One Bite of the Apple

By J B Tillotson

Sheriff Martin Holcum is determined to find out who slipped a middle aged man a date rape drug at a bizarre party and why. His investigation leads to murder. He has a list of the nine other people at the party, who are his suspects. Along the way, this divorced father of a troubled teenage son finds romance. Unfortunately, she is one of the nine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heidi J B Tillotson
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087991542

Book preview

One Bite of the Apple

By J B Tillotson

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank Frank Green, my editor, and his Bard Society critique group for their invaluable help in honing my writing skills. They taught me almost everything I know about writing fiction, and challenged me to produce a new and polished chapter each week. Thank you to Frank and to all the members I have had the pleasure to know. I can’t name them all, but you know who you are.

CHAPTER ONE

Sheriff Martin Holcum leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the government-issue desk. He held the phone loosely to his ear and stared out the window. The sun was creeping up behind the sycamores on the far side of the parking lot. Two marked county cars and several private vehicles glistened with dew on their windshields. A bluebottle fly buzzed as it threw itself against the window as if trying to escape. Another day at the Nassau County Sheriff’s Office.

Irene screeched in his ear, You listening to me, Martin?

He winced, lifted his g-brim hat and ran his hand through his dark, wavy hair in mild exasperation. Yeah, I’m listening. Tryouts for football next Monday. I got the notice. Eric’s going.

Are you going to talk to the coach? You’re as responsible for that kid as I am, you know.

He sighed. You know full well my schedule won’t always let me go to those things. I’ll try. That’s all I can say. He was all too aware that he wasn’t the father he wanted to be, but how the hell was he to protect the public and—.

Quit hiding behind your fancy badge—,

Just then he caught Deputy Johnny Wilder standing in the doorway. Johnny was a good kid, a teenage-looking rookie with dark rimmed glasses, wolfish eyes, and close-cropped dark hair.

Hold on, Irene. Martin put his hand over the mouthpiece. What is it, Johnny?

Single vehicle accident out on Live Oak Road. Pickup truck ran off the road and hit a tree in the middle of the night. No witnesses. Thought you’d be interested.

He put his boots down and stood. Gotta go, Irene. Business. I’ll talk to the kid soon. He hung up the phone. The driver?

Dead at the scene. No passengers. Jacobs says it’s pretty bad. Truck’s totaled.

Let’s take my squad car. You can drive.

You don’t really have to go. Jacobs is taking care of it.

Yeah, but this way I have a reason not to answer if my ex-wife calls back. See ya out front in five. He’d deal with Eric later at football practice.

Chief Deputy Alvin Jacobs was Martin’s second in command. He hated the Chipmonkey name Alvin, so everyone simply called him Jacobs. Most people didn’t even know his first name.

Martin hurried through his morning routine sifting through BOLOs and papers on his cluttered desk. As he expected, nothing urgent. He hastily scribbled his signature on a few pages, stapled, and stacked the forms. He left word where he was going with Mary, the frizzy redheaded dispatcher. Johnny was waiting in his cruiser, engine running, as he climbed in and pulled a red Twizzler out of his shirt pocket.

Johnny glanced at him. Still suckin’ on them things, Sheriff?

Martin bit off the end of the rope candy and chewed on it. They got me off cigarettes. Ya want one?

* * *

A good half hour later they reached the scene of the wreck on a quiet country road north of town. On the right side of the road the dark waters of the St. Marys River drifted silently through alternating heavily wooded and marshy areas. Old, broken down pier pilings jutted out of the water like tooth stubs.

A Liberty ambulance, Dixon VFRD fire truck, and another sheriff’s car were parked on the other side of the road. Good thing the wreck was on that side of the road, or it would be a soggy recovery. One of the paramedics, Joe Barnes, was leaning against the back of the ambulance smoking a dangling cigarette. They pulled up behind the marked car and walked toward the ambulance.

Taking a cigarette break, Joe? he said.

Joe coughed. Covers up the smell of this place. He exhaled two columns of smoke from his nostrils, put the Camel back in his lips. Mud, muck, and fish, he said, cigarette bobbing and dumping ashes into the grass. Especially fish.

Tire tracks traversed the shallow ditch and plowed through the undergrowth toward what was left of the pickup. No skid marks on the pavement. The driver hadn’t tried to stop or swerve before he left the road at the worst possible moment. The truck had smashed headlong into the only large tree in a fifty-yard radius, a huge live oak draped in Spanish moss, the tree trunk almost as wide as the pickup.

Jacobs, a lanky, ten year veteran of the force, was taking pictures, awkwardly ducking around thick oak branches bending low and curving back up toward the clearing summer sky.

Martin looked expectantly at the paramedic.

Joe took the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, and gazed at the wreck. Have to wait for the tow truck to get him out. Wedged in tight as a vise.

He nodded and turned to the rookie. Let’s take a look, Johnny. You haven’t seen this kinda thing yet, have you?

He jumped the ditch between the road and the woods. Johnny followed. They walked between the tread marks, their shoes and pants legs getting wet with swamp grass dew. Soggier than he thought it would be. He hated to get his uniform pants dirty and covered with beggars’ lice. At least they were able to hike more easily where the truck had run down the small trees and bushes.

A mixture of oil, gas, and antifreeze permeated the air. The black Dodge 1500 pickup sported a Gator head logo on the trailer hitch cover and a large Chomp decal on the back window of the cab. Martin skirted the truck on the right to inspect the point of impact. The truck had smashed into the tree head on, smack dab on the M, with the driver’s side taking the brunt of the damage. The front of the truck hugged the tree in a death grip. The tree stood solid as granite. To travel this far through small pines and brush, and hit this hard the pickup must have really been moving.

The white haired, white faced driver was still strapped in, eyes closed as if asleep. Seat belt and air bag hadn’t helped much. The poor man had been crushed by the air bag and steering wheel. Blood, now dried, had dripped from his smashed nose, mouth, and a gash in his forehead above the right eye. Johnny turned away with his hand over his mouth.

Martin walked over to Jacobs. We got a name yet?

Jacobs held up a wrinkled, clear plastic sleeve. Found the registration in what’s left of the glove box. Says ‘Samuel Kolchek, 35119 Juniper Lane.’ Couldn’t get at his license. We can get it when they pry the guy out.

We’ll need a positive ID so we can notify his next of kin.

I don’t think he has any family here, Jacobs said.

Someone who’s known him at least three years, then.

Johnny emerged from the weeds, wiping his face with his handkerchief. If that’s Kolchek, the old cuss probably don’t have no friends. I hear he was a loner. A mean old coot.

Martin glared at him. Find somebody, you fool. I don’t know the man well, but I do know he’s lived here longer than three years.

Right, Sheriff, Johnny mumbled.

Jacobs looked at the registration again. Juniper Lane. That’s not far from here. Judging from the direction of the tire tracks in the weeds, he musta been on his way home.

Martin slogged through the sucking mud, weeds, and vines to the front of the pickup for one more look. His boots squished in the wet soil. The distinctive smell of gasoline was dizzying. He shook his head as he led Johnny back to the squad car. He stopped at the car and stared down the road in the direction the truck had come.

Whatcha lookin’ at, Sheriff? Johnny with the wolf eyes said.

Thinkin’. He slapped the roof of the car and opened the passenger door. We’re done here, son. Joe, you can load ’im up in your meat wagon as soon as the firemen get him out with the Jaws of Life.

Joe had just lit another cigarette. He dropped the match in the muck, and with a soft whoosh a line of fire zipped to the truck.

Martin grabbed the rim of his hat and yelled, Take cover, boys. She’s gonna blow.

The truck went up like a roman candle, a black cloud rising above a huge fireball followed by hissing and popping and smaller explosions.

The tires melted, letting off a stink like burning hair. Soon the truck sat on the ground, the metal tinging from the heat and the glass crackling and popping.

Martin said, Jesus, Joe. You know better than that.

Jacobs immediately called on the radio for the fire and rescue crew. Joe was struck dumb, his hands hanging limply at his sides. Then the smell of burnt flesh hit Martin’s nose.

Johnny said, Good God, Sheriff. What’s that stench?

Hush, boy, Martin said. Come on. Let’s go. Joe, this is your problem. The body’s going to be difficult to ID. After this, I’ll bet you’ll never light up around an auto accident again. You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose your job over this.

* * *

Martin spent the rest of the day working on the traffic fatality report. The body was extricated from the vehicle and transported to Doctor Potts’ office, the county ME and a practicing physician. Scorched as he was, Kolchek was positively identified by his neighbor, Loren Weatherby. No relatives had been located yet. They’d probably show up later and raise a fuss about not being notified sooner.

Deputy Hal Fisher, the closest thing the department to forensics, walked into Martin’s office. I’ve been looking into this morning’s accident.

And?

Judging by the distance she traveled from the road, the lack of skid marks, and the condition of the truck, I’d say she was going in excess of seventy miles per hour.

The limit there is fifty-five.

You gonna ticket the stiff? Hal snorted at his own joke.

Not funny. Why do you suppose he was going so fast, if he fell asleep?

Simple, Hal said. He sat on the edge of the gray government-issue desk. You go to sleep, your muscles relax. Leg straightens out, pushes down on the accelerator. Hal pushed with his foot on an imaginary gas pedal.

Makes sense, I guess. Thanks Hal. Let me know if you turn up anything else.

Hal nodded and headed down the hallway.

Martin was getting ready to leave for the day when Tom Winslow dropped by. Tom was owner, editor, and occasional reporter of the weekly town newspaper.

I’m doing a story on the accident this morning, Winslow said, taking a seat in the chair opposite him. Jacobs tells me Sam Kolchek was the driver and was dead at the scene.

That’s right. Doc says it happened around midnight. Haven’t made the notification yet. He didn’t have any family around these parts.

I can help with that. I do a lot of research in my line of work. I’ll find out whatever I can about the guy for my story. He pulled out a notepad. Any idea what caused it? Jacobs says no other cars were involved.

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers in his lap. Too early to say. He might’ve lost control or fell asleep at the wheel. Andy’s testing for alcohol.

Andrew Potts and Martin were longtime friends.

I saw the pictures your man Jacobs took, Winslow said. The truck was totaled even before the fire. Poor Sam.

Did you know him well?

Only by reputation. He ran a couple convenience stores. Single. Late fifties. A bit of a loner, I hear, but a big Gators fan.

Winslow made it his business to know a lot of people in town, even if it was only by reputation. He was almost as big a gossip as Irene. Martin knew he was trolling for more information. Anything to interest his readers.

The landline on his desk rang. He leaned forward and picked up the receiver, keeping his eyes on Winslow.

Hey, Marty.

It was the coroner, the only local who called him Marty.

What is it, Andy?

Couldn’t get an accurate TOD because of the condition of the body. I’d say somewhere between ten and three in the morning.

You got the test results?

He had been drinking. Blood alcohol level point 0 three. Not legally intoxicated.

Okay. He must have fallen asleep on his way home from somewhere.

Andy paused. I’m sending a blood sample to Jacksonville to test for drugs, just to make sure. He could’ve been passed out.

He looked up. Winslow was still sitting there listening. Thanks, Andy, he said. How soon will you have the results?

Depends on how backed up they get over the weekend. I’d say Tuesday at the earliest.

Great. Guess I’ll have to hold up on my report. Get back to me as soon as you can. He replaced the receiver and stood. Sorry, Tom. I can’t tell you anything more about the accident. We’re still investigating.

Winslow rose and headed for the door. I see. You’re not going to tell me what the doc had to say. Whatever it is, I’ll find out sooner or later. He looked Martin in the eye as he added, I always do.

CHAPTER TWO

Kolchek’s ageing, dreary home was on a two-lane clay road just off highway 13, halfway between Dixon and the Georgia state line. Jacobs’ white cruiser with a big yellow star on a dark green field was parked in the driveway. Overgrown, purple, star-flowered azaleas marked the property line on one side. Chain link marked the other. The cracked concrete drive led to a narrow sidewalk curving to the low porch of the two-toned red brick bungalow. Martin stepped up to the porch. The front door was unlocked. He yoo-hooed and went inside. The place was musty, like a used gym bag.

He followed the sound of movement to an office. Jacobs was thumbing through an accounting ledger on a large oak desk. He had no idea what Jacobs expected to find in the ledger, but he was a smart cookie and never wasted his time.

A fleshy NFL cheerleader calendar hung on the wall. A few décolleté girlie magazines cluttered the desktop.

A framed picture of a cute blonde took up a prominent spot on the desk. Round face. dimples on her cheeks. He removed the photo from the frame and checked the back. In bold royal blue script it said Susan. Spring 2002. Beneath that was the nickname Dimples. About time he got a lead on family. He replaced the photo. Too young to be a wife. Could be a girlfriend or a daughter.

He decided to take a break after an hour of riffling through papers and files. He stepped out the back door to get a clean breath of fresh air and a look-see around the property. He took a couple of steps into the yard. No fresh air here. The stench of dog poop assailed his nose. Immediately he heard snarling growls. A German shepherd lunged across the yard toward him, teeth bared. He quickly retreated into the house.

He decided to take a walk out the front door. Much safer and prettier sight. The neighbor’s yard had red and pink azalea bushes in full bloom. The neighbor was moving a sprinkler in his yard. Martin walked to the chain link fence and casually leaned against it.

Hey there, he said.

Hey, Sheriff. The man dropped the sprinkler and moved toward the fence. I suppose you’re here about poor Mister Kolchek. Couldn’t believe it when I heard he was gone.

Bad news travels fast in a small town. Were you the one who ID’d him?

No. That was the neighbor on the other side. I’m Charlie Picketts. He extended his hand over the fence, and they shook. Martin noted the solid handshake.

Was Sam a friend of yours?

Sorta, Charlie said. I didn’t know him very well. He was just the guy next door. We’d share a few words over the fence now and then when he was in the mood. Bit of a crotchety old guy. Charlie wiped his hands on his trousers. Then he removed his glasses and wiped them off on his button down shirt.

Sounds like what I would call a curmudgeon. Did you talk to him recently?

Charlie went back to wiping his hands. It seemed he couldn’t keep still.

I’ve been trying to figure out where Kolchek was last night, Martin said. What was he doing out so late?

Yesterday, when he came home he seemed in a good mood. I was on my way to Stan’s Sports Bar, so I asked him if he wanted to come along. They have great wings, you know. Reasonable price. He shifted his feet. What was with this guy? Nuts or a nervous Nellie?

What did he say?

Who?

Kolchek. He was starting to lose patience. Maybe he was dumb or just slow.

Said he was going to a party. Didn’t say where or what kinda party.

A party, huh? Didn’t say who was giving it?

’Fraid not. Didn’t think to ask. Not my business, ya know.

He proffered his hand. Thanks a lot. You’ve been very helpful. The man’s handshake was warm and sincere. He might be slow, but he was a good man. You can tell a lot by a man’s handshake. He turned to go back inside.

Say, the man said. What’s going to happen to Jack?

Jack?

The dog. You musta seen him in the back yard.

Yeah, I saw him—and smelled him. We’ll have to call animal control.

The pound? You don’t have to do that, do you? He’s not a bad dog. Just needs a bath and companionship. I hate to see him get put to sleep if he don’t get adopted.

Can’t leave him here with no one to take care of him.

I can feed and water him. He’s used to me. Just until someone agrees to take him. Maybe one of Kolchek’s relatives. Or I could adopt him myself.

He took a step back to the fence. Do you know any of his relatives?

Nope. He never mentioned any.

Okay. Thanks. He gave him one of his cards, in case the man remembered anything else, and headed back to the house.

A party. In a town the size of Dixon? It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out who was giving a party on a Friday night. He’d just have to call the one person he’d rather not talk to. The biggest gossip in town, his ex-wife, Irene.

* * *

The rest of the weekend went smoothly, all things considered. Sundays were usually quiet. Jacobs had the day off to spend with his family. The rookie was out on traffic duty, mostly looking for speeders. He loved pulling them over or chasing ’em down. Johnny was a good man, a bit over zealous, but he took his job seriously and never harassed citizens.

Martin sat in his office manning the phone and reading Steve Berry’s Warsaw Protocol. Next weekend he would be off, and he could spend some time with Eric. The custody agreement stated that he had the boy, an only child, every other weekend. Most of the time it worked out that he would look after him on weekends when he wasn’t working, and when Irene was too busy to look after him. They didn’t pay much attention anymore about odd and even weekends.

He had reached a stopping place in the book and decided to give the kid a call. He was taking a chance that Eric wasn’t out with his friends, and he got lucky. Eric answered the phone.

Hey. How’s it going, son?

Weekends with Mom are a bummer. She made me go to church this morning. So boring.

He chuckled. He remembered when he was that age. Church is good for you. Builds a good sense of morality, strong character.

Then how come you don’t go?

He sighed. You got me there. I used to go when your mom and I were still together. Guess I got out of the habit. Besides, I’m working in the office today. Maybe one of these Sundays you and I can go to church together.

Yeah, right. Anything interesting going on?

Things are slow today, but yesterday we had to check out a traffic fatality.

I heard about that. Some old guy bought it when his truck hit a tree. Did ya see it?

Pretty bad. Driver died on impact. No passengers. Last I heard we hadn’t located next of kin yet.

I heard the truck was all smashed up. The guy was all mangled up inside. And then got cooked. Gross.

He hesitated. What should he say to such a thoughtless remark? It all goes along with the job, Eric. It’s sad to have to see something like that. Nothing you can do. May be gross, but when you’re the one at the scene, it’s just sad, real sad. Nobody should have to go that way.

Hmm.

He had effectively killed the conversation. There was a pause on the line. He was trying to think of something to say when Eric spoke up again.

How do you go about finding next of kin, if he doesn’t have any family around here?

We’ve been talking to people he knew. Seems they never heard him talk about family. We’ve looked through his correspondence, files, and such. I’m going to have an expert at FDLE come and have a go at Kolchek’s computer tomorrow. It’s password protected, so I can’t do anything with it.

My friend Terry at the computer store says he can hack just about any computer and find out all sorts of things about people. Maybe he can help.

He smiled. Thanks for the offer, but we go to the FDLE in cases like this. Confidentiality, you know.

Whatever. Another pause. I have to go now, Dad. The guys are planning a long bike ride this afternoon. Talk to you later.

Hold on. Before you go, is your mother around? I have to talk to her.

Eric yelled for his mother to come get the phone. She took her sweet time picking it up.

Hi, Martin. What do you want? Right to the point. No chit chat today. She must be busy.

I have a question for you. Do you know anything about a party last Friday night?

I don’t know about any party. I certainly wasn’t invited.

I didn’t say you were invited. I was just wondering if you’d heard about it.

Nope. If there was a party, I never heard anything. It’s like they were keeping it a secret or something. The nerve of some people.

Thanks anyway, Irene. He liked to keep his conversations with her short. That’s all I wanted to know. Bye.

* * *

Martin had heard from Sam’s neighbor that Sam liked to hang out at Stan’s Sports Bar and watch the games with some of the older gentlemen. He stopped by the place Sunday