From the short mystery series Body in Cold Rock Creek
Summer turned to fall then winter. Naomi and Sheriff Stephens hadn’t spoken for
a while. The murder was not far from
either of their thoughts, though. One
day Naomi was walking along the creek on a day so cold that her breath almost
froze when she exhaled. She was thinking
about the murder. What was bothering her
was the fact that although law enforcement officers and both she and the
Sheriff had traveled up and down the Appalachian Trail where they figured that
Gilbert Mac Waycastle could have been the last couple of days of his life they
never found his tent or any sign of his camp.
Naomi called the Sheriff. By this time he recognized her voice without
a greeting. “Matt, it troubles me that
we never found his camp. We must have
been looking in the wrong place unless someone murdered him for his tent which
seems unlikely.”
“Strange that you should bring that up, Naomi,” the
Sheriff said. “I just had a call from
Dr. Ronald Brewer and this case is still bugging him, too. Seems like none of us likes loose ends.”
“What was the Medical Examiner thinking?” Naomi
asked.
The Sheriff answered, “He said that he looked at the
evidence again, especially his autopsy report.
He is certain that Mr. Waycastle died of blunt force trauma. He said though, that on further inspection of
the blow that hit him on the left side of his forehead and eye that he
continues to believe that the murder weapon was a rock, which was what he first
thought, but he thinks that it may have been thrown at him rather than by a close
contact blow.”
“He said that it was a rock about the size of a hen
egg. A hen egg, can you imagine that as
a murder weapon and thrown at somebody? He
also wondered why it was a frontal blow.
He said that if someone were going to throw a rock at you, why wouldn’t
you turn and run? That would have caused
a blow to the rear of the head not the front and there were no defensive wounds
at all.”
“Interesting,” was all that Naomi responded.
“I thought so, too.
A rock thrown at him. Does that make sense?”
“No,” Naomi answered. During the conversation with the Sheriff
Naomi hadn’t noticed that she had turned around and was walking back up the
creek. She had just gotten to the place
that she avoided and had not been back to since she found the body. Here she was at the exact spot. She stopped when she realized where she was
sighed and averted her eyes from where the tree had been that stopped Mr.
Waycastle’s body from floating further down the creek.
Instead of looking at the spot she looked up at the
sheer cliff above the spot. “Oh, my
God,” she gasped.
“Naomi, what’s wrong?” Sheriff Stephens asked.
“Matt, wasn’t Mr. Waycastle wearing a red shirt and
wasn’t it torn?”
“Yes, you know that,” he answered.
“Matt there is a fragment of red cloth flapping on a
tree limb high up the cliff. We couldn’t
have seen it in May because of the leaves which are gone now.
“Naomi who owns the farm behind yours?”
“I don’t know, because of the cliff we have never
seen anybody. I just don’t know.”
“Well, I will find out from the tax map and I will
go right there.”
“Not without me Matt. Please.
Not without me. Wait Matt, there
seems to be something else higher up on the cliff, but I can’t make it
out. Could it be his boot? The missing boot that we left out of the
media reports? Matt hurry and pick me up
before you go there. I deserve to go
with you.”
“I know, Naomi.
You are the one who has found nearly every clue, but if things seem like
they may get violent … if we find a suspect will you promise me that you will
do exactly what I say?”
“Yes,” was Naomi’s one word reply.
Sheriff Matt Stephens picked Naomi up in about
thirty minutes and they proceeded to Ephram Clout’s farm. The name the sheriff found on the tax records. They knocked on the door and a tall skinny
young man of about twenty answered. He
said that his name was Ephram Clout, Junior and that his father was dead. “Folks just call me Junior,” he said. “I been waitin’ on you Sheriff.” He hung his head. “I knew you’d come. Follow me and I’ll take you to where it
happened.”
To be continued ….
©Patty F.
Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August, 9th, 20014
All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment