Deputy Fornier strolled out of the holding cell twirling the baton. He marched right into the precinct break room, poured a coffee into a white styrofoam cup and took it into the bathroom. After dropping a massive shit, he flushed the toilet and reentered the break area where fellow Deputy Simpson glared at him. “Droppin some of that Mississippi mud are ya?”
“Just takin my morning glory.”
“Well goddamn boy, maybe you should lay off the jambalaya.”
“Kiss my ass.”
Simpson shoved a donut in his mouth and sipped some black sludge. “Dirk wants to see ya. He’s on the porch.”
Fornier glanced out the window to see Dirk sitting cross legged in the rocking chair. He gulped his coffee and poured another. “Hell, probably has something to do with that goober he booked last night.”
“He killed a guy.”
“That dumbass back there?!”
“Yessir. Him and some black son of a bitch. I just finished scooping his brains off the asphalt. They also had a priest with them.”
“No shit? Castor’s gonna have a shit fit.”
“Welp, I reckon you outta go talk to him.”
Fornier tightened his pants and buttoned his shirt midway. With his bare and flabby chest swaying, he marched onto the porch with coffee in hand. Dirk didn’t look at him as the front door swung open. The deputy closed the door behind him and stood over the sheriff’s shoulder. “Yessir?”
Dirk spat a wad of tobacco juice into the freshly cut grass and leaned forward. “Has he told you anything?”
“The new boy?”
“Yup.”
“No sir. I didn’t know he killed somebody.”
“He did. Wentworth.”
“Ah hell, sheriff. Had I of known—“
“Nevermind that. I want him a part of the Castor detail this afternoon. Understood?”
“Of course!”
As he barked out instructions, the sheriff of West Carroll Parish rolled up the gravel way. The rival lawman stepped out of his squad car in khakis and gator skinned boots and meandered up to Dirk and his deputy. Dirk spat into the grass again and welcomed the visitor. “Well as I live and breathe, Sheriff DuPont. What can I do for you?”
DuPont approached the porch and removed his Stetson while his eyes remained concealed behind reflective aviators. He lifted one boot onto the porch with the other firmly planted in the grass. “I don’t know if you heard the reports this morning. But we found a burnt up truck at the county line off Kurtzy Road. As you are well aware, our side of the road is fully paved. But lookin at the dirt tracks on your side, it appears that the truck was chased off Morehouse Parish onto ours. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”
“No sir.”
“It’s the most goddamnedest thing. Apparently, the truck flipped on its head, blew up, then landed right side up. I did fetch for a tow truck, but one of my deputies patched up the gas tank, and the engine started right up. Can you believe that? Sure the windows are busted up, but we drove it straight to impound.”
“What can I say? Jeeps are indestructible.”
DuPont tilted his head back and looked the sheriff up and down. “I didn’t say anything about it being a jeep.”
Dirk calmly retorted. “Sheriff, only a jeep could have survived that level of damage.”
“I see.” Feigning satisfaction, DuPont lowered his boot from the porch and headed back towards the squad car. At the halfway point, he turned around. “Oh, and one other thing, sheriff. Although the vehicle was heavily burned, I managed to make out the plates. The Honcho is registered to an Oren Waits of Provo, Utah. Apparently he’s a black man. Now I know you tend to keep outsiders away from your Parrish, but if you see Mr. Waits, let him know I have his truck.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Internet Ruined Everything 