Let the Gods Decide 
Louise Guardino

When not distracted by reading, paddle tennis, TV,
communing with her dogs, surviving, and the never
empty e-mail bucket, Louise Guardino thinks fiction
writing can sometimes be fun. (And sometimes work.)
Her stories have appeared in Blue Murder,
Hardboiled, Murderous Intent Mystery Magazine,
Plots with Guns, and Futures. Comments may be
sent to her at sciaccalg@usa.com
©Copyright 2001
Louise Guardino

Tyrone Jameson was lying two feet from his dog. One was dead,
the other dying. Anna Jameson tended to the dying one, the wet
path down her face shining in the late sun.
Cradling the blood-streaked head of her scroungy yellow mutt,
she wiped at the raw wound with a wet cloth, as she spoke to the
dog. "You ain’t no business being here. Look at you. He always in
back, Chief," she said to me.
I’d taken what pictures I could. The crime scene, such as it was,
had already been trampled over by Anna and her kin, now standing
nearby. From the looks of it, Tyrone had been beaten to death and
so had his dog, almost. The aged lab-mix had gotten a piece of the
attacker. A blood streaked shred of green work-pant cloth now
resided in an evidence bag. Whose blood, dog or man’s or both
was the question.
"Saw Tyrone with Scrapper after you left this morning, Anna.
‘Bout quarter after. Figured he got loose again," said a nearby voice
Another truck pulled up. With cars and trucks clustered alongside
the trailer and now out into the dirt road, there was no hope of
preserving more evidence. That’s what happens when you’re a oneman
show and folks call their relatives before you.
"Anna, what piece of shit did this?" Melvin, Anna’s cousin, all raw
power and anger asked, after taking it all in and sending me a mean
glance.
"Don’t know. Tyrone had business with Hefty earlier, but that was
all done, ‘fore I left."
"What business and what you mean done?" Melvin asked what I’d
already covered with Anna.
"Business, business. Hefty left and I went on to work. Come
home and find this."
"He dead?" Melvin looked at Scrapper.
"Hurt bad. Come to defend Tyrone it looks like. Got a piece of
the bastard did this."
"You want him to the vet?"
Anna hesitated, looked at her dog, her dead man, and back at the
dog. "See if he can do something. Nothing expensive. Maybe make
him hurt less."
Melvin scooped up the big dog, whose head lolled, eyes rolling,
and put him in the bed of the truck.
Fine bits of dirt rose as Melvin backed out to the gravel road that
led towards town. My guess was the dog’d be dead before he got
there.
I’d looked around as much as I could under the circumstances.
Tyrone Jameson had been struck several times, taking some
defensive blows on the arm before being bashed in the head more
than once. His pockets had been turned out and his place tossed.
"Tyrone, he’s a good man, Chief Smitt. No reason for someone to
do something like this, ‘cept he be an evil man. You find him. Else
we find him ourselves."
"Don’t do anything like that, Anna. You and yours let the law
follow its course. We’ll find the one responsible."
"Finding don’t always mean justice." Anna muttered looking at her
husband’s body.
"It will this time," I said. Another vehicle crunched down
Cemetery Road. The county’s Medical Examiner had arrived.
"Afternoon, Smitt."
"Hey, Doc. Over here. ‘Fraid the victim may have been disturbed
by his wife, Anna. Said she checked him before she called."
"She move him?"
"No."
"Good enough."
While the doc and his apprentice did their work, I pulled Anna
aside.
"Tell me again, Anna, ‘bout the business Tyrone had with Hefty."
"Business. Tyrone owed Hefty some money. From the time
Tyrone’s daddy died and we needed money for the funeral. Tyrone
paid up today."
"All of it?"
"All owed. Big load off our minds, I can tell you."
"How long you been owing it and how’d Tyrone come up with
the money?"
"Six months now, I think, Tyrone’s daddy been dead. We been
saving. Tyrone did a bit of extra work this past month."
"Yeah? Whereabouts?" 
"Don’t know. All he said was it’d help. Took him out most nights
‘til early morning."
I had my suspicions what that work was but I let it go. "How’d
the meeting with Hefty go this morning?"
"Not much to it. Hefty come by ‘bout seven, Tyrone went out and
talked to him by the car. Gave him the money and Hefty left. No
more ‘n ten minutes. I left at eight and Tyrone was gonna heel it
out the door right after."
"So Hefty never got out of the car?"
"That’s right."
"Any of Tyrone’s other money missing?"
"Don’t know. He didn’t tell me all he had. More’n what he gave
Hefty,"
"Look around some. See if you can find the rest. Let me know."
She nodded.
"Any your neighbors home all day?"
"Mrs. Balon."
"She here?" I asked looking around.
"May Lou! You come over here," Anna called to a bandannaed
woman looking on.
I nodded to her. "I understand you were home today?"
"That’s right."
"See anything didn’t seem right?"
She shook her head.
"Any strangers come down the road?"
"Not today. Cemetery’s here. Get curiosity seekers now and then."
"You know Hefty Monroe?"
"Who don’t?"
"See him today?"
"Yep."
"When was that?" I didn’t doubt she’d be talkative once I left.
"Morning, sometime."
"Early? Late?"
"Anna don’t go to work yet."
"So it was before she left?"
May Lou nodded.
"Not again after that?"
She shook her head.
"You hear anything? Dog barking?"
"Dogs always bark."
"A peaceful day until Anna come home?"
"Like normal."
"May Lou’s TV runs twenty-four-seven." said Anna.
I nodded. No help there.
"Oh, by the way. Happen to notice what time Anna left?"
May Lou stopped chewing a moment. "Eight. Like always." 
Doc came over. We walked towards the cemetery.
"Rough guess, sometime before noon. Wide fractures. Weapon
was thick and blunt. You’re looking for a right-handed man. We’ll
let you know -- maybe tomorrow."
I waited until they’d packed Tyrone up and carted him away
before leaving Anna in the charge of her relatives and friends.
I called the vet later. Scrapper was still alive, barely. He said he’d
found some bark in Scrapper’s wound. I asked if he could take a
dental impression for me.
Once night arrived, Hefty was easy to find. He was at the only
bar in town; the Scramble Dog Inn, a one room cement building.
I ordered a beer. Summer in North Carolina can wear one down
right quick. And you don’t order water or soda in a place like the
Scramble Dog. Me and the owner had a deal. He stocked root beer
for me so when I asked for a cold one while in uniform, that’s what
I got. None the wiser, everyone happy.
I nursed my drink, waiting for the noise level to return to what it
was before my entry. When my mug was half empty I leaned back
against the bar and glanced around, spotting Hefty and his friends.
My mug almost showing bottom when Hefty had a need. All three
hundred pounds of him limped to the bathroom. I was waiting
when he came out.
"How’s it shaking, Hefty?"
"Good enough, Smitt."
"Noisy in here. Come outside. Talk a bit."
"What for?"
"Got a few questions. Be right quick."
He looked hard at me, glanced at his pals. "You best be quick. I
got business," he barked, tough face showing. As best he could with
that limp, he swaggered out the door.
"I hear you had business with Tyrone today," I started.
"Yeah. Ain’t no business of yours, either."
"Right you are. Don’t care what your business was. I want to
know about the meeting. How Tyrone seemed."
Hefty’s brows knit a moment while he puzzled out what I’d said.
"Tyrone, he be all right when I see him. What you lookin’ for?"
"Anything bothering him? He say anything ‘bout what he was
doing the rest of the day?"
"No. Why would he tell me?"
"You friends, right?"
"Not exactly."
"You saw him what time?"
"Seven or so."
"How long you talk?"
"Long enough to finish our business. No chit chat." 
"You see Anna?"
"No. Didn’t go into the house."
"You see him later on in the day?"
"No. What for? Our business done."
"And you were where from, say seven-thirty until one or so?"
"Workin’."
"Alone?"
Hefty’s brows came down, masking his face in a bull-dog
grimace. "What’s all these questions? Somethin’ happen to Tyrone?"
"Take it easy. Just asking some questions. You’ve nothing to
worry about, you don’t have a reason to."
He stared at me, silent.
I asked again. "You were working with who?"
"My buddies," he jerked his jaw towards the Scramble Dog..
"Which ones and where at?"
"Rocket, Hiccup, and Joe, over in Franklinton, clearin’ some
trees."
"All day?"
"Yeah, all day. What’d I tell you?"
"Ah. Okay, then. Guess that’s all I’ll need."
I turned back towards the Scramble Dog. Hefty grumbled
something about cops taking a man away from his private time.
"Oh, by the way, you see that scroungy dog of Tyrone’s while
you were there?" I asked.
"Didn’t know he had no dog."
"Yeah, yellow lab. You didn’t see it, huh?"
"Just told you I didn’t."
"So you did."
I held the door for Hefty. "What happened to your leg? See you’re
limping."
"Nothin. Scraped it on a branch. Ought to sue."
"Why’s that?"
"Weren’t doing the work, wouldn’t get hurt."
"Happened today, then?"
He gave me a hard look. "Yeah."
"Get a doctor to look at it?"
"Don’t need no doctor."
I followed Hefty back to his table.
"How y’all doing?"
They looked at me and at Hefty.
"No complaints," said Rocket.
"What you doing hassling us poor folk when we minding our
own business?" Joe’s tone was light but there was no mistaking his
menace.
"Slow night, Joe. Just seeing if you guys were on your toes. Say,
Euphrates," (it’s best to treat a man respectful in front of his 
companions), "can I have a word with you? You live over Cemetery
way, right?"
Hiccup didn’t bat an eye. "That’s right."
"Come on outside with me so’s we don’t disturb these other folks.
Only be a minute. Can’t hear myself think in here, the bass like
about take my ears off."
"Don’t worry none about us, Smitt," said Hefty. "We don’t mind
you talking to Hiccup right here."
"I mind," I said and motioned for Hiccup to follow me.
"You don’t have to do what he ask. Stay right here," said Hefty.
"That’s right, Euphrates, you don’t. But you want no trouble, you
will." My lifted eyebrow was sufficient to remind Hiccup of a few
things I’d conveniently ignored on his behalf in the past.
Not looking Hefty in the eye, Hiccup edged his way out of the
booth, past Joe, and followed me outside.
"Where you been keeping yourself these days?"
"Busy. Working over Franklinton."
"Yeah? Doing what?"
"Hauling out some of those broken trees. You know, from the last
storm?"
"Yep, that was some storm. Who all is working with you down
there?"
"The guys. Joe, Hefty, Rocket."
"When’s the last time you saw Tyrone to say hey to?"
"Aw, geez. Coupla weeks, now."
"You folks have anything going on, I should know about?"
Hiccup laughed. "I should tell you if we did? Come on Smitt."
"Tell me about today. What time’d you start work?"
"Eight-ish."
"Whereabouts in Franklinton?"
"Sawyer’s land."
"When did everyone else arrive?"
"You think I stand there with a stop watch? They got there when
they got there. Around eight." He hiccuped.
The man was a bit edgy, it seemed. "All of them?" I figure from
Tyrone’s place, no more than ten-twelve miles. It’d take twenty
minutes, max.
"Yeah. Like I said," Hiccup’s glance darted off into the parking lot.
"Pretty nasty work, I imagine."
"Sweaty and dirty, that’s right. Goddamm bugs’ll eat you alive."
"Get cut up some, too, I’ll bet."
"Lookee here," Hiccup said, turning his right arm towards me. A
red gash streaked diagonally across the back. "Got that yesterday.
Burned like hell."
"See a doctor?"
"Nah." 
"Anyone else get hurt?"
"We all get scratched up a bit."
I nodded. Getting nowhere. "You stay there all day? What’d you
do for lunch?"
"Brought it. Hung out in the shade by the truck."
"All of you together, all day?"
"Yeah."
"From when to when, did you say?"
"Eight to five. Like the contract called for," a passing firefly caught
Hiccup’s attention.
Sure. No slackers here, boss. "Anyone talk up Tyrone lately?"
"Only you, tonight."
Right.
"Okay, Hiccup. Take a walk. Thanks for the chat."
I went back in and ordered another beer--to go.
Anna said she’d left at eight with Tyrone getting ready to go out
the door after her. At eight-thirty the next morning, I tracked from
Cemetery Road to Sawyer’s in Franklinton. It took twenty-two
minutes. Off into the woods, maybe another five minutes. Someone
could have waited until Anna left, and approached Tyrone between
eight and eight-thirty. And been late for an eight o’clock job start. If
Hefty had killed Tyrone, he’d made sure his friends covered for
him. The only witness was Scrapper.
What I needed was a pair of green trousers and a match to
Scrapper’s bite pattern. Both might require a warrant. The magistrate
was willing, just. But first I checked Anna’s story. She also worked
down Franklinton. Her employer had a time card showing Anna
punched in at eight-twenty and out at four-thirty. And he recalled
seeing Anna on the noon lunch break.
That night, late, with the assistance of some County boys and a
med tech, we made a stop at Hefty’s house, waking his current
woman and her two kids. No torn green pants or pant parts found.
But we did get a sample of Hefty’s blood and a good look at his
right calf. I took several close-up photos of the two puncture
wounds, two inches or so apart and the few, barely visible, bruises
between. Didn’t look much like a tree scrape to me.
The photos matched the fang spacing from Scrapper’s dental
mold. The M.E. had also found bark fragment in Tyrone’s wounds.
That, and the M.E. report that the blood on the green cloth matched
that of both Hefty and Scrapper was enough for an arrest warrant.
The D.A. wasn’t happy. He wanted the murder weapon with
Hefty’s prints and Tyrone’s blood. Can’t say I blamed him. We tore
Hefty’s place and surrounding area apart. Same thing over at
Cemetery Road. Found lots of old junk but nothing that fit the bill. 
Hefty could have tossed the weapon, especially a piece of wood,
anywhere. Even in Franklinton.
Hefty’s lawyer argued that just because a man got bit by a dog
didn’t mean he’d killed the dog’s owner. He alleged that Hefty had
gone back to Tyrone’s, having forgotten something, he said, and
encountered poor Tyrone lying in the dirt. He went to see if he
could help and got attacked by the dog, and what could a man do
but protect himself? As for the bark, there was bark all around
where Tyrone and the dog lay. Easy for it to get in an open wound.
Hefty, the lawyer said, thought Anna had killed Tyrone, and not
wanting to butt into anyone’s business, knowing that Tyrone could
be, well, a bit rough with his woman, he figured maybe Tyrone
deserved it. Why should Anna go to jail for protecting herself? So he
kept his mouth shut.
‘Course Hefty sat at the defendant’s table all scrubbed and
dignified looking. He even gave a mournful glance towards Anna,
who was having none of it. Neither was I. Nor anyone else who
knew Tyrone and Anna.
But the jury bought it. Not guilty. One juror later said she thought
Hefty was guilty but we hadn’t proved it, so what could she do?
Like Anna said, sometimes justice isn’t what you get.
Tonight I happened to be patrolling near Scramble Dog just at
closing time. I saw Hefty weave towards his rusty truck, the rear
bumper cockeyed. I went on up the road, towards Hefty’s place.
There was little traffic. Hefty wasn’t likely to run into another
motorist. I just hoped he wouldn’t drive off into a ditch. I pulled
into one of the many dirt cut-offs and waited.
Hefty came by at five miles under the limit but weaving back and
forth between center and off road. I pulled out and put my blue
light on. No siren.
He pulled to the side, the truck listing about fifteen degrees.
I stopped and got out. My Mag-Lite shining into his cab, I asked
how he was doing.
"Goin’ home. No trouble."
"No, no trouble, Hefty, but you look like you need some help."
"I’m awright. I can get home. Only had a few."
"Doesn’t look that way. Move on over to the passenger side. I’ll
drive you the rest of the way. You can get your truck tomorrow."
He gave me a bit of argument but finally relinquished. It’s hard to
argue when your eyelids are closing.
I locked my car and climbed into Hefty’s truck after pulling on
leather driving gloves.
"When’s the last time you got this piece of junk tuned?" I asked
Hefty as I eased the clutch off and pulled from the side of the road.
I drove not more than a mile farther before swerving off into a 
ditch. Damn near took my kidneys. Hefty’s eyes were closed, drool
slipped from the edge of his mouth.
What do you do with a three hundred-pound man? I removed his
boots and mine as well. Mine went around my neck, Hefty’s to my
feet. I struggled to get Hefty in a fireman’s hold then staggered, in
boots too big, to the pasture’s edge. Months earlier, when looking
for the weapon used to kill Tyrone, I’d taken a day off and trudged
the area within three miles of Hefty’s dwelling. Woods and old
farmland. Discarded junk.
I found what I was looking for and eased Hefty to the ground.
Once there, I unzipped him. Without wasting time, I swapped back
the boots then walked away, clearing my footprints, leaving Hefty--a
drunk who took a leak and stupidly fell asleep on top of the largest
fire ant hill in all the county.
Let the Gods decide how justice was to be served.