Murder List

Chapter Twenty-one

Due to the incessant rain, the maintenance crew didn’t get around to clearing the five-foot-high pile of dead shrubs and branches for days. The men wore black rubber boots and yellow slickers over their work clothes and were soon covered in mud as they hauled the refuse away. Vernon, the most energetic of the three-man crew, had tossed the last gnarled branch into a nearby wheelbarrow and was heading back to the shed to take a break and smoke at least two unfiltered Camels when one of his coworkers, a whiner named Sammy, started screaming like a girl, pointing and backing away. Sammy’s hazel eyes looked as if they were going to pop right out of his head.

Harry, the new man, wore large bifocals, which were splattered with mud and drizzle. When he walked closer to see what Sammy was carrying on about, he too started screaming. He didn’t sound like a girl, though; he sounded like a squawking bird.

“What’s the matter with you two?” Vernon returned to the men as he asked the question. Then he saw what they were looking at. A toe was sticking up out of the mud.

He squatted down, saw the chipped red polish on the toenail, and fell back on his ample butt. “Don’t touch nothing,” he choked

out as he scrambled to his feet. “The police won’t want us touching nothing because this here is now a crime scene.”

Harry was staring hard at the toe, half expecting it to wiggle. “How do you know, Vernon?”

“’Cause this is where the crime was perpetrated, you twit, or at least where the body was buried.” He paused to point dramatically at the toe before continuing. “And that makes it a crime scene. That’s what they call it on television when they wrap yellow official tape all around the perimeter. Sammy, for the love of God, stop your yelling.”

Sammy pulled a soggy handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. “We should do something for her… shouldn’t we try to do something for her?”

Given the circumstances, Vernon was surprisingly calm. “No one can do anything for her now.”

“It is a real toe, isn’t it, Vernon?” Harry asked.

“What do you mean, ‘real’?”

“I’m thinking it could be a rubber one or a plastic one. One of those smart-ass college kids might be trying to prank us.”

It was a viable possibility. Vernon leaned in. “It’s real, all right. Rubber don’t decompose so fast, and I can see it isn’t plastic ’cause there isn’t any shine to it.”

Sammy gagged. Harry gave him a sharp look and waved him back. “The police won’t appreciate it if you puke on their crime scene. Take a couple of deep breaths,” he suggested.

“Are you sure the toe’s attached to a body?” Harry asked Vernon.

“You come up with the stupidest questions. I’m not touching it or tugging on it to see if it’s attached or not. That’s for the police to figure out. Why don’t you run over to the lecture hall and use their phone to call the police? Sammy and I will wait here.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker if I just use my cell phone?”

“For crying out loud, does everyone in the U.S. of A. have a cell phone?”

“I don’t know about everyone else in the U.S. of A.,” Harry said. “But I sure do. Had it for over a year.”

He unfastened his slicker, pulled out a bright red phone, and dialed 911.