Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Read online

  I’ve made a habit of never tying on a fly until I’ve inspected the water for signs of insect activity. That way, I’m prevented from flailing away like a novice and scaring away any trout that might be in the area. I crouch down carefully near the edge of the stream to study the surface of the water more effectively, listening (as well as watching) for any telltale activity that might reveal a feeding trout. It’s a habit acquired through years of fishing with my good friend, Hans, who introduced me to the sport so many years ago when we were both bachelors and unencumbered by wives or other such commitments. I’ve been lucky in that department; both of my wives have understood.

  This is the first opening day in many a year when the morning temperature has been above freezing. Generally, at this time of the year, snow flurries fill the air, but today I’m guessing it’s already in the mid-forties. Several weeks ago, there was a premature blast of unusually warm air that melted a good deal of the winter snow pack, and now, the result is a good strong current that causes the crystal clear water to just spill over the banks of the little creek.

  Upstream to my right, I catch a glimpse of the tail end of what appears to be a rise, then another. Can it be? Is there actually a hatch in progress? With trembling fingers, I open a small dry fly box and extract a size 18 early black stonefly imitation. No point in checking the water’s surface for insects; my poor eyesight, combined with the dark color of the naturals, would make it nearly impossible for me to discern them drifting by anyway. Besides, I’ve fished this particular hatch so often there’s no doubt in my mind as to its identity. Just tie on the damn fly—and hurry!

  I don’t dare enter the water for fear of disturbing what little activity is occurring; in fact, I even take a step backwards to ensure that my presence will go undetected. Looking over my shoulder to be sure that no branches are in the way, I slowly begin to work out some fly line, rhythmically false casting, and enjoying the feel of the season’s first true fishing motion. Bringing the rod forward for the last time, I speed up, and then stop, just as I was taught so many years ago by Lefty Kreh at a casting seminar at a local fly shop. I watch intently, as the fly line, followed by the delicate leader, straighten above the water’s surface, and gently float down to it in a series of soft “esses.”

  I strain to see the black fly on the water, but even with the help of my amber Polaroid sunglasses, I am unable to do so. It doesn’t matter. In the wink of an eye, a native brook trout has impaled itself on my artificial fly, and instantly cartwheels across the surface of the water, throwing a fine spray up into the air. A couple of short strips of the fly line later, and the brightly colored trout is brought to my waiting hand. It’s barely over six-inches long—typical for native brookies. With exaggerated care, I remove the hook from the corner of its mouth and gently place the little trout back in the water, facing it upstream into the current to permit the life-giving water to flow over its gills. With a flick of its tail, it departs my hand and shoots up and over into the body of the small pool from where it had originally taken my fly. Not bad, I think. One cast, one fish. A broad smile creases my face, and suddenly I wish Val were here.

  Forty minutes have passed, and I’ve already worked my way nearly a quarter mile upstream from where I started. The rule of thumb I follow is “When the fishing is slow, fish fast…” It doesn’t take a genius to supply the converse to the much-quoted adage. Fortunately, success in this, my favorite sport, is not measured for me in quantity, but in the quality of the experience. Almost as a punctuation mark to that philosophy, I take a deep breath to experience the early spring air. But, something’s not quite right. The scent of the pines is there alright, but there’s another odor intermingled with the microscopic molecules given off by the towering conifers. I’ve smelled this smell before, I think. It has a sour quality to it. Dead animal? Maybe a drowned rodent. Whatever its cause, the smell is getting stronger as I make my way upstream, apparently toward its source. Probably a deer, I think. Got to be something big. “Whew!” Damn that stinks!

  Up ahead is a logjam of broken boughs, caught among a collection of small boulders in the middle of the water. In the center of the pile of debris is a dark shape that doesn’t quite fit the eye. Funny, I think, it doesn’t look like a deer. The color doesn’t seem right. The smell is overpowering now, and I have to cover my nose to avoid being sick, for there’s no mistaking the odor; it is a smell with which I am very familiar, being a former homicide detective. It is the smell of death—and it’s human.

  Suddenly, I am very relieved that Val is not with me.

  Chapter 4

  Rhonda, some time the previous fall – day one

  Rhonda Jeffries, “Ronnie” for short, is sixteen-years old, and believes that if she spends one more night in the presence of her stepfather, Howie, she will go insane. It isn’t just that he drinks incessantly that has her upset. It’s what he does when he drinks, when liquor has dulled his senses and freed him of his inhibitions—if he even has any.

  “Come on over here,” he slurs. “Give us a little kiss.”

  Over my dead body, thinks Rhonda.

  “Wha’s a matter? Need a little drink t’ loosen ya up?”

  “I’d need a lot more than a couple of drinks,” she replies. Like, maybe a whole bottle.

  “Yeah, yeah,” says Howie, “tha’s what you need—a drink—here, try a little. It’s good shit, Ronnie. I swear it.” He extends the open bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon in his stepdaughter’s direction. “Take a sip.”

  Rhonda pretends not to hear him, and scrunches her body as far into the corner of the sofa as she can, concentrating on the flickering TV set, and doing her best to ignore her slobbering stepfather. But, this night there is no avoiding him, and she knows what is coming. Howie slides his slightly overweight body closer, bringing with it the unwanted aroma of stale cigarette smoke and sickly sweet perspiration. Rhonda knows it is only a matter of time before he’ll lose the playfulness, and begin to get nasty. It has been like this from the start; from the moment that her mother brought him home to live with the two of them in the little apartment, above the secondhand shop on the outskirts of Binghamton, New York.

  Binghamton is a small city, located at the intersection of I-81 and route 17, about fifty miles west of Roscoe. Once a thriving center of commerce, it now consists mostly of bars, pool halls, and pawnshops. Unfortunately, it is caught up in the downward economic spiral that has affected most of the smaller cities and towns of Western New York. Jobs are scarce and single men even scarcer. Rhonda’s mother, Annette, considers herself fortunate to have found Howie Miller, a long haul truck driver she met one night in a nameless bar on the downtown strip. Not only can he support her, he claims, but is actually willing to marry her, in spite of her having a teenaged daughter—or maybe because of it. Either way, it doesn’t much matter to Annette. He won’t be around that much, she reasons, and his occasional presence and the additional income he will provide, just might permit her to quit working. So, a few short weeks after their chance encounter, they are married by a Justice of the Peace in a civil ceremony.

  It’s been over a year, and things haven’t worked out quite as Annette planned. Apparently, the “long” in long haul truck driver refers to the time between jobs (at least in Howie’s case). And, the added income he promised (whenever he’s lucky enough to have any) is mostly spent on the liquor Howie consumes each evening, rather than providing the relief upon which Annette has counted. To make matters worse, instead of working less or not at all, she’s actually added overtime to her already wearisome burden. She not only supports herself and Rhonda, but Howie as well. The reward for her efforts are the regular beatings Howie dishes out when she fails to satisfy his drunken demands.

  Tonight, Annette is working the second shift at the Singer Sewing Machine factory, fitting presser feet onto the undercarriages of portable machines as they move past her on the assembly line. Normally, she works the day shift, but when one of her fellow workers took sick, she
jumped at the chance to pick up the extra money by working a double shift. The added income she makes on these occasions always comes with a price, however, because it means having to leave Rhonda at home with Howie. And, she hates doing that. She knows there is always the chance that the two of them will get into some kind of disagreement—or, worse yet, a fight. But, she does it anyway, and prays that things will go smoothly. As soon as she saves up enough money, she and Rhonda will leave Binghamton—and Howie—and take a bus back home to Hendersonville, North Carolina where her parents still reside. It will be tough to give up her “independence,” but at least they’ll be safe there.

  Back at the apartment, Howie tosses the empty Jack Daniels bottle into the open trash can in the corner of the kitchen. He should have picked up another bottle, he thinks. He opens the refrigerator door, and rummages amongst the half-empty cartons of Chinese take-out, uncovered cans of cat food, and Tupperware containers filled with indistinguishable contents that all smell badly, until he finds what he is looking for—one last bottle of beer. She probably hid it. Just like a damn woman.

  “Hey Ronnie,” he hollers into the living room. “Wanna split a beer?”

  “Screw you, Howie,” comes Rhonda’s voice. “You know Mom’s saving that for when she gets home from work.” Her mother always likes to have a cold beer when she works late; it helps her get to sleep.

  “Aw, shit, she won’t miss it none,” pleads Howie. “Hell, I’ll pick her up a six-pack tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, lot of good that’ll do her tonight, asshole.”

  “Hey! Don’t smart mouth me, Missy.” Howie grabs the beer and staggers back into the living room. Rhonda is wedged tightly into the corner of the couch, her arms around her legs, which are pulled up tight against her chest. Please leave me alone.

  Howie plops down hard, deliberately letting his hip land against Rhonda’s soft buttocks. “Oops,” he slurs. “Sorry, Ronnie.” He giggles, puts the beer down on the coffee table, and pulls a cigarette from the pack he has in his shirt pocket. “How ‘bout giving me a light?” He tosses his lighter at Rhonda, presses the filtered end of the Marlboro between his lips, and waits. Rhonda ignores him and the lighter laying next to her on the sofa.

  “Light the goddamn cigarette!” he shouts.

  “Go screw yourself!” answers Rhonda.

  Howie grabs one of Rhonda’s hands and presses the rusty Zippo into her palm. “Light it, bitch!” he commands. She knows from the tone of his voice that she had better do as he says. Defeated, she picks up the lighter; flips open the lid, ignites the flame, and turns to her stepfather. This is the moment Howie has waited for, and he reaches out, cups her hand in his, and slowly pulls the lighter—and Rhonda—toward him.

  What happens next comes as a complete surprise to Howie—and to Rhonda—as she pushes the lit Zippo hard into her stepfather’s face. The flame touches the side of his nose, singeing it, and he simultaneously gives out with a scream and backhands Rhonda across the mouth, knocking her off the couch and onto the floor. She sits there, dazed, blood seeping from a cut on her lower lip, and she begins to cry.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’, bitch?” he shouts. He gingerly touches the side of his nose where the flame from the lighter has burned a spot on it the size of a dime. “Are you crazy, girl?”

  Rhonda continues to weep, large sobs convulsing her body.

  “And stop that fucking crying, before I really give you somethin’ to cry about.”

  Something inside Rhonda snaps. She scrambles from the floor, grabs the open beer bottle, and using all her might, smashes it across Howie’s unprotected face. Glass, beer, and blood fly everywhere. Howie screams, but unlike before, when she burned his nose, this time there is an animal-like quality to his cry. He realizes he is hurt badly—and he is scared.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” shouts Rhonda. “I didn’t mean it, Howie. Oh, shit; it’s really bad.”

  Blood is pouring from Howie’s face, and now it is he who is crying. He feels dizzy. He tries to get to his feet, but falls backward onto the couch. Rhonda is terrified. “I’ll go get help,” she shouts. “Don’t move.”

  Howie could not move if he wanted to, but he nods his head dumbly anyway, almost as if he agrees, while slowly his eyes begin to close. Then, he passes out.

  Rhonda is terrified. She knows Howie is badly injured, and she should get help. But, if she goes for assistance, she’ll probably get into all kinds of trouble for attacking her stepfather. On the other hand, if she doesn’t go for assistance, there is the chance that Howie might die. Good riddance. But, if he doesn’t die, he’ll get even with her if it’s the last thing he does; of that, she is certain. She doesn’t know what to do, so she decides to do the only thing that makes any sense.

  She runs into her bedroom, quickly packs some clothes into a small cardboard suitcase, and then rummages through her mother’s bureau until she finds some cash, stuffing it into the pocket of her jeans.

  Back in the living room, Howie is beginning to wake, but is still helpless. Assured that he will live, Rhonda grabs her heavy winter coat, and heads out the door of the apartment, down the stairs, and out into the night. She has no idea where she is going, but the image of her grandparents keeps flashing in her mind’s eye. The night sky is cloudy and very dark, just like the future appears to be to the confused, frightened child running through the streets of Binghamton—running for her life.

  Chapter 5

  A day that began as one filled with optimism and great expectation, has tragically morphed into a scenario with which I am far more familiar than I would prefer to be. I have stumbled upon a truly gruesome sight, that of a decaying human corpse. Adding further insult is the matter of its location—smack in the middle of what was once a pristine body of water whose enjoyment will likely no longer be mine.

  The body appears to be female, but I’m just guessing. If not, it’s probably not a large male. Most of the flesh is in a state of extreme decay. Large pieces are missing, probably eaten by scavenging animals. The face is mostly gone, as is most of the hair. It’s not a pretty sight. Without extensive lab analysis, a body found in this state of decay is virtually impossible to identify. There can be no certainty even to the body’s gender, much less its ethnic origin, or age. Lacking documents such as a driver’s license or credit cards, authorities must rely upon forensic tests to determine whose body has been found. In most cases where these items are missing, dental records tend to be the most reliable form of identification—next to DNA. Fortunately, the upper and lower jaw are intact, so we’ll have something for forensics to work with in that regard. It will take exhaustive testing to determine age and sex. But, eventually, we will know both.

  When a human body decays, there is a process of self-digestion that takes place whereby enzymes contained within a body’s cells begin to go into a post death meltdown. This process can be speeded up by extreme heat and likewise slowed down by extreme cold. Judging by the condition of the body before me, I suspect that the latter has occurred. Otherwise, the remains before me would be nothing but bones and a few scraps of cartilage. If forced to speculate further, I would guess that the person represented here by this collection of bones and scant flesh, met his or her demise sometime in the late fall.

  Contrary to popular belief, a body submerged under water will actually be preserved far longer than one left above ground, where it is exposed to animals, insects, and the ravages of the elements.

  Suddenly very weary, I turn from the water and make my way back to the Jeep. My first instinct is to call my old partner, Chris Freitag, but that wouldn’t make very much sense; I use my recently installed police radio to call EMS instead.

  Then, I call one of my two police officers, Rick Dawley, and tell him to get his ass out here as fast as he can.

  “And, Rick,” I say, “bring lots of crime scene tape. We don’t want anybody within a mile of this place.” The orders are probably unnecessary, but I’m not leaving anyth
ing to chance. This isn’t exactly a run-of-the-mill occurrence, here in “Pleasantville, USA.” Rick assures me that he understands and promises to hurry, and I agree to meet him out on the main road. “I’ll be the one with the fucking waders on.”

  It seems that the one thing we cops never lose is our sense of humor. It’s the most important defense mechanism we possess. I just wish I didn’t have to rely upon it so often.

  In less than fifteen minutes, I make out the flashing blue lights of the town’s red and gold EMS vehicle approaching in the distance. It glides silently up Bear Spring Mountain Road, absent the usual sound of its siren, and in no apparent hurry to retrieve the cargo that awaits it. What else can the collection of bones and scant flesh be called? It surely doesn’t make sense to call it a “body,” at least not in the privacy of my mind. Not really. After all, when we think of a corpse, we envision a person—someone recently alive and breathing. This object is so far removed from that image as to be nearly undistinguishable. Naturally, I would never utter these thoughts in public.

  Not far behind the big, squared-off GMC, comes Rick in his old ’92 Ford Bronco with an add-on light bar that he purchased off a police equipment website. Our budget only allows for one patrol car, and that’s mine. Today, however, it sits in Joe Chesler’s garage, out near Livingston Manor, undergoing its six-month scheduled maintenance. My other officer, Bob Walker, uses a ’95 Nissan Pathfinder, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by local veterans who bust his balls constantly. They don’t approve of vehicles other than those made in the U.S.A. But, Bob puts up with the bullshit, since the Pathfinder gets better gas mileage than Rick’s Bronco, and both get reimbursed for miles logged, not for actual cost of operation. The fact that it is painted a chartreuse green just serves to antagonize the locals further.