Craig Johnson - The Cold Dish

Table of Contents

A writer, like a sheriff, is the embodiment of a group of people and, without their support, both are in a tight spot. I have been fortunate to be blessed with a close order of friends and associates who have made this book possible. They know who they are and, as the tradition goes, you can never thank a good cast too much.

Thanks to Sheriff Larry Kirkpatrick for a quarter of a century of fighting the good fight, the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigations Sandy Mays and Harrys pizza, which isnt so bad. To Henry Standing Bear for the magic and more, Marcus Red Thunder for the sweat, Charles Little Old Man for the words, Dorothy Caldwell Kisling for the stimulation, Donna Dubrow for the motivation, and Gail Hochman for the belief. To Kathryn Court, Clare Farraro, Sarah Manges, and Ali Bothwell Mancini, my ferocious pride of lionesses at Viking Penguin.

Finally, to my wife and muse Judy all the love in the world for greeting my daily reappearance from Absaroka County with patience and good humor. I would be Walt without you.

Bob Barnes says they got a dead body out on BLM land. Hes on line one.

She might have knocked, but I didnt hear it because I was watching the geese. I watch the geese a lot in the fall, when the days get shorter and the ice traces the rocky edges of Clear Creek. The sheriff s office in our county is an old Carnegie building that my department inherited when the Absaroka County Library got so many books they had to go live somewhere else. Weve still got the painting of Andy out in the landing of the entryway. Every time the previous sheriff left the building he used to salute the old robber baron. Ive got the large office in the south side bay, which allows me an unobstructed view of the Big Horn Mountains to my right and the Powder River Valley to my left. The geese fly down the valley south, with their backs to me, and I usually sit with my back to the window, but occasionally I get caught with my chair turned; this seems to be happening more and more, lately.

I looked at her, looking being one of my better law-enforcement techniques. Rubys a tall woman, slim, with a direct manner and clear blue eyes that tend to make people nervous. I like that in a receptionist /dispatcher, keeps the riffraff out of the office. She leaned against the doorjamb and went to shorthand, Bob Barnes, dead body, line one.

I looked at the blinking red light on my desk and wondered vaguely if there was a way I could get out of this. Did he sound drunk?

I am not aware that Ive ever heard him sound sober.

I flipped the file and pictures that Id been studying onto my chest and punched line one and the speakerphone button. Hey, Bob. Whats up?

Hey, Walt. You aint gonna believe this shit.... He didnt sound particularly drunk, but Bobs a professional, so you never can tell. He was silent for a moment. Hey, no shit, we got us a cool one out here.

I winked at Ruby. Just one, huh?

Hey, I aint shittin you. Billy was movin some of Tom Chathams sheep down off the BLM section to winter pasture, and them little bastards clustered around somethin in one of the draws.... We got a cool one.

You didnt see it?

No. Billy did.

Put him on.

There was a brief jostling of the phone, and a younger version of Bobs voice answered, Hey, Shuuriff.

Slurred speech. Great. Billy, you say you saw this body?

Yeah, I did.

Whatd it look like?

Silence for a moment. Looked like a body.

I thought about resting my head on my desk. Anybody we know?

Oh, I didnt get that close.

Instead, I pushed my hat farther up on my head and sighed. How close did you get?

Couple hundred yards. It gets steep in the draws where the water flow cuts through that little valley. The sheep stayed all clustered around whatever it is. I didnt want to take my truck up there cause I just got it washed.

I studied the little red light on the phone until I realized he was not going to go on. No chance of this being a dead ewe or lamb? Wouldnt be a coyote, with the other sheep milling around. Where are you guys?

Bout a mile past the old Hudson Bridge on 137.

All right, you hang on. Ill get somebody out there in a half hour or so.

Yes sir.... Hey, Shuuriff? I waited. Dad says for you to bring beer, were almost out.

You bet. I punched the button and looked at Ruby. Wheres Vic?

Well, shes not sitting in her office looking at old reports.

Where is she, please? Her turn to sigh and, never looking at me directly, she walked over, took the worn manila folder from my chest, and returned it to the filing cabinet where she always returns it when she catches me studying it.

Dont you think you should get out of the office sometime today? She continued to look at the windows.

I thought about it. I am not going out 137 to look at dead sheep.

Vics down the street, directing traffic.

Weve only got one street. Whats she doing that for?

Electricals for the Christmas decorations.

Its not even Thanksgiving.

Its a city council thing.

I had put her on that yesterday and promptly forgot about it. I had a choice: I could either go out to 137, drink beer, and look at dead sheep with a drunk Bob Barnes and his half-wit son or go direct traffic and let Vic show me how displeased she was with me. We got any beer in the refrigerator?

No.

I pulled my hat down straight and told Ruby that if anybody else called about dead bodies, we had already filled the quota for a Friday and they should call back next week. She stopped me by mentioning my daughter, who was my singular ray of sunshine. Tell Cady I said hello and for her to call me.

This was suspicious. Why? She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. My finely honed detecting skills told me something was up, but I had neither the time nor the energy to pursue it.

I jumped in the Silver Bullet and rolled through the drive-through at Durant Liquor to pick up a sixer of Rainier. No sense having the county support Bob Barness bad habits with a full six-pack, so I screwed off one of the tops and took a swig. Ah, mountain fresh. I was going to have to drive by Vic and let her let me know how pissed off she was bound to be, so I pulled out onto Main Street, joined the three-car traffic jam, and looked into the outstretched palm of Deputy Victoria Moretti.

Vic was a career patrol person from an extended family of patrol people back in South Philadelphia. Her father was a cop, her uncles were cops, and her brothers were cops. The problem was that her husband was not a cop. He was a field engineer for Consolidated Coal and had gotten transferred to Wyoming to work at a mine about halfway between here and the Montana border. When he accepted the new position a little less than two years ago, she gave it all up and came out with him. She listened to the wind, played housewife for about two weeks, and then came into the office to apply for a job.

She didnt look like a cop, least not like the ones we have out here. I figured she was one of those artists who had received a grant from the Crossroads Foundation, the ones that lope up and down the county roads in their $150 running shoes and their New York Yankee ball caps. Id lost one of my regular deputies, Lenny Rowell, to the Highway Patrol. I could have brought Turk up from Powder Junction but that had appealed to me as much as gargling razor blades. It wasnt that Turk was a bad deputy; its just that all that rodeo-cowboy bullshit wore me out, and I didnt like his juvenile temper. Nobody else from in county had applied for the job, so I had done her a favor and let her fill out an application.