Gasoline

I get a call at about four in the morning. Said they found some poor sap face down in the dirt on a farmstead. This wasn’t exactly the first time that I got a call all the way out in the bush. I struck up a cigarette as I stepped out of the car. Usual nonsense. Plenty of headlights and plenty of flashes. If there were feces, the press was there like flies. My new shoes were already ruined by the time I approached the scene. I see two patrol guys that had to get here hours earlier than I did on half a pot of joe.

“Detective!” one called to me, seemingly looking for any excuse to stop talking to the gnats.

“Officers,” I gave them a nod as I gave the scene a brief once-over, “what’s the situation?”

“We got one dead inside that barn over there. The couple that lives here said that they didn’t hear anything unusual. That being said, they’re a couple of old fogeys that probably wouldn’t hear nothing anyway,”

“Let’s not discount the witnesses, boys. I’m gonna take a good look at the scene. Try to keep these cameramen off my ass, will ya?”

I made my way over to the mass of scrap wood. This thing was hardly a barn, I tell ya. If it didn’t have specs of red paint all over it, I would’ve mistaken it for a giant outhouse. The scene reached me nose-first. I brought my Vick’s, so I didn’t have to suffer through the stench. I could hardly smell anything beyond the vapor rub. That was the point, though. Was supposed to cloud out the scent of the dead. Sickly sweet was the odor of a corpse, but not the sort of sweet you’d want to smell. Enough to make you retch all over just from a waft of it. Just as I was told on the telephone, this poor sap was face down in cow and horse crap with two crimson roses in the back of his soiled tweed coat. Must’ve done something stupid to wind up here. I pulled my gloves on and snuffed out my cigarette in the watery mud. It most certainly wasn’t mud, but I didn’t want to have to tell my old woman that I was stepping in crap at six in the morning.

The inside of the barn was as I expected. My pathetic excuse of a flashlight showed me the rotting wood interior. Something stunk, and I’m sure it wasn’t the body. I began my search. Thankfully, they didn’t have livestock this time of year. The last thing I’d want to be doing is herding cattle. Hay and wooden pens.

I turned tail and headed out. Making my way up to the house that was in the same condition as the barn, I began to realize that maybe the old folk that lived here knew something about what happened. I let myself in after a courteous little knock. The old couple was sitting at a table. This house was so old that they were using an oil lamp at the small homemade dining table. The old man had a few wispy hairs still clinging to his spotted scalp with craggily yellow whiskers jutting from his face. His eyes were glassy and so were his wife’s. She had curly white hair and jowls that hung lower than her jaw. Both had skin damaged by the sun.

“Detective,” the woman sputtered as she sat down her cup of coffee that I needed significantly more than she did, “we’re so glad you’ve come! There’s a poor man in the barn. H-He looks injured and -”

“Just a moment, ma’am,” I interrupted, “is there a chance I could get a cup of that coffee?” The husband didn’t seem too fond of my request, but I wasn’t a senior caretaker. The woman gave me a fevered nod as she rose. Her hands quaked, but that wasn’t just from the scare I’m sure. These two were surely Irish. Weren’t born here in the states. I could hardly make out what the missus was saying, but I could tell she was trying to speak slowly so that I could understand. As she retreated to the kitchen, the man seemed to look right through me as he began to rattle off a load of nonsense that I wasn’t qualified to translate, though the withered old finger he threatened me with was enough to get the gist of it.

“Henry!” the woman scolded, “that is no way to talk to this nice man. He came all the way out here to help us in our time of need.” Part of me appreciated how aloof this woman was. It seemed to do the trick and the old codger’s boil was brought to a simmer. A cup of coffee was put down in front of me. The cup was stained and it smelled like dirt, but I was desperate. She began to unload the details of strange folk coming about once a month with a green Ford delivery truck. That only spelled one thing and it was foul play. The booze market was getting worse and worse. Prohibition was a terrible idea not because it stopped people from drinking. It stopped people from thinking about the risks they’d take to get said drink. I thanked the two of them for their time and did my best to finish the cup. Only after I finished did I notice the lipstick stain on the mug.

I made my way back out to the barn knowing exactly what I was looking for. I rolled the sap over onto his back. Italian male. Couldn’t be any older than thirty. I stuck my nose up in his face as I pulled his mouth open. Cheap shine. It smelled more like gasoline than booze, but that’s how it is. Plenty of idiots like him were drinking rubbing alcohol out of desperation. Anything from the moonshiners probably tasted like honey compared to that.

I peered around the barn in dismay as it looked like this was tied to something bigger. It was never easy. No murder like this ever was. I stuck another crumpled cigarette between my lips as something began to come over me. The ground outside was mostly dry as it wasn’t raining these past few days. In here, there was muddy filth. Hell, even the hay was wet. I raise my lighter. I see it now, the jerry-can tossed behind a pile of hay. Click.