Witch Dance

Before taking the shot, he needed to check one more thing. One shot, one kill, his goal. After placing the crosshairs on the boy’s chest, he pressed the range finder’s measuring button. At least the kid didn’t jump around a lot. Best aiming point available. The click sending the laser beam downrange brought a smile to his face. Perfect, he told himself as he lowered the range finder to view the screen. Four hundred thirty-two point two meters. Once he set the instrument aside, he snatched up the rifle. With the five-mile-an-hour cross wind measured by the Kestral Ballistic Solver already entered into the sight, he now merely needed to adjust for the distance. But he needed to act now. Before his target moved.

With his elbow planted on his knee, he drew the gun’s stock against his shoulder while peering through the sight. The boy turned to the dog at his side. As the child wound up to toss the Frisbee, the killer squeezed the trigger. The gun’s report, no louder than a slight cough as the rifle bucked into his shoulder. Pull the trigger all the way through, he told himself as he peered through the scope.

Knocked sideways by the bullet’s impact, the dog fell to the ground. The child’s jaw dropped, his eyes locked on the wounded canine. Too far away to hear the sounds, the killer imagined the child’s screams as he picked up the injured animal. The dog yipping as it thrashed in the boy’s arms, covering the child with its gore.

He wanted to stay. Watch longer, but the boy dropped the limp animal before running toward the house. Once they witnessed his work, the boy’s parents would summon others to hunt him. He tossed the range finder along with the Kestral into his knapsack before slipping it on his back. Then, with the rifle slung over his shoulder, he faded back into the grove, content with his morning’s work.

*****

Deputy John Murphy’s departmental SUV pulled alongside the patrol car setting in the farmhouse driveway. Parked, he strolled to the vehicle’s rear door to retrieve his crime scene suit. His eyes roamed the surroundings as he donned the coveralls and boots. A two-story brick farmhouse set close to the road on his left. To his right stood what appeared to be a machine shed. Next to it, four round corrugated metal cribs.

No sign of Carl, the deputy who called in the reported animal shooting. Must be on the farmhouse’s other side, he told himself as he marched across the graveled lot surrounding the house and machine shed.

As he neared the farmhouse, a man emerged, clutching a rifle. With his sidearm now out of reach beneath his coveralls, a shiver ran down Murphy’s spine as the scowling man marched toward him. He should have called in his arrival to both the officer at the scene and the office. Checked the scene’s status. The call-out carried no ominous message. Merely an animal shooting. Had the situation escalated? Is this how his career and life might end? All because of a rookie mistake?

His hand moved to open the suit. Allow access to his pistol. What he’d give now for a shoulder holster. An easy pull from beneath this suit. Instead, the holster hanging from his hip required an awkward draw in this get-up. As he moved to open the coveralls, Murphy’s colleague emerged from the house’s other side. Without bothering to glance at the gunman, the deputy beckoned to Murphy. “Body’s back here.” His gaze shifted to gunman. “I told you to put that damn thing away.”

The gunman’s head snapped around to Murphy’s colleague as he shouldered the rifle.

His eyes narrowed as he turned back to Murphy. “Bout time you got here.”

When Murphy’s eyes went to the rifle, the man bared his teeth. “Man’s got a right to protect hisself.”

“I thought a dog was killed,” Murphy said.

“Dog was right next to my son. Not too sure they didn’t mean to shoot him,” The man said as he fell in step at Murphy’s side. “Coulda intended to wipe out our whole family.” He removed the gun from his shoulder. Shook it in Murphy’s face. “But I wasn’t gonna let that happen. No sir, not without a fight.”

“I’m Deputy John Murphy, and you are?”

The man thumped his thumb to his chest. “Henry White. Folks call me Hank.”

On the farmhouse’s other side, yellow crime scene tape circled what looked like a fur pile in the meadow.

“Your boy saw it?” Murphy asked.

“Yep, he was out here playin’ Frisbee with the dog when it happened.”

“Where’s he now?”

“Inside, with his mom.” The man stoked his stubbled chin as he replied.

Murphy nodded to his colleague, Carl, before turning to the man. “I’ll need to talk to him.”

Carl placed his hand on his hips as they joined him beside the dog’s body. “Besides stringin’ this tape around the dog. I wasn’t sure what else you wanted done.”

Murphy chewed his lip as he scanned the area. “Depends on what help we get.”

The deputy rolled his eyes. “You mean?”

Murphy’s eyes roamed the surroundings. “That’s right. I’m requestin’ crime scene. So, hang loose.”

Murphy kneeled beside the animal. “Don’t think we’ll get the M.E. So, I may as well examine the body.” He placed his finger near the wound. “Darn, what a hole.” He grasped the dog’s fore and hind legs and rolled it over. “Bullet passed clean through.”

Murphy rose to his feet, turned to the farmer. “Suppose your boy would be okay comin’ out here to show me what happened, Mr. White?”

White nodded before turning to march back to the house.

While Murphy retrieved his phone from inside his suit, his eyes roamed the area. Cornfields provided a border on the meadow’s right and left. While a grove supplied the meadow’s back edge. “I figure the shot came from near those trees, but I want to hear what the boy says.”

Finished punching in the numbers, he held the phone to his ear. “Like they said on the call, somebody shot a dog,” Murphy said into the phone.

He glanced at his colleague as he listened. The one cloud in the sky cast a shadow over the farmyard, which drifted away as the farmhouse door opened behind them. Still carrying his rifle, the farmer emerged. The boy shuffling at his side’s eyes flitted back and forth between Murphy and the grove. Murphy turned back to the woods across the meadow. “I’d like Crime Scene to look at the site.”

He massaged his forehead as he listened. Finally, he sighed as his hand drifted down to his side. “But this is the third animal shooting in two weeks.”

He listened again. “I know they weren’t humans, but a child was standin’ right next to it. They could have been trying for the kid and missed.”

He threw up his hand after listening. “I’ll do my best.”

Murphy shook his head as he cut off the call. Turned to his colleague, Carl. “Jordan said we’re on our own.”

Carl placed his hands on his hips. “Our crime ain’t good enough for the state folks?”

Murphy shook his head. “It’s just that compared to murders around the state, this would be a low priority. Might be days before they could get here.”

Carl snorted. “And in the meantime, we need to post someone here to secure the scene.”

Murphy nodded. “End of summer like this. Lotta guys are off on vacation. Right now, the overtime coverin’ that is killin’ us. The county supervisors would never approve grantin’ more to cover this.”

The farmer and his son’s arrival ended their discussion. As Murphy kneeled to talk with the boy, a tear trickled down the child’s cheek as his eyes wandered to the dog, then again to the grove.

“Tell me what happened.”

The boy wiped the tear from his eye and glanced up at his father.

His father nodded. “Go on boy, tell `em.”

The child turned to Murphy. “Me and Luke was playin’ fetch when somebody shot him.”

“Where did the shot come from?” Murphy asked.

Again, the boy glanced up at his father, then back at Murphy. He shrugged. “Not sure. I didn’t hear nothin’ Luke was watching me as I got ready to throw and something knocked him over.” A tear streamed down his cheek, his voice a quivering sob. “It musta hurt bad cause he cried and flopped all over.”

“Way he described it to me, I figure it came from over by the grove.” The farmer nodded in that direction as he talked.

Murphy turned to the boy. “You didn’t hear a shot?” The boy shook his head. Murphy rose. Gazed off toward the grove. “Shooter musta used a suppressor.” He turned to Carl. “That might be the break we need to nab him.”

The boy’s father frowned. “Why?”

“Federal law requires they be approved by the Sheriff. Means we might have a record of who in the county owns `em.”

The boy tugged his father’s sleeve. “Can we have a funeral for Luke?”

His father nodded turned to Murphy. “All right to move the dog?”

“You got any metal posts?” Murphy asked.

The farmer nodded. “T-posts.”

“Can you drive one into the ground here beside the dog.?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, sure.”

“That’ll help us later.” Murphy beckoned Carl to follow him. “I got an idea how we can shake loose a few clues.”

*****

Finished with his call from Murphy, Lieutenant Bob Jordan slipped the phone in his pocket as he climbed his back stairs. Inside, Charmain, Bonnie, and a third woman seated around the kitchen table turned as he entered. As Charmain rose, she beckoned to the woman. “Bob, this is Emily Waters.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she tipped back her head. She sneered while peering through the half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose as if viewing something distasteful. “Child Protective Services sent me here to evaluate the appropriateness of this child’s placement.”

Jordan’s eyes shifted first to Bonnie, then to Charmain, before fastening his gaze again on the woman. “Excuse me? Who are you again?”

“Emily Waters. I am the placement evaluator for this area’s Child Protective Services Division.”

Charmain nodded as she settled next to Bonnie at the table.

Ms. Waters tipped her head toward Charmain. “She’s seen my credentials. Would you care to examine them personally?”

Jordan ran his hand over his salt and pepper crewcut, shook his head.

The woman folded her arms across her chest, nodded to Bonnie. “Her school registration here sparked questions.”

Jordan’s eyes traveled from Bonnie to Charmain as his brow furrowed. “Not sure why. Her guardian approved it.”

“Be that as it may, the Illinois Department of Human Services approved her placement with Harold and Louise Crump in Chicago, not with their daughter here in Mississippi.”

“But, like I said, Bonnie’s guardian approved it,” Jordan snapped.

Waters scoffed. “Illinois questions the appropriateness of the guardianship as well. Some believe the Crumps may have a motive for wanting her under their control. A possible conflict of interest.”

Charmain leaped to her feet. “What are you accusin’ my parents of?”

Waters rolled her eyes. “It’s not my place to discuss matters involving another state agency. The matter is under investigation. Perhaps you need to discuss this with your parents.”

Jordan placed his hands on his hips. “What’s this all mean?”

Waters turned to Bonnie. “We are concerned not only for the appropriateness of your placement here but also concerned for your safety.”

After brushing her long brown hair over her shoulder, Bonnie shot a glance first at Charmain, then Jordan before turning back to the woman. “I’m safe here. Since I came to live with the Crumps and now here with Bob and Charmain,” she placed her hand on Charmain while giving Waters a scowl. “It’s the first time, I’ve felt both happy and safe since my parents died.”

Waters straightened up in her chair. “Safe? Reports came to us that you’d been shot not more than two weeks ago.”

Bonnie’s jaw dropped; her eyes snapped to Jordan. He stepped forward. “Not sure where you heard that…”

Waters gave a dismissive wave. “Are you denying it?”

Charmain stepped between Jordan and the woman. “Ms. Waters, I don’t think we have anything more to say to you.”

Jordan nodded. “That’s right. If you want to speak with us further, please contact our attorney.”

Waters snorted. “Who is?”

Jordan and Charmain exchanged glances before Charmain turned to Waters. “My father, Harold Crump. I believe you know how to contact him.”

Waters thrust back her shoulders as she rose, passed Bonnie a card. “I am allowing you to remain here for now while we investigate.” She turned back to Jordan and Charmain. “In the meantime, I may request the court appoint a guardian ad litem to protect your interests.”

“Good day.” She called over her shoulder as she marched out.

*****

Once the killer turned the television to the Jackson station that evening, he settled on the couch. With his third kill in two weeks, he should have finally made the news. While the cute brunette did her traffic report, he popped his beer’s top before setting it on the coffee table beside his rifle. As he sipped his hand caressed the smooth composite stock. All his life he wanted to be a military sniper. Loved guns. Everything about them, but no.

As a teenager he spent hours at the gun range honing his skills. But his bone spurs closed that door. Bored with paper targets he moved on to the real thing. Killing a living thing. A rush beyond his wildest dreams.

Yes, these lovely killing machines, he said to himself as he ran his hand over his rifle. The stock’s texture never failed to trigger his arousal.

When the gorgeous black reporter, Charmain Crump, from Davis City, appeared on the screen, he turned up the sound as she spoke into the handheld microphone. “The impact of Carrol Fumegate’s killing continues to be felt here in Jergen County as six more defendants from the Rise Above Foundation were arraigned here on weapons charges. Stan Clements, the Foundation’s Chief, has also been indicted for two murders in Florida’s Dade County.”

“What’s happening with the murder and conspiracy charges he faces in Jergen County?” The studio anchor on the right split screen asked.

With the station’s logo on the station’s van as her backdrop, Charmain’s brow furrowed as she replied, “Proceedings here are in a preliminary phase. All involved, including Mr. Clements, face first-degree murder charges. County Attorney Elston Kimble is seeking the maximum penalty in all charges.”

“As I understand it, those involved also face numerous Federal charges as well.” The studio anchor added.

Charmain nodded. “Not to mention the four other crucifixion murders in the other states. These defendants face a mountain of prosecution.”

The scene shifted back to the heavy-set studio anchorman. “That was Charmain Crump, our Jergen County reporter bringing us the top stories from that region. In other news…” The killer changed channels.

Tossed the remote on the couch beside him as he soaked a rag in gun oil.

“Fuck you all,” he growled. They failed to notice his work he said to himself as a man exploded watermelons with a shotgun on the screen. There must be a way. Had to be. They don’t realize it now, but by the time he finished, he’d hit the headlines every night. Then they’d see. Yeah, then they’d see.