Lt. Sass's story: RED WATER

The Blue Danube is many things, but blue it is not. The Green River is a pukey green mixed with muddy clay. The Red River is red today, very red. Mississippi State Police are in charge as the three headless female bodies found on its shores, must have come from the Red River that flows into ‘Ol Miss. They must have floated in during the night. So far few details are known. There can be no leaks to the media until further notice. My attempt to speak to an M.E. is useless. I am shooed away like a buzzing fly.

 

Wireless computers blink tide, current speed to find where the women were made into garbage. The Atchafalaga River, that also comes into the Mississippi, has its own police force looking for clues, heads. My Press badge with its red ribbon flapping for attention gets me no favors, no entry. This story is going to be big, atomic big, in just a few hours. In the meantime, I don’t stand still. I roam around wherever I am allowed to be, making copious notes that will be mere fluff to my story.

 

What I judge, with no one to confirm my opinion, is the bodies seem to look about 35 to 40 years old, neither heavy nor anorexic. I doubt they are sisters but may be related, friends, work or play together. Fingerprints were taken before the ladies were removed to the morgue. Flesh was puffy, bloated. Temperatures were useless but taken anyhow.

 

There must be a hundred photographers, newspeople sniffing around besides the quickly growing group of busybodies parking their cars, straining their necks, asking questions. At last posts arrive and yellow tapes are everywhere. The just curious are exiled. A siren blasts the morning air. Sheriff Mason gets his men in a circle. I can’t hear what he tells them but surmise a head has been found. It takes only a few minutes for the news to leak out. Two heads, eyeless, had washed up near the Mississippi and are in the morgue. Vomitizing pictures fill my mind. Matching a head to a bloodless body is too much for me to think about. I go under the yellow tape, walk in the warm sun, feel its warmth and sit down in the grass, try to pull myself together.

 

Business is not as usual on the Red River. Boats laden with minerals, fruits move slowly while pleasure craft are stopped, sent back to their piers. At 5 p.m. the press is called together, given the bulletins that are okay to release. The police know that sometimes they get lucky leads and have become cooperative with those, like myself, still waiting for more details. As much as can go out without causing panic hits the news faster than lightning flares and disappears.

 

I had passed a motel not far from the crime scene. It is full. The Come Inn is next in line and I have decent accommodations. Sleep comes easily, morning comes too fast. As soon as my eyes open, I call my paper, The Sandpiper Sun, for an update and boy do I get one. A small unusual tattoo has been found behind the ear of one of the victims. Our front page has a photo of it. Detectives are already on the streets checking tattoo parlors. There can’t be too many around here.

 

If any headway is made today, I don’t make it. In a small shopping center I locate one parlor. The door is locked. Only a low night light is on.  I drive to Alaya, a town of a few thousand. The police have been there and covered the shops with no luck. I need a little pick me up and stop for a beer or two, sit at the bar and try to map out a plan. A young  sorta hippie type guy comes in, making the crowd at the bar total two. His beaded neck chain is tangled. His eyes look somewhat glazed, dilated. I don’t care about those things but do care that he has tattoos on both arms and on his neck. In with my notes is the picture of the tattoo behind the ear of the head. I look without staring at those designs so close to me. ‘What are you looking at, Mister?’ my drinking companion asks. I show him the pic I have and he doesn’t blink nor speak. He drinks his cola and asks to see the pic again. ‘I’ve seen that before. It is a composite of an angel, St. Peter, gates to heaven and a chicken. Don’t ask me what it means. It’s very small and hard to figure out.’ This may be a break. ‘Do you know who the artist is?’

 

The shop happens to be around the corner. I leave what is left of my beer, a tip for the bartender and five bucks for my ex-drinking partner. At that point I realize interrogating the tattoo artist is not my job. Alaya is such a small town finding the police station means walking a few blocks. That is where I go and tell the officer what I heard. He is quick, calls two other men, leaves one in charge of the desk and asks me to go with him and the other officer to the tattoo shop. Harry, the artist, looks at the photo and tells the police he never saw it before. It is not a very sincere answer.

 

The officers who I thought were probably hicks or country bumpkins are not. They tell Harry to lock up and come with them as they have
questions that need answers. I may, if I like, wait in a side room that has a coke machine, a hot coffee pot ready, and a vending machine. Thinking after two hours of waiting, I have been forgotten, but no, I am called in to make a statement about my learning the artist’s name.

Crap, I never got the name of the guy in the bar so am of little help.

Strict instructions to keep my mouth shut upset me. Damn, I have a story that nobody has. Maybe this guy is the killer or knows who might be. Months go by. Harry has a pro bono lawyer, who turns out to be excellent. The ladies I.D.s are known, families notified. They bury their loved ones. Harry, looking haggard, beat, is found guilty and given an execution date one year from the reading of the verdict.

 

My name is never mentioned in the paper but I get a thousand dollar bonus from my boss and I know I was the one who brought a criminal to justice. I can live with that.