Murder on the Road Less Traveled. Robert W. Gregg
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“Of course not. Neither of an African-American nor of a cyclist.”
Carol was well aware that her assertion that there would be no murder on Crooked Lake this summer might already have been proven wrong. People are always dropping out of sight for reasons much less dire than murder, and she had seen or heard nothing to suggest that Martin Kennedy or Ernie Eakins was a murder victim. On the other hand, both disappearances were unusual and could not be dismissed as ‘just one of those things’ that happen from time to time. When she sat down with Kevin after supper to talk about the two cases, she had already decided that she would have to investigate both of them. Kevin hadn’t changed her mind, but he had strengthened her resolve to treat Ernie Eakins disappearance as seriously as she treated Kennedy’s.
By the time she went to bed, she had mapped out her agenda for the following morning. She would find out where Adolph Slocomb lived and then she would pay him a visit.
Slocomb, for whom the retarded and missing African-American boy was working. Her last thought before falling asleep was that she was, perhaps unconsciously, still putting the Kennedys and their problem first, ahead of Connie Eakins.
CHAPTER 9
It was while she was waiting for Officer Byrnes to provide her with the information necessary to get to the Slocomb residence that she realized why she didn’t already have it. The Kennedys had never been to where he lived. He had made the agreement to take Martin on at their home, not his, and had subsequently picked him up there and brought him back on each of the few days before he disappeared.
Why, she wondered, had it worked that way? Logically, Slocomb would have wanted the Kennedys to see his place, the place where their son would be spending his days over the summer. And the parents should also have been interested in seeing Martin’s work site, especially in view of his problems. Why hadn’t they? Or had they, but chosen not to insist on it if Slocomb, for whatever reason, wanted to do it his way. Suddenly, ten minutes after the squad meeting, Carol had another reason why it was important that she meet and talk with Adolph Slocomb. And see where Martin had worked before he disappeared.
Byrnes appeared at her office door with a rough map sketch. Apparently, Slocomb didn’t live on any of the main roads or even close to the towns at the end of Crooked Lake’s arms.
“Sorry, Carol, but this isn’t exactly a triple A map. I didn’t bother to give you instructions to get to Southport or onto the east lake road. But once you’re up the hill as if you’re going to Watkins, I think you’ll find the going a bit more of a problem. I had to check with Parsons. He knows the back roads better than I do. Anyway, take a look at my rendition, and then ask me - or one of the other hilltop guys. Maybe you know the area; you grew up here, unlike me. Why anyone would choose to have a place off in the boonies like that, I don’t know.”
“There are people who think this whole area is the boonies, Tommy. Anyway, thanks for your help. If I get lost, I’ll call.”
“Who’s this guy Slocomb?”
“No idea. Or not much of one. A local family had a son working for him as a handyman, and then the boy went missing. I promised the family I’d look into it, and it seems as if I start by meeting him and seeing what he has to say.”
“Probably ran away,” Tommy suggested. “Run aways are hard to find until they get homesick.”
“Could be, but I suspect it’s more complicated than that. If you’re interested, I’ll let you know what I learn from this man Slocomb, assuming I find him.”
“You’ll find him. Just follow my map.”
Carol chose not to call Slocomb first. She’d gamble that he was at home, and if not at least she’d have found where he lives and thereby simplified the next trip. Locating the man who had hired Martin Kennedy proved to be more difficult than she had expected.
She had driven area roads enough that she was fairly sure she’d be in the general vicinity of Slocomb’s home within an hour after leaving Southport. In spite of the map and her earlier ride with Joe Reiger, she soon realized that unmarked dirt tracks frequently led off the bumpy, poorly maintained county road. Joe had not changed direction until he reached the crest of the hill, and it was three miles beyond that point that Tommy’’s map called for a right turn when he came to a post marked A.S. 2 m.
She had already gone two miles beyond Tommy’s three when she became convinced that she had missed her turn. There was no other traffic, which made turning around and retracing her steps easy. Finding A.S. 2 m. was harder. She soon found herself back at the crest of the hill where Reiger had turned north, and there had been no post at any of the dirt tracks she had passed. Fifteen minutes later Carol knew that all but two of the dirt tracks led to dead ends or only to ruined houses that obviously had not been lived in for years. Which meant either that Slocomb lived on one of the remaining tracks or Officer Byrnes had relied on misinformation.
Carol was soon on a rough washboard of a road that wound its way for several hundred yards until it came to an old house that didn’t look much better than the abandoned shacks on the other dirt tracks. She still didn’t know that this was where Slocomb lived, but it was obvious that somebody did. A pick-up truck which was much newer than the house and a large shed in front of it told her that. She hoped it was Slocomb’s; otherwise it would have been a wasted morning and a frustrated Officer Byrnes.
She parked near the shed and set off for the porch of the house, which looked as if it could collapse if buffeted by a strong wind. As she circled the shed, it became apparent that it was in fact a part of a sprawling pig pen, or, more accurately, a hog pen, because the six animals lying in its muddy interior between the shed itself and a large trough were much too large to be what she though of as pigs. The truth of the matter was that Carol didn’t know a pig from a hog, or whether there was a difference between them. But she assumed that Mr. Slocomb, or whoever lived here, was in the business of raising these dirty animals for slaughter and the market.
Her interest in the inhabitants of the pen was quickly replaced by the appearance on the porch of a bearded man wearing a dark rubber apron. He wasn’t fat, but he was definitely over weight. Porcine, not surprisingly, was the word that came to her mind.
“What is it that you want, Miss?” he asked. His voice was raspy, as if he were nursing a cold. His face was hard to read. Carol had the feeling, however, that he was not used to company and was probably not happy to see an officer of the law at his doorstep.
“I’m Carol Kelleher, the sheriff of this county, and I’m not sure exactly where I am. I’m looking for Adolph Slocomb. Is that you?”
The man on the porch coughed up some phlegm and spit it out.
“Sorry about that. Nasty sore throat. Yes, I’m Slocomb. Don’t have many visitors. What’s on your mind?”
“I was hoping to find you, have a talk. This place is hard to find, no mail box, no sign telling me whether there’s a house up this track or not. You must not have many neighbors.”
“That’s for sure,” he replied. “What is it you want to talk about?”
“It’s complicated. How about we go inside?”
Slocomb coughed again, thought about the sheriff’s question.
“As you wish. The house hasn’t been picked up in a few days. Why don’t you sit on the swing over there, give me ten minutes to put things in order.”
“That’s not necessary. All I need to do is ask a few questions.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want people to think I keep a rat’s nest.”
Carol wondered if Slocomb ever had company, and whether he made it a habit to pick up for such company as he did have.
“Well, of course. I’m the visitor. Do what you need to do, just