'Penny’s Pass the Parcel’ Part 2

Sheriff Milton eased his cruiser to a stop, the tyres crunching on the gravel of Amos Snodgrass's driveway. The yellow crime tape fluttered in the breeze.  Mornington Heights didn’t change. Nobody expected it to. The morning sun did its rounds. Pale and flat against picket fences.

Clusters of neighbours on the sidewalk. No real need for a uniformed deputy but there was Marindina  towering above them. Keeping the peace. Keeping them safe. His dark skin out of place as a rectangular hole in the floral wallpaper, a black maw in the fixed patterns of pale purity. The wall safe. Heavy door swinging on well-oiled hinges. There was Jenny from next door, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts. Her face a glory-alleluia of modern surgery and younger than her scrawny neck by several decades. Across the street, young Oliver Padget. He was still in his sixties, and leaned against his mailbox, his youthful slouch replaced by a stiff, unnatural gait. And further down, old Mrs. Kat Gable stood on her porch, a tiny, rooster figure, just watching and waiting.

 

They stared at the house. At the tape. And finally considered him. The way he wore his hat, which was way too small for his square head and the way he made it fit by bashing it on. An unironed white shirt and stained uniform that showed a love-affair with fast food and sugar rushes, and a body unused to ducking under anything smaller than a brontosaurus without grunting. Yellow tape be damned. He tore it in two and left the breeze to do the flapping.

These weren’t his people. They were upright citizens and keen Trump supporters. Potential witnesses. Coffee drifted from kitchen windows that had been eased opened just enough to let the morning in. He whipped off his hat and stomped onto the porch, the sun at his back. Could be heard muttering under his breath, ‘suspects’. The bitter aftertaste of his own stale coffee from the Styrofoam cup he’d let grow cold in his cruiser and the shit-storm he’d need to stir with officialdom making him turn and meet their gaze with cold grey eyes.

A screen door slammed down the street. Young Oliver Padget guffawed as he teased Jenny and her shrill girlish laughter drove him inside.

He rubbed the psoriasis on the back of his thick neck and looked again at the blood-soaked rug. The forensic team had come and gone, leaving their markings. He’d thought they’d have taken the rug with them. Blood had a way of getting inside you. Thick. Iron-rich stink. Almost sweet if it hung in the air long enough like the slow, creeping flavour of suspicion.

Every one of his good neighbours had been close enough to hear something last night. But they all claimed to have heard nothing out of the ordinary. Seen nothing.

He ran his tongue along his teeth, coming up empty. No body meant struggle. Amos—Snoddy—Snodgrass been taken somewhere he hadn’t chosen.  Or he’d walked away. That too was possible. He hadn’t logged any of their meetings with his superiors. Self-preservation, mostly.

When they’d first met, around a year ago, had changed his life. But he didn’t know if that was a good thing. He’d followed up on a routine call from Hawthorne Elementary.  An older man.  Same car.  Same spot.  Every morning that month. He’d run the plates. Expected Mott Havens or Hunts Point before berating himself for thinking paedophiles didn’t live in nice house in places like the Heights, but he was already sweating before he got out of the cruiser. Cause he knew he’d need to go easy on the old man. Money spoke all languages. Deference was part of the dance.

But Snoddy Snodgrass was unlike anyone he’d met before. He’d parked on the driveway and banged on the door. Immediately, he felt like the whole place lit up. Neighbours opened their curtains or came to stand in the door, watching him.

After a moment, the door opened. Snoddy—late sixties, cardigan, the kind of face that looked permanently halfway between where he was and somewhere else.

‘Officer,’ he said, in a monotone voice.

‘Morning, sir.’ Sheriff Milton took off his hat. ‘Mind if I speak with you for a minute?’

‘I thought you were speaking.’

Sheriff Milton guffawed to show he thought it was funny. Even though it wasn’t. ‘I’d appreciate it if we could speak inside.’

Snoddy considered this for around 30 seconds before turning abruptly and walking away. Sheriff Milton stuck his hat back on his head. His fingers resting on his holster as he followed him inside.

He scanned the room, without thinking about it. The recliner with the crocheted blanket. The bookshelf with its leaning towers of mathematics and physics books and journals. The porcelain cat figurines lined up like sentries. Mornington Heights was a place where people didn’t change their furniture for decades and their opinions less often. The carpet gave colour to the room. Oriental. Deep reds and faded golds woven into careful patterns showing the famous horses of Central Asia.

Snoddy Snodgrass fitted snug into contours of the recliner. His chair sat crooked against the wall. Cracked leather, soft and warm from the sun creeping through the window. The kind of chair a man could live in.

The room was neat enough, but unlived in. No TV. No computers. No old vinyl discs or something to play music on. No framed photos of wife and family and grandkids at school or on vacations.

The house had the careful feel of a man who had spent decades putting things exactly where he liked them. Everything was neat. Orderly.

Sheriff Milton wasn’t part of that order. He didn’t know where to sit, so he stood, with his hat tilted in his hand.

He kept his tone courteous. ‘We’ve had a few reports from Hawthorne Elementary. Folks have noticed your car parked outside most mornings.’

‘You’ve already said that,’ Mr Snodgrass replied in the same deadpan voice.

He tried a different tack. ‘You’re not in trouble,’ not yet, he was thinking. ‘Just trying to understand what’s going on?’

‘Very few people know what is going on. I take it you are one of them?’

He closed his eyes briefly. It had been a long day and he felt it getting longer and longer. ‘Here’s how it is. Some teachers and some parents don’t like you gawking at their kids every day. They’re frightened that you’re some kind of paedophile rapist, monster.’

He expected some kind of flare up. Some reaction. But Mr Snodgrass just sat stiffly in his armchair.

It was him that reacted. ‘Look, I don’t really fucking care if you’re into little girls—or little boys—that’s not really my bag. Just promise me you’ll not go near the school again—and we can get this filed?’

‘I’ve no interest in little girls or boys. I don’t like children, generally.’

‘Jesus,’ he rubbed at his eyes. ‘At least that’s something. Then why do you go to the school?’

‘There’s a woman. One of the mothers. She walks her little boy in every morning. I… noticed her one day. She smiled at me. I want to marry her.’

Sheriff Milton chuckled. He had to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself howling with laughter. He cleared his throat and rubbed his palms together. ‘So, just to get this straight. You saw a cute looking mom, when out on your extensive travels, and just decided to marry her?’

‘No. I’ve been pondering getting married for the last five to ten years.’

He flapped an arm and dismissive hand. ‘OK. That’s fine. I think that’s us pretty much finished here.’ But he couldn’t let it go. ‘So, how do you know she’s not married?’

‘She is married and has been for six-and-a-half years. And has two children. One from her previous marriage.’

The expression on Sheriff Milton’s face changed and he glared at him. That sounded like stalking. ‘And how did you come to know that?’

‘I got one of my people to prepare a report.’

He shook his head. Found it hard to keep the contempt out of his voice. ‘One of your people?’

‘Yes. I find the Israelis to be best in this field.’

‘What field is that?’

‘Intelligence. I have an IQ of 156. They are not as intelligent as me. But we all have our specialities.’

He nodded. ‘OK. I appreciate your honesty. But I think we’re losing track of things here. I don’t care about you.’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Or the Israelis. Or any other damned thing. I just want you to promise me you won’t go near that damned school, again.’

‘I have no intention of going near the school again. After careful observation, I realised she was not the one.’

Sheriff Milton frowned. ‘One what?’

‘The one I’d marry.’

‘Fine.’

‘Are you married Officer?’

‘Hell, yeh, mostly.’ He was looking at his finger twiddling between two and three. Sticking his chest out. ‘I’ve been married three times.’   

‘That’s very impressive. Perhaps you can help me find the one?’

‘One what?’ He had to catch himself by rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I don’t think so, Sir. I’m kept pretty busy with police work. And my home life, you know.’

‘I’d pay you for your work.’

He slapped his hat on his head. ‘Well, Sir, that’s real nice of you. How much did you pay the Israelis?’

‘$142 524.’

‘That’s a shitload of money.’

‘They are very through.’

‘And you got that kind of money lying about?’ He tilted his chin. ‘I’d need about double that. $300 000. Cause I’m a real detective. And these guys are just amateur hour.’

‘I don’t leave money lying about. That would be extremely foolish.’

‘That figures.’

The old man’s knee popped as he got up from the armchair. He pushed aside the rocking chair and peeled back the floral wallpaper. Behind it was the kind of safe Sheriff Milton had seen in a James Bond movie. ‘I keep petty spending cash in here. You want me to pay you the $300 000 now or later?’

Sheriff Milton’s hand slid down to his holster. ‘What else you got in their? Guns? Drugs?’

Mr Snodgrass was already spinning the wheels and hauled the safe open. Pulling out bundles of high denomination notes and leaving them lying on the table. ‘No guns. Just some lettres de Marque issued by the King of Spain to Vasco de Gama.  A map commissioned by Pedro IV of Aragon in the late fourteen century, the famous Catalan Map.’ He turned towards a bemused Sheriff holding a silk purse, dyed a deep indigo. ‘Not drugs, exactly.  A plant known in old field journals as Nightrot. Botanists have died trying to protect this sacred bark.’

Mr Snodgrass held the purse up to his nose. ‘Can you smell it?’

Open mouthed, Sheriff Milton found himself nodding. The sweetness hit him hard. It wasn’t perfume. It wasn’t natural. It was like something remembered.