the road.
For a moment there was silence. The room was much darker with the plywood in place. Macy looked at Fagan with red-rimmed eyes. “Fred kept a book.”
“What book?”
“About the killings.” She pushed the chair back with a screech, got up and went behind the bar. She went into Fred’s private quarters and returned a moment later with a big vinyl scrap book covered with dust, the cover plastered with a peeling Grateful Dead logo and a Harley decal. She stood behind the bar and smacked the bar top with it causing a mini dust storm that rolled over an ant. Macy flicked the ant off the bar top with a finger, flipped the book open to the first page and turned it toward Fagan, a yellowed newspaper article clipped from the Carbondale Courier dated June 20, 1999.
CYCLIST BEHEADED BY GUY WIRE
State and local officials have declared the death of Chicago native Robert MacGruder to be the result of a first-degree homicide. They believe the 48-year old motorcyclist was beheaded by guy wire stretched between trees in the Shawnee National Forest.
Sheriff Jonah Brach of Sharon County said the killing bore similarities to a five-year-old homicide, the unsolved death of motorcyclist Wayne Cappucio. “We may be dealing with a serial killer,” Sheriff Brach stated, asking that anyone with any knowledge of either case to please contact his department.
Fagan’s throat dried up. “Could I have a glass of water please?” he rasped.
Macy filled a bar glass with water and handed it to him. He drank it all, handed it back. She refilled it.
“How is it possible nobody knows about this?” he said. “Why isn’t this a big deal?”
“Nobody gives a shit about outlaw bikers.”
Fagan wondered if Sheriff Fullerton were incompetent or merely ignorant. From the way he talked, Fagan always assumed Fullerton was from around these parts. How could he not mention this?
How could he not know?
Fagan had interviewed for the job three months ago. It had taken them that long to make up their minds.
He turned the page. A story from the Harrisburg Gazette about a biker found with his head lopped off only this time the killer left the head. Some grad student riding cross country. Dartagnan Broddus was a history major and Civil War buff. Police were looking for “an historical re-enactor, possibly with a Confederate cavalry sword.”
Someone with deep-seated racial prejudice.
Broddus’ family offered a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to an arrest. Fagan had a feeling there had been no arrest. Coming from a medium-sized city Fagan understood the politics of unsolved cases. After awhile they became an embarrassment which the higher-ups simply wanted to go away. Maybe the killings had stopped for awhile. Fagan flipped ahead—there were only two more entries, the last from 2008. Four killings in all. Not exactly an epidemic.
Unless there were others that had gone unnoticed.
Macy had a point. No one cared about a bunch of hoodlum bikers whose life expectancy was equivalent to that of some Third World country.
“Are you really a cop?” Macy said.
Fagan showed her his badge and ID card.
Macy picked up the ID card, her face twisting in consternation. “It’s your fourth day on the job?!”
“Ma’am, this looks like a criminal conspiracy to distribute meth.”
Macy’s mouth dropped open in a half guffaw. “Are you for real? Don’t you think we have other stuff to worry about?”
“Sooner or later power will be restored and so will the rule of law. Do you have any outstanding warrants?”
“Who, me? No.”
“Do you know if any of the others do?”
“I’m no snitch.”
“Does he often lay hands on you like that? I should have arrested him for assault. I would be happy to do that.”
“Yeah right. And get the shit beat out of you.”
“I’m looking at a criminal conspiracy. Sooner or later they’re going to restore power in Ptolemy and I’ll be able to get through on my radio.”
“You
For a moment there was silence. The room was much darker with the plywood in place. Macy looked at Fagan with red-rimmed eyes. “Fred kept a book.”
“What book?”
“About the killings.” She pushed the chair back with a screech, got up and went behind the bar. She went into Fred’s private quarters and returned a moment later with a big vinyl scrap book covered with dust, the cover plastered with a peeling Grateful Dead logo and a Harley decal. She stood behind the bar and smacked the bar top with it causing a mini dust storm that rolled over an ant. Macy flicked the ant off the bar top with a finger, flipped the book open to the first page and turned it toward Fagan, a yellowed newspaper article clipped from the Carbondale Courier dated June 20, 1999.
CYCLIST BEHEADED BY GUY WIRE
State and local officials have declared the death of Chicago native Robert MacGruder to be the result of a first-degree homicide. They believe the 48-year old motorcyclist was beheaded by guy wire stretched between trees in the Shawnee National Forest.
Sheriff Jonah Brach of Sharon County said the killing bore similarities to a five-year-old homicide, the unsolved death of motorcyclist Wayne Cappucio. “We may be dealing with a serial killer,” Sheriff Brach stated, asking that anyone with any knowledge of either case to please contact his department.
Fagan’s throat dried up. “Could I have a glass of water please?” he rasped.
Macy filled a bar glass with water and handed it to him. He drank it all, handed it back. She refilled it.
“How is it possible nobody knows about this?” he said. “Why isn’t this a big deal?”
“Nobody gives a shit about outlaw bikers.”
Fagan wondered if Sheriff Fullerton were incompetent or merely ignorant. From the way he talked, Fagan always assumed Fullerton was from around these parts. How could he not mention this?
How could he not know?
Fagan had interviewed for the job three months ago. It had taken them that long to make up their minds.
He turned the page. A story from the Harrisburg Gazette about a biker found with his head lopped off only this time the killer left the head. Some grad student riding cross country. Dartagnan Broddus was a history major and Civil War buff. Police were looking for “an historical re-enactor, possibly with a Confederate cavalry sword.”
Someone with deep-seated racial prejudice.
Broddus’ family offered a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to an arrest. Fagan had a feeling there had been no arrest. Coming from a medium-sized city Fagan understood the politics of unsolved cases. After awhile they became an embarrassment which the higher-ups simply wanted to go away. Maybe the killings had stopped for awhile. Fagan flipped ahead—there were only two more entries, the last from 2008. Four killings in all. Not exactly an epidemic.
Unless there were others that had gone unnoticed.
Macy had a point. No one cared about a bunch of hoodlum bikers whose life expectancy was equivalent to that of some Third World country.
“Are you really a cop?” Macy said.
Fagan showed her his badge and ID card.
Macy picked up the ID card, her face twisting in consternation. “It’s your fourth day on the job?!”
“Ma’am, this looks like a criminal conspiracy to distribute meth.”
Macy’s mouth dropped open in a half guffaw. “Are you for real? Don’t you think we have other stuff to worry about?”
“Sooner or later power will be restored and so will the rule of law. Do you have any outstanding warrants?”
“Who, me? No.”
“Do you know if any of the others do?”
“I’m no snitch.”
“Does he often lay hands on you like that? I should have arrested him for assault. I would be happy to do that.”
“Yeah right. And get the shit beat out of you.”
“I’m looking at a criminal conspiracy. Sooner or later they’re going to restore power in Ptolemy and I’ll be able to get through on my radio.”
“You
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