Death in the Preserve

By James Dennis Beeson

James Beeson was an Indiana farm boy till his father died when he was ten. He was never without a job. His mother cobbled together the means of maintaining a home for him for the next seven years without the intrusion of any governmental or charitable institution.

He skipped the twelfth grade, enlisted in the Navy and was sent to Notre Dame University for his pre-med studies in their college training program (V-12).

He graduated from Indiana Medical School in 1949 at the age of twenty-two. He is a board certified anesthesiologist (retired). He had five fine children by his first dear wife who died in 2002. Two of his sons are also anesthesiologists. In 2003 he married his wife's best friend who was a widow.

He retired in 1996 and was a care giver for six years. He began writing books in 2009. He enjoys cruising, dinner with friends, Cubs' baseball, Jaguar football, good scotch and the love of his adored wife.

He is chronically happy and healthy as of 2014.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499019797

James Dennis Beeson

James Beeson was an Indiana farm boy till his father died when he was ten. He was never without a job. His mother cobbled together the means of maintaining a home for him for the next seven years without the intrusion of any governmental or charitable institution. He skipped the twelfth grade, enlisted in the Navy and was sent to Notre Dame University for his pre-med studies in their college training program (V-12). He graduated from Indiana Medical School in 1949 at the age of twenty-two. He is a board certified anesthesiologist (retired). He had five fine children by his first dear wife who died in 2002. Two of his sons are also anesthesiologists. In 2003 he married his wife's best friend who was a widow. He retired in 1996 and was a care giver for six years. He began writing books in 2009. He enjoys cruising, dinner with friends, Cubs' baseball, Jaguar football, good scotch and the love of his adored wife. He is chronically happy and healthy as of 2014.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Mrs. Ballard’s two grandsons were fifteen and thirteen years of age. Good students. Good dispositions. Good health. However, they were beginning to feel the sap rising and were trying to become more independent wherever they could be so. That meant occasionally testing the limits of where the could be was.

The elder grandson, Sam, and brother, Seth, were visiting their grandmother in the Del Webb community of Sweetwater in Jacksonville, Florida. The boys’ home was in Atlantic Beach, some ten miles distant. Visiting a grandparent to many teenagers is considered a chore, but Sam and Seth always looked forward to such visits. Grandma always had little bribes to offer the boys to help sustain their interest. The boys were well provided for at their own home, but Grandma always seemed to have a never-ending supply of things they never knew they wanted but, when proffered, they enjoyed. They also loved their grandmother, which always helps.

Mrs. Ballard’s house abutted against the Preserve, which was a strip of land to the east of her home. It had been left in its natural and pristine state. It was wide enough and long enough to give shelter to all sorts of wild animals—raccoons and deer, even wild pigs. Snakes for sure. Someone claimed they’d seen a bobcat there, but it might have been a two-martini domestic cat.

The boys had been admonished since their first visit there not to venture into the Preserve. For instance, there were ticks there carrying heaven knows what diseases, but of even greater concern, there were rattlesnakes—little and big. After a period of heavy rains, the snakes in the Preserve would migrate to higher ground such as Grandma’s small backyard.

Grandma Ballard was of the unshakable opinion that the only good snake was a dead snake, divided into a minimum of two parts by means of a sharp-bladed vertical hoe that she kept at the ready. The good, the bad, and the ugly met the same fate if detected.

The boys had discussed between themselves the possibility of violating Grandma’s admonition about the Preserve and, noting that the blinds were drawn on the Preserve side of the lanai, determined that this was the time for a quick secret visit there.

Sam said he and Seth were going for a walk, and they exited the door that fronted on the street. They then sprinted around the house, disappearing into the Preserve.

There were only the faintest of trails there. The deer had some consistency in their movements, but nothing resembled a human trail.

They were about fifty feet deep into the forest when they came across a large fallen tree. From the degree of its deterioration, it had likely been on the ground for a decade. Woodpeckers had methodically fenestrated the trunk from top to bottom. The tree had perished naturally—no chainsaw marks.

The boys were circling the fallen tree for no particular reason when, as they got to the farthest point from Grandma’s house, they heard the unmistakable sound of a rattlesnake in full rattle. Sam stood perfectly still, trying to identify where the snake was located. Seth, however, who ran track at school, took off like a scalded cat in the general direction of Grandmother’s house.

Slow down, Seth! They don’t chase people, Sam said.

Seth stopped, and right ahead of him, he suddenly saw a group of vultures busy doing what vultures do. Hey, Sam, there’s a bunch of buzzards over here.

Seth wasn’t quite as adventurous as Sam, but having his older brother at his side emboldened him. Sam came over, and they shooed the vultures—reluctantly—away. They flew up erratically as they avoided the overhanging tree branches.

Sam was now two paces ahead of Seth, trying to see what had attracted the birds. By now a powerful stench was permeating the air.

Is it a deer? Seth asked.

Sam brushed away the remaining foliage that was obstructing his view of the carrion. Holy cow! It’s a body! he shouted.

Seth was used to his brother pulling his chain, so he was being cool and said, Let’s go through the pockets and see who it was.

As he walked by a transfixed Sam, he saw the fly-covered body and screamed, It’s a body! What do we do?

We go tell Grandma. She’ll know what to do, Sam replied.

The boys walked gingerly and carefully. Where there’s one rattlesnake, there’s sure to be others. They passed out of the Preserve and around Grandma’s house to her Christmas-decorated front door and hurried in.

You boys look a little pale. You all right? Grandma asked.

We went walking in the Preserve, Sam confessed.

Are either of you hurt? their concerned mother asked.

No, ma’am, but we found something you need to know about.

Seth was perfectly happy to let Sam be the spokesman.

And what might that be? Grandma asked.

It’s a dead body, and it stinks, Sam added.

Are you sure it’s a human body? Grandma asked.

Yes, ma’am. We had to scare the buzzards off of it.

Both adults wrinkled their noses at that.

And we did hear a rattlesnake before we found the body.

I’ll put my boots on, and then you show us where it is, Grandma said. Why don’t you just wait here, Ginny,

No way! I’m coming too. You got a spare set of boots?

She did, and the ladies donned the boots and went out the back door this time. The boots might not afford protection from a snake strike—but onward anyway.

The rattler was over there, Seth said, pointing toward the fallen tree.

Even though that was nowhere near the path back to the house, Grandma picked up the departure pace.

I hate snakes! she muttered.

CHAPTER TWO

911!

This is Mrs. Ballard. I live at 9249 Rosewater Lane in the Sweetwater development. My two grandsons just came across a dead body in the Preserve that’s in the back of my house.

A dead body? the agent asked.

Yes, and it’s been there quite a while. It’s putrescent, and vultures were all over the place.

Vultures? The agent was aghast.

That’s right.

We’ll have someone there in ten minutes. Don’t touch anything.

We didn’t. You don’t have to hurry. It’s not going anywhere, Grandma said. The grandsons had to stifle a laugh at that.

Ten minutes later a police car with two young officers pulled up beside the house. There was no need to ring the bell. The door was wide-open.

The two officers introduced themselves, asked a few pointed questions, and then asked to be taken to the body.

I live here. I’ll show you.

We’ll come too! both boys and their mother chimed in together.

The odor was as repulsive as ever, and the vultures had returned. They flew away more adroitly this time—practice, practice, practice.

The body was facedown, and a bulge where a rear pocket was located was a wallet. One of the officers deftly plucked it out and opened it up. There was no money in it, but there was a full complement of credit cards along with a driver’s license and a concealed weapon permit.

Jones Morton, the officer read.

He wrote for the paper, Grandma said.

Oh yeah, entertainment and food critic, the officer added.

This may be a murder, so there’s going to be a lot of traffic around here. It’s going to be very busy here for a couple of hours, ma’am.

Understood, Grandma said as she beckoned her family to leave the scene.

CHAPTER THREE

The adjacent neighbors, who usually stuck pretty well to their own homes, began to trickle out into the street and sidewalk near Grandma’s house after the police car showed up.

By the time the retinue of police cars paraded in, the crowd had really enlarged. Cell phones hummed as word spread. Something heavy was going down.

Grandma’s next-door neighbor with whom she had a warm relationship came to her door.

Do you need any help? the neighbor asked.

No, thanks. The boys found a dead body in the Preserve. They think it’s that newspaper food critic guy, Jones Morton. You could go inform our audience, if you wish.

They are very curious out there, she said with a laugh.

The crowd huddled around the neighbor who, in a rather louder voice than usual, recited what little she knew at the time.

From that point in time, the rumor mill was in high gear. There were dead bodies in there, and they think a bobcat killed them. As the circle of misinformation was growing, one of the officers finally got to use the bullhorn he’d been carrying around for two years.

Please stay on the sidewalks and keep the streets clear.

The lowing herd was cooperative and immediately complied.

Thank you! the bullhorn bellowed.

CHAPTER FOUR

The forensic team did the best they could under the circumstances. They soldiered through despite the overpowering stench. One member retched a time or two, but nobody threw up. Even expediting as best they could, it was a full hour before they saw fit to bundle the body into a body bag and hand-carry it to the waiting ambulance.

By this time the crowd had largely dispersed. The hardcore residents were treated to the sight of the bag being taken to the ambulance. They were also treated to a refresher course in the smell of putrescent flesh.

The ambulance eased away, but the smell seemed to linger in the street. The additional police departed, leaving only the original twosome with their final questions.

How do you suppose he got there if he didn’t walk there by himself?

Carried from the street, I’d think. It’s too far from the entrance of the Preserve to this point, Grandma answered.

"Wouldn’t somebody have