Ghouls by Edward Lee Page B

town police station, a converted white-stucco cottage at the end of a quarter-mile gravel road which neared Tylersville’s southernmost boundary. There, he turned over the cruiser, keys, and portable radio to Doug Swaggert, the midnight-to-eight man. Swaggert was the most seasoned officer on the force, having learned the ropes walking a beat in Baltimore for years. Kurt wasn’t sure why Doug had transferred to T- ville , but he guessed that bad timing might be a factor. “It’s hard to really get into police work when you’re on administrative leave six months out of the year,” Swaggert had told him once. “But don’t worry, they were all good shoots.” Swaggert was a hard cop, with hard rules, and also respected by the populace more than any of the others. Kurt didn’t know whether this was good or bad; at times it seemed that when Swaggert didn’t have trouble to tend to, he’d go looking for it, and when he couldn’t find any, he’d make some of his own. He fit the mold almost too well; short, dark hair, a face that belonged on a recruiting poster, and a look in his eyes that could make a pack of pissed-off mountain gorillas turn around and jog on home. The G. Gordon Liddy mustache didn’t help, and neither did the unbroken string of pistol championships and the fact that he could do more one-armed pull-ups than anyone else could do two-armed. In the long and short of it, Doug Swaggert was the kind of guy who carried his balls around in a bushel basket.
    “I guess you’ve heard the latest,” Kurt said, when he stepped into the front office.
    Swaggert turned away from his wall locker, snapping on the last leather belt spacer. “Yeah, Bard told me about it over the phone. I’ll tell ya , I’ve seen some weird hobnobbing in my days, but I’ve never heard of anyone stealing a dead man out of a graveyard.”
    ”A lot of strange folks in this world,” Kurt conceded, “and nine out of every ten of them probably live in Maryland.”
    “Put ’ em all on a boat and send them to the Bermuda Triangle, I say. But getting on to far more crucial things, what happened to the coffee machine? If Bard thinks I’m gonna work night shifts without coffee, he better get his head examined.”
    “The coil burned out, there’s a new machine on order. So, friend, for the next seven to ten days we’ll have to settle for coffee at the Jiffy-Stop.”
    Swaggert made a face. “Jeez, that’s worse than drinking out of a crankcase.”
    Kurt placed the big key ring and Motorola portable on the desk, then scribbled his IN mileage in the DOR and signed out. “Say, Doug, do me a favor and tell Higgins to call county animal control in the morning. I forgot to do it today. All kinds of dead possums and shit on 154.”
    Swaggert jotted down the reminder in a pocket pad, said, “Gotcha,” and hooked the keys on his belt. Then he went back to the wall locker and took out his pair of Kale knuckle saps— black leather gloves with sand in the knuckles. The index finger of the right sap was nylon, so that he could fire his pistol without having to remove the sap. “Almost forgot my mitts,” he said. “I never know when I’m gonna have to punch through somebody’s front door.”
    “Or somebody’s face,” Kurt added. He’d always regarded knuckle saps as cruel and unusual, something for the Mafia, not the town police. “Three cheers for our favorite sadist. Have you ever actually hit anyone with those things?”
    “Couple of times. They do the job, and let me tell you, if you’d ever busted your hand open on some rube’s jaw, you’d own a pair yourself.”
    Swaggert’s matter-of-fact view of mayhem sometimes made Kurt shudder. “Let me ask you something, Doug. A guy like you I figure’s been in a lot of fights.”
    “Sure. Dozens.”
    “Have you ever gotten your ass whipped in any of them?”
    “No.”
    Kurt believed him. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll meet your match one of these days?”
    “My only match is