the weather, the rain, the riches, the fame and places like Boise City got nothing. Cal found it difficult to argue with that premise sometimes.

She visited Greta during her days off from being a Deputy, driving the 315 miles through the night when roads were quiet, arriving early morning, giving them more time together. She would be going later that night and would return in three days.

Zeke do that to your face?

In between lifting food to her mouth with a fork, Cal answered.

He threw me against the bars of the cell.

You straighten him out on doing something like that?

I did, big brother, I did.

Are you pressing charges?

I sure am; signed my statement earlier. This stew is delicious.

And it was made by my own fair hand. Who dealt with your complaint?

Officer Nathan Moore.

Did he do it straight?

Of course he did it straight, what th'hell you accusing the man of?

Nothing; I was just asking. Did you do everything straight?

Of course I did, all was properly signed.

Yeah, but did he do it, Zeke?

He did it.

John looked at his sister and stared hard as she finished her meal.

I'm gonna grab a coupla hours, Cal said.

Are you driving over tonight?

Yeah.

Okay, I'll prob’ly go to Maddie's while you're away; call when you get there and when you’re leaving to return.

Jeez, you're worse than Dad ever was.

Just do it. Give Greta my best wishes.

Okay.

Cal yawned, stretched, pushed the empty bowl away from her, rose from her chair at the table and kissed her brother on the top of his head.

I'll shower after I've slept. Don't wait for me, you get on over there, give Maddie my love, I haven't seen her in a coupla days

I'll just clean up first, wash dishes, tidy up. Don't forget to call.

Shut up.

She padded into the bedroom, stowed her gun-belt, holster and pistol in a safe in the wall, her hat she put on a hat-stand, her uniform she threw into a basket for laundering, along with her underwear. Adeca, a cheerful, much loved and respected Comanche Native American, who cleaned for almost everyone in Keyes; those who could afford to pay her anyway; and who was probably the biggest earner in the town, came in twice a week and did that; laundered, ironed, cleaned, though John was pretty good at it all the domestics, too, which helped, because Cal was useless. She couldn't clean, couldn't cook and chores were way out of her league. She was so used to being a kept woman that all those skills had passed her by. Lying on the bed naked, her stomach flat, her long slim legs together, her small breasts rising and falling she breathed slowly and shallowly.

She wondered what Greta would have in mind for her over the next couple of days.

She loved Greta with all her heart; though she had loved many women in the same way; but Greta was of a special kind, unique really, and Cal was never sure whether she was loved in return or not. Though Greta lived in Oklahoma City in the twenty-first Century her lifestyle was of the Weimar cabaret period in Germany, prior to the outbreak of the Second World War, and she reveled in it, trying constantly to recreate it, staging cabarets in her enormous home, usually in the dining room, playing games, entertaining friends who were equally enamored with the pre-war German period; the Weimar time of science and debauchery, that was the time they pined for. They didn't want to be considered Nazis, of course; God forbid: they weren’t trying to recreate them or pay any deference to what they stood for; they just wanted the debauchery of an earlier age.

Last time Cal had visited, Greta had organized a dinner for eight. All the guests were dressed identically in black, with identical black wigs and black make-up and so alike that it was difficult to identify one woman from another. And each had brought along a girl, probably their own girl, just as Cal was Greta's girl, and they were all dressed in silver wigs with fliers blacked-out goggles covering their eyes and leather gags in their mouths and they wore tiny silver skirts, thigh-high silver boots and that was all. Only breast size determined one girl from another. Right through to the morning following the dinner Cal had no idea who caressed or slept with her. She had never experienced anything more exciting in her life, or anyone as erotic and exotic as Greta.

She had led Cal slowly along the path of debasement, inching her along, knowing what Cal now did for a living, not wanting any trouble, taking it slow, one step at a time down into the depths of depravation. Greta now thought Cal was ready for almost anything and had told her so, telling her that her training was almost finished.

Cal wondered what was next.

And she wondered how far down she'd be prepared to sink.

She fell asleep wondering.

***

John cleaned up the kitchen, washed the dishes, put everything back in its righteous place, switched off lights, grabbed his hat, locked the door behind him and drove round to Madison Griffiths' house on Madison Avenue. He let himself in, tossed his hat on to the hat-stand, switched on lights, drew curtains and began cooking again, this time for when Maddie arrived home. It was just ready for her when she walked in. She laid her bag in its place in the hallway, pulled off her jacket, undid the top buttons of her white blouse, kicked off her black shoes, unhooked her holster and gun, locked them in a safe in the hallway, came into the kitchen and hugged John tightly. He hugged her right back and they kissed deeply, believing they had a love that went much deeper than the one between mere mortals, it was something they had been working on for almost thirty-three years and they'd honed it to perfection.

Beer, she said when they stepped apart, cold beer.

He pulled one from a fridge and popped it, poured it and handed her the glass. She drank deeply and sighed.

It's almost worth driving all that way for, she said.

Fifty-two miles? That ain't hardly a drive.

I guess not.

She sat and he served while she ate; he popped another beer for her, popped one for himself, drank from the bottle, sat opposite and watched her eat. She was used to it and didn't feel like at all like a monkey in a cage.

In looks, Maddie was very similar to Cal; tall, an inch taller at five-ten, but slim, mousey-haired, blue-eyed just the same; but in those eyes was the difference between the two women. Where Cal could be flaky, insensitive, prone to both violence and drunkenness and extremely prodigal with her affections, Madison Griffiths, except when she was in the company of John Hedges, was all steel. Highly regarded by superiors who were always trying to tempt her into moving to OSBI Headquarters in Oklahoma City; she only stayed in Guymon to be close to John, though he encouraged her to go, he wanted to see her in a high position in Oklahoma City but she was steely enough to know exactly what she was doing. She would move when she was ready, when John was ready to step up, as she knew he would be one day. Until then she thought she had a perfect life.

A hard day? John asked.

Busy with the usual stuff; drugs, murder, shit like that. You?

Zeke Gardner beat Jolene again.

Jeez, can't anybody do anything about that man?

I think Cal gave him a beating.

Maddie smiled and ate some more food.

Let's not talk about that, she said.

He cut her cheek though, threw her against the bars, it's gonna scar.

Maybe he deserved a beating then.

Maybe he did.

She's a nut your sister.

She says the same thing about you.

They laughed, drank more beer, cleaned up, watched TV, retired to bed and made love.

It was the kind of night Madison Griffiths worked in Guymon for.

She couldn't bear the thought of working in OK City, seeing John only at weekends.

And she wanted a baby.

And a husband.

She was working on when to mention both these things to him.

***

Madison woke first, showered, breakfasted then woke John; she had the much longer drive, he could walk to his office if he wanted to; she left coffee on for him, kissed him goodbye, said she couldn't wait until tonight, wouldn't be late, dressed in her usual dark suit, white blouse, black shoes, clipped her gun into her holster and departed, carrying her bag, a bag that went everywhere with her.

John breakfasted on toast, drank a couple of cups of coffee, showered, dressed in T-shirt and shorts, hat, drove home, got dressed in his dark blue Deputy's uniform, black shoes, black shirt, the Sheriff's star circled high on his right arm and repeated on his shirt above his heart. He was proud to be a Deputy even though he had a Law Degree from the University of Oklahoma College Of Law down in Norman; he was working for the D.A., wanting to be a prosecutor when his parents died. He’d kept his promise to his dad that he would one day be either a Deputy or the Sheriff; he felt he had to, seeing as how his dad had devoted his whole life to Cimarron County in one civic capacity or another. He’d been Mayor of Boise City for two terms, Sheriff for three, a Deputy for many of his years; he was much respected, much loved and dead in a flash with his wife of forty-years. Deputy did it for John. He didn't think he'd ever make Sheriff but should some kind of position become available in Oklahoma City he might take it one day, just so Maddie could move there and take over OSBI. She had all the capabilities. She was as honest as the day was long, never lied, kept immaculate books and had a great arrest record. It was said that once a person was arrested by Madison Griffiths that person usually went down. He knew how highly respected and admired by her Bosses she was.

Then there was marriage.

He thought she might like to get married one day. He even thought of asking her.

Then what?

Kids?

Were they too old for them?

Thirty-four; even a fit thirty-four; was that too old?

He'd been in his office for about thirty-minutes sifting through the nightly reports, seeing what had happened through the County while he slept or didn't as the case may be, and drinking coffee, when his cell-phone rang.

Deputy Hedges, Sheriff's Department.

Morning, John.

Morning, Penny, how are you doing down there in the big City?

Penny Lomax was the Sheriff's secretary, sixty-two old; she'd been secretary to more Sheriff's than she could remember. She ran a tight ship on behalf of her boss.

Less than two thousand of us; not exactly crowded, are we?

Five times bigger than Keyes though.

Ain't that a fact?

So, what's cooking?

The Sheriff just asked me to call. A report has come in reporting something lying scrub-side of I-56, about two-and-a-half miles east of Keyes. A truck driver, Bruce Daniels, reported it in though he didn't stop to investigate, he just radioed it in. Sheriff wants you to take a look.

I was on my way out there anyway. I'll let you know.

Thanks, John, see you later.

Prob’ly.

He switched off his phone, locked away all the reports he'd been reading, grabbed his hat, adjusted his gun, his handcuffs, clipped the radio to his left shoulder, shut the office, locked it and drove out onto I-56. It would prob’ly be a dead cow, he thought, a steer, something like that, couldn't be much, otherwise the truck driver would have stopped. It had been rare, and John had never experienced it during his time as a Deputy, but bodies had turned up lying beside an Interstate and truck drivers were notorious for not stopping. Deliveries to make and all that shit, no time to stop.

When John arrived at the spot, some two and half miles from Keyes, he discovered his very first Interstate body.

He stood gazing down at it, heat pounding down on to his back, his eyes protected from the glare of the sunlight by Ray Ban pilots’ sunglasses, his hat pulled low, wind a little stronger out here, nothing to stop it ruffling his shirt, blowing round his head, the only sound being the wind; no trees to speak of, just scrub, miles and miles of it, the railway line behind him, Elkhart, Kansas, down the Interstate some; and he stood alone, no traffic, standing like a stick-like appendage in the wide empty expanse, Oklahoma blue all around him.

At least he assumed it was a body.

He crouched for a closer look.

It was something, anyway.

It was bound from top to bottom with bandages, reams of them, and there were no cut-outs where a person could breathe. John searched for a pulse in what he thought was neck area but couldn't find one, there being too much bandage. If it was a person, it was expertly covered, lying there, shining white in the brightness of the day, looking ugly even with only scrub for company. He stood and called it in on his radio.

Sheriff, he said, I’ve got a weird one here; its something, it could be a person, all bound up in bandages with no sign of a cut-out for a mouth. I'm assuming it’s a body and it seems to be dead; I can't feel no pulse anywhere, not sure I could through the bandages.

He noticed some red staining the left side of the thing.

I think there's some blood down the left side, looks like it seeped from inside. I can't tell if it's female or male. It ain't moving though.

The Sheriff came on the radio.

I'll drive out, Deputy, and I’ll inform Boise P.D. Do you wanna inform OSBI? We're going to need a Crime Technician.

We sure are. I'll give her a call.

I’ll be with you in about fifteen-twenty minutes.

Okay, Sheriff.

John called