Broken Town

By Charlie Burnette

Wylie Tillman’s desire to do what is right, coupled with marginal intelligence, propels him to drag a girl’s severed arm from under his idling car, find the victim and call 911. He quickly realizes he is drunk and doesn’t want to be accused of the crime; so he runs. The police chief who controls Uniontown aims to preserve its false tranquility by hanging the murder around Wylie’s neck.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlie Burnette
• Release date: Jun 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9780983933137

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

July 24, 2010

11:59 p.m.

Wylie Tillman pulled over to the curb at 1065 Sessions Drive. The driver’s side tires of his ‘97 Suburban scraped the rough concrete as the vehicle jerked to a stop. Wylie felt his usual Saturday night buzz after three football-sized cups of Jim Beam and water.

His white car hood rattled under a streetlight, reminding him the muffler needed replacing and a tune-up was long overdue. He waited impatiently, thinking fifteen-year-old Libby, his only child, should already be in the car. At 12:15, Wylie started considering the possibility he’d found the wrong house. Turning off the country music playing on the radio, he rechecked the address written down by Peg on a sheet he’d ripped from the note pad by the phone in the kitchen and discovered he’d misread the 8 as 6. His mistake hit him hard between the eyes. He’d blown two job estimates last month, costing him hundreds, because he couldn’t read his own numbers. Glasses, a sign of weakness to his mind, were no longer an option. He took two large gulps of air between his alcoholic high and feeling of stupidity for missing the address. An idiot pair of dollar-store spectacles would fix this. He hated admitting to age claiming his body parts, and most of the parts weren’t feeling in tune.

Dad gummit, 1085, he blurted out as he pulled the gear shift along the steering wheel into Drive. A dull thud resonated from the back of the Suburban. He first believed the fender made contact with the curb, but the noise sounded wrong. He thought a bit and realized he’d never taken his foot off the brake, so the car hadn’t moved at all. Strange. A house away and late, Libby, easily embarrassed, wouldn’t be happy. He slammed the gear shift back into Park, opened the door, and left the engine running. He eased from the driver’s vinyl seat, like a slow moving sliding-board, looking for a level spot to place his left foot on the narrow strip of grass. He landed unevenly, nearly turning his ankle and thrust his right foot onto the sidewalk. Stumbling, he grabbed the end of the door, digging his fingers into the holes forming the lock connections. Recovering his balance, he rubbed the grease from his left hand onto the seat of his trousers. Refocused in the direction of the noise at the back of the car, he took a deep breath. An old memory flooded his mind, one he’d tried to forget. Then he thought of Coach Oates, a father figure in his life, and felt a compelling reason to check out the action. He walked unsteadily to the back of the Suburban, bouncing his left hand on and off the side of the car as would a kid, only slower.

He couldn’t see anything as he tilted his head left and right. Kneeling down to look underneath the rear frame, he put his right hand down on the pavement to steady his balance and felt something sticky and hot. Probably motor oil, still warm from the summer sun. He craned his neck downward and outward under the vehicle, almost scraping his cheek on the pavement and spotted something wedged between the frame and the leaf springs. The darkness hid most of the outline.

What he could make out of the dangling mess scared the shit out of him. What the hell? He reached until his left hand grabbed something soft and fleshy, lifeless. He jerked, dislodging the object and dragged it from under the car.

Wylie’s muscles tensed, cramped, and shook violently as he realized the arm was still warm. Suddenly he knew his right hand, covered with blood from the pavement, had nothing to do with motor oil.

The hue of a street lamp from two car lengths behind him revealed what appeared to be the arm of a young white girl with pink polished fingernails and a gold serpentine bracelet. Blood dripped from the frayed end, ripped from her shoulder socket. The rugged end of the arm turned Wylie’s stomach. Ugly, uneven veins, like worms, slapped against his elbow, moist, nearly hot.

The pinkish glare of the lamp bent over from the utility pole highlighted black, blue, bleeding strings of arteries and veins, vessels which must have pumped life minutes before. They reminded him of jerking the body from a fish being cleaned without a proper severing of the head. But this was human, and he felt ready to heave his belly full of whisky.

He started to drop the arm, but nearly jumped out of his Crocs when his cell phone rang in the car, bellowing out some rapper song Libby recently plugged into the phone without his permission. Again, he contemplated dropping the cooling flesh as the phone spewed word garbage Wylie hated, penetrating the silence of the night like a siren. In a state of confusion he rambled back to the open driver’s door of the idling car, wrapped the bloody fingers of his left hand around the phone, stretched the car charger cord as far as it would go, and leaned his left ear to the receiver. As he flipped the lid with the side of his cheek, opening the phone, he heard Peg’s voice and started to speak himself, until the cord snapped from the plug-hole and came smashing against his face.

The sharp sting caused him to jiggle the girl’s arm a bit, slinging her blood in different directions. The pain reminded him he’d had too much to drink. Peg’s voice doubled in volume by the time he got the phone back to his ear.

"Would you care to tell me what you’re doing? Your daughter has been waiting for twenty minutes. Everyone else at the party’s long gone. Get it? Embarrassing for her and the Byrds. So where are you?"

Wylie took another long deep breath. Listen, Peg . . . I’ve got a crazy problem here, and it’s going to take a few minutes for me to collect my thoughts.

Collect your thoughts? You better collect your daughter.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. Call Libby and tell her I’ll be a few more minutes.

You’re sounding nuts. Are you telling me…somehow…you’ve got something better to do than getting Libby home?

Something like that.

Peg’s scream nearly broke his ear drum. "Something like what?"

I know, I know, but I’m going to hang up now.

He adjusted the arm under his own while he slapped the phone closed. Unplugging the dangling cord, he threw it onto the floor board and put the phone in his pocket. Feeling slightly more sober, he returned to the rear of the Suburban, and bent down with his eyes inches from the pavement. He noticed a steady path of blood droplets leading in the general direction of the house he originally believed belonged to the Byrds.

Drop it and get out of here, he told himself.

Somehow Wylie’s strongest character trait took over, a habit causing his high school football coach to label him Thick Head Tillman. Wylie couldn’t walk away from a fight, and this seemed like someone in his face.

The alcohol lent confidence to his stubbornness. Slowly, he traced the blood trail leading to the house and found the front door slightly ajar. A small lamp burned in the entrance room and in his gut.

Who’s here? Wylie yelled, begging for a sobered ally, hopefully not the one who took the girl’s arm. Stupid, I’m damned stupid. Chainsaw, grizzly bear, what the hell could cause the ugly end of this arm? Hearing nothing, he thought again about putting the arm down and bolting. Sure blood’s on the car’s front seat, but my family will somehow understand, he reasoned in his recovering fuzzy-headed state.

But as he prepared to lay down the arm, he spotted her, hair and face beautiful, body grossly mangled. A long fillet knife extended from her neck like a haunted museum figure. Long blond hair seemed just blown dry except for a light splattering of blood. Her face, smooth and made up to near perfection, except for a few smudges, held a wild look of fear in her wide-open eyes, staring a look of disbelief. A goddess witnessing her own death.

She looked nothing like death, except too still, and the knife grew from her neck as a straightened question mark. Wylie willed her to breathe, but her chest wouldn’t rise. Mouth-to-mouth crossed his mind but seemed too over-the-top personal. He dropped her arm, wrapped his hands into a big fist and pushed his bloody mass of fingers where he guessed her heart beat. Nothing. He stepped back and shed an embarrassing tear.

Why, God? Wylie shouted angrily toward the stucco ceiling. The girl seemed about Libby’s age, the daughter he should have already picked up. Wondering why he was still standing there, he had a sobering thought. Whoever did this didn’t expect to get caught. He looked at his bloody hands gripping the arm, now feeling colder.

No matter. I’ve done nothing wrong; I’m helping.

But as he wrestled with his choice among wavering thinking, he reconsidered. Crap, this girl’s been murdered, and if they see me like this, hell, they might take me in for a breathalyzer test. Especially if I tell them her arm was stuck under my car.

He snorted, the way he’d done as a linebacker, and made a decision. Pulling the cell phone from his pocket, he dialed 911 while trying to wipe blood he’d spilled across the front of her shirt. Making more of a mess, he stopped and nestled the arm beside the girl, only then realizing he’d been lugging around her right arm.

I need to report a crime at 1065 Sessions Drive. I don’t want to get involved, but you need to send someone right away. As the operator began peppering him with questions, a flash crossed his mind about the 911 system knowing the owner of the phone used to make an emergency call. Shit, I got to go. He hung up.

He tried to justify the screw-up to himself. They won’t care about me, and by tomorrow, I’ll have my head straight. I’ve done my duty, and I’m out of here...no blood on my hands. He glanced at his extremities and found evidence to the contrary.

Since blood covered both of his arms, he quickly entered a half bath off the room where he’d found the body. He scrubbed every splatter he could find. The mirror above the sink reflected his muscular torso. He wanted to check out his eyes to see if he looked drunk, but there seemed not enough time. Angrily grabbing one of the matching hand towels to dry off, thinking how ridiculous he must look, he figured he might as well use it to clean off the car seat. After all, his daughter, the one who brought him here, might not understand. Blood wouldn’t be good.

Exiting the house, he slammed the door behind, and jogged across the yard. He laughed out loud, feeling like a comic strip character, hoping the humor would bring a satisfactory conclusion to his growing desperation. The dead girl burned in his mind. Maybe he’d see a bold headline about himself tomorrow…the front page…A Decent Guy Did Good.

He arrived back at the Suburban, still idling. Clueless, he laughed again, more uncertain, angrier, and scared. The girl’s horrible image surfaced and faded as he focused on finding his own daughter. While driving the distance to 1085 Sessions, he tried sopping up the blood spilled from the arm inside the car. He pulled up to the curb, looking at the Byrd’s well-trimmed lawn highlighted with flood lights, and wondered whether to get out. He figured that going into the Byrd’s house to explain things would be the proper thing for a parent to do. But what could he say, and surely, if he went through any detailed explanation, the lights and sirens would interrupt before he finished. A scene he needed to avoid. Why me?

Daddy, what’s this wet stuff? Libby blurted out as she opened the passenger door automatically turning on the overhead light.

Might be blood, be careful.

Blood? It’s all over you, and now it’s on my new white jeans.

Slow down, Libby.

$19.99. My whole allowance! Mom’s gonna be pissed.

Calm down, Baby. Wylie wiped crusted blood off his arm he’d missed in his splash bath minutes earlier.

The car light tapered off as she closed the door. Libby turned on the manual overhead bulb and started screaming.

Blood’s everywhere!

Get a hold of yourself. I just helped the police with a terrible thing, something we don’t need to talk about tonight.

Libby started breathing short, shallow breaths, but with a near calmness about her, asked, Whose blood is this, Daddy?

I’d tell you if I knew.

Wylie thought of himself as a good dad, active in his daughter’s life, but couldn’t concentrate on anything but the last twenty minutes. Thinking of nothing to tell Libby, he rubbed her neck with his bloody hand, trying to calm her, trying to spare her the details. She stared at her ruined jeans the whole way home.

* * *

Wylie followed Libby into the back door of their home, where Peg, looking bewildered, stood in her terry-cloth bathrobe in the middle of the black-and-white squared vinyl floor of their kitchen. Wylie said nothing as Peg told Libby to go to bed.

She looked up and down his bloody clothes. He could feel her eyes penetrating the back of his head as he walked down the hardwood hallway to the bedroom and fell backwards into the small sofa against the wall.

He thought through the hours leading up to the time he left to pick up Libby. Peg lectured him about picking up the kids with liquor on his breath, but he’d spent most of the evening grilling out back thinking she would do the pickup. She apparently thought differently, being in no better shape to drive. He remembered looking fondly across the kitchen table at the remains of the Boston Butt, nicely chopped with a vinegar-based barbeque sauce. And an extra touch, slaw, fresh cabbage out of his small garden, a blessing from God, topping the pork. The total feast…ought to be my duty for the night. Then he’d looked for the preferred driver, finding Peg at the sink, busy at work scraping drying pork off the plates. When he started a speech over the gut-busting Southern meal he’d provided, she cut her eyes hard in his direction. Rather than argue, he volunteered.

Wylie wiggled in his seat, reevaluating why this night’s decisions seemed to be crawling up his legs like fire-ants. He watched Peg pull back her shoulder-length black hair, remove her robe exposing her light cotton nightgown and waited for her wrath. But he could tell she sensed a bad situation.

Wylie…I smell a rat. Say I’m wrong.

Can’t.

Why?

Hardly know where to begin. The last hour has put me right in the middle of a stinking nightmare. He told her the story the best he could. She looked astounded, started laughing, but suddenly quit.

You pulled an arm out from underneath our Suburban, carried it to a stranger’s house, walked into the house without permission, put the arm by a dead body, called 911, and left?

That’s about it.

Why wouldn’t you have called 911 when you first saw the arm, didn’t you think about that?

Yeah, I thought about that. Then I thought about the police coming. Figuring I could’ve hit somebody in the road, while I was driving half drunk, and then getting hauled off to jail for the next twenty years didn’t sit right. Get it?

He was still a bit intoxicated but could see that his question made Peg hesitate.

In a way what you’re saying makes sense . . . hell no . . . it makes no sense. She shook her head furiously. This is a crazy mess. We need to call the police. For better or worse you are somehow a witness to a murder. You can’t just make an anonymous call to 911 after you drag a body part across someone’s lawn.

The firmness of Peg’s argument trailed off, and she broke down crying. Why are you looking at me? I said call the police.

Wylie tried to calm himself for a moment. Can you slow down for a minute? I understand what you’re saying, but the authorities know I know they can find me . . . will find me. I’d just like to sober up a little more and get things straight in my head before I talk to them. I promise I’ll do it first thing in the morning.

Peg sighed falling backwards until her head hit the stacked pillows on her side of the bed. "Please tell me this is a joke. Wylie you can be a kidder, Saturday night, you want to fool around? Are you messing with me?"

Damn it, Peg, I’m in no mood to joke or get between your legs. Go to sleep, I’ll deal with it.

Peg drew in a deep breath, exhaled like an untied balloon, and cut her eyes toward him. Hope you know what you’re doing.

I do too.

But Peg popped up off the pillows. Wylie, you know what this reminds me of?

Got a feeling you’re about to tell me.

Yes. I’m about to remind you of that crazy story you told me about when you were in junior high.

Damn, Peg, it’s too late, I’m too tired and don’t want to hear you wailing about a story I wish I’d never told you. Go to bed.

Peg walked over to the sofa, placed her hands on her hips, and glared in his face. Wylie, some things never seem to change. When those guys in junior high said you could shake that hornet’s nest and you wouldn’t be stung as long as you held your breath…well…this story reminds me that sometimes you don’t think things through too good.

She went to bed. Over the next five hours Wylie drifted in and out of sleep. The gross mangled end of the arm painted his dreams. The wet and sticky liquid flowed over him jolting him from his sleep. Peg was right next to him, but he still felt alone with his misery.

How did the arm get there? He mumbled in his sleep, waiting for the alarm set for 7:00. He’d call then. He didn’t get the chance.

At 5:45 the doorbell rang, followed by a loud knock. Voices of different pitches, coming from outside, echoed through the house, until a single deep command pierced Wylie’s ears.

Uniontown P.D., Mr. Tillman, we need to talk.

Desperately tired but nearly sobered, Wylie rolled off the edge of the bed. He sensed Peg had slept no better than he. I’ll get it. Go back to sleep.

Right! She pulled the covers over her head. Be careful, Wylie.

Tying the sash around his rarely used bathrobe, he walked down the hall, grabbing both cheeks on his face wondering if the alcohol had left his system. He stood on the parquet flooring of the foyer he’d installed after a good paying commercial job. Looking at the six panel wooden door, cold sober, he heard the penetrating knock again, and Wylie opened the door, finding three plain-clothed gentlemen waiting.

A tanned, tall, wavy-haired man stepped forward, produced a badge and politely introduced himself as Lt. Jeff Sawyer. Are you Wylie Tillman?

That’s me.

I’m sorry about the late hour, sir, but we believe you may have called us at 12:27 to report a crime over on Sessions Drive.

I did. I planned to call you this morning to see if I could help you with your investigation.

We appreciate your willingness to help. What clothes were you wearing when you called?

Wylie couldn’t help but notice that the first real question was about himself rather than the criminal. Well, if it’s important, I was wearing khaki slacks and an old Uniontown High football T-shirt.

Where are they?

The closet in my bedroom.

Could we take a look at them?

Remembering his cooperation comment, Wylie said, OK, I’ll get ‘em right away.

As he entered the bedroom, Peg was sitting up, wide awake.

What did they say?

They want my clothes from last night.

"Your clothes? Why your clothes?"

My thought exactly. But what do you expect me to tell ‘em, get lost? Cops?

Wait, this doesn’t sound right. I’m getting up.

With blood-spattered clothes tucked under his arm, he followed Peg back to the waiting officers.

I’m Wylie’s wife. Why do you want his clothes?

Good morning, Mrs. Tillman. We may need to take your husband down to the station to collect some information about a potential crime.

"What do you mean a potential crime? Wylie called in a real crime, a dead girl, a killing. Remember, my husband happened to be the only one who bothered to report it to you? Are you telling me that you’ve got a murder to solve out there and all you can do is come to my house before the sun’s up and start demanding the clothing of the only person that has given you any assistance?"

Sawyer interrupted her. Standard procedure, ma’am.

Standard to drag a cooperating witness from his home? We’ve lived in this house and raised our family here for the past eighteen years. If you have any sense of decency, you’ll let us finish sleeping, get up, fix our child’s breakfast, and go to church like we always do on Sundays. After that, my husband can drop by the police station and continue his help as a good citizen. Is that all right with you?

Wylie, proud of his wife, watched as the three officers looked at each other as if maybe they’d been too aggressive under the circumstances. Lt. Sawyer grouped together with the other two like a football huddle. The tone of their voices sounded to Wylie as if they were softening. After a series of nods, Jeff Sawyer stepped forward.

"Alright, Mr. Tillman, we’re going to give you some slack since it is Sunday morning, and you seem willing to cooperate. I’ll see you at 1:00 sharp. Any problem?"

No, sir.

Before we leave, would you mind voluntarily surrendering the clothes under your arm?

Peg turned to Wylie, jerked the rolled-up bundle from his grasp, and pushed it towards Lt. Sawyer. Here, think my husband’s garments will solve your case, help yourself.

The officers slowly backed out of the front door, gazing at one another as if to question their decision. Wiley locked it behind them and turned to see Peg headed towards the kitchen. By the time he caught up with her, she was filling the coffee maker. He noticed the glowing clean surfaces, far different from his barbeque splattered mess remaining when he’d left to pick up Libby.

CHAPTER TWO

July 25, 2010

10:55 a.m.

Chief of Police Duke Morton fumed. You did what? Are you telling me that the wife of your only suspect backed the three of you down and then advised you that they would deal with this at their leisure? You’ve got the victim’s blood on his car and the matching hand towel from the floorboard of his Suburban. I’ve got the parents of a dead, dismembered fifteen-year-old child breathing down my back, and you tell me you’re not going to bring him in because he wants to attend church?

Jeff Sawyer ignored the crumbs spewing from his boss’s mouth. Listen, Chief. This is a good family. He did call 911, and I thought it best to show a reasonable degree of restraint.

Restraint? The issue isn’t restraint, it’s murder.

The Chief, a big man, looked at his watch. Well, one o’clock is in two hours. I guess there’s no sense in dragging a man out of church at this point. Give me a full report after you’ve interrogated him.

The Chief stormed out the small cubicle known as Jeff’s office and Jeff, rather guiltily, looked at his two deputies and kicked at the crumbs on his floor. The tension still lingered even though the Chief was halfway down the hall. He’s right. If our suspect had been down in the projects we woulda jerked him out of the apartment, into the patrol car, and down to the station faster than he could think. Both deputies nodded. From now on we handle this by the book. But I’ll tell you this; my gut tells me no way this Tillman guy plunged a fillet knife into her neck and called 911. We need to tread carefully on this one.

Brent Savage, a guy Jeff called friend, stepped forward. Exactly, Jeff. Sling too much mud in his direction, and we’ll have a lot of explaining to do to a jury when we catch the real s.o.b. who butchered that girl.

Jeff looked at his two exhausted colleagues and shook their hands, thanks for sticking with him. Scheduled to go home at eight that morning, they’d both started the shift nearly twelve hours ago. They‘d stayed because he’d earned their respect.

Loyalty meant a lot, and, as he settled into his cubicle, he recalled an earlier time in his career when faithfulness to a fellow officer ran shallow in his department. Jeff carried twenty-three years of mental scars paying dues as a policeman. But his sacrifice didn’t count for much politically at the Uniontown P.D. Last count, Jeff had been passed over for Police Chief three consecutive times, but respect among the rank and file got him through each day.

He remembered the stagnation of his career, a nightmare which, for the better part of a decade, continued to linger in his mind.

* * *

New Year’s Eve, seven years earlier, Jeff was off duty. He had worked six back-to-back days on a homicide case and was beat.

Sally, his thirteen-year-old daughter, invited several friends over for a slumber party to ring in the New Year. Rachel, Jeff’s wife, mixed sherbet and ginger ale for the midnight celebration toast for the party girls. Jeff moaned to himself as he watched the girls getting into the refreshments about nine and projected supplies wouldn’t last until midnight. By eleven, Rachel sent him out for more. On his way to a twenty-four-hour convenience store he spotted a jet black Cadillac swerving erratically in the road ahead of him. Let the traffic cop deal with it. I’m off tonight. But the shiny car shot through the median, slinging dirt, fish-tailing back and forth, and almost struck an oncoming car.

That’s it, somebody’s gonna get killed, he said out loud while sliding the small revolving blue light into its slot on the dash of his unmarked car. He pursued the vehicle as it veered back and forth between the median and outside curb. The activated light bounced blue off the shiny silver bumper of the Cadillac, the driver showing no sign of stopping.

Sawyer to dispatch. I’ve got a non-responding driver headed East at the 400 block of Elm Street and need assistance. He pondered the probability that the New Year would come without the sherbet punch. He whizzed by the convenience store at sixty-five miles per hour. "Another damned year," he mumbled through his frustration.

Within four minutes a full-sized marked car with dual lights pulled ahead of the unresponsive car. Slowly the sandwiched driver pulled to the side of the road coming to an abrupt stop. Jeff carefully got out of his vehicle. Up front he observed Matthew Head exiting as well. Matthew was a rookie cop that Jeff trained some nine months earlier.

Jeff and Matthew arrived at the driver’s side window about the same time.

What the hell are you stopping me for?

Ma’am, if you don’t mind could we see your driver’s license and registration card, said Jeff in a ‘why did I have to catch you’ monotone voice.

If you need to see my license, I guess you don’t have a friggin’ clue who I am.

Jeff leaned his head toward his left shoulder and took a better look at the arrogant suspect. He recognized her.

Mrs. Emerson, I’m going to ask you to step from the vehicle. Jeff looked at Matthew. Officer Head, this is the mayor’s wife.

So who’s gonna drive me home? She sprayed bourbon and saliva as she spoke. Jeff wiped his face.

"We’ll take good care of you, but first we need to conduct