Murder Mountain Read Online Free Page A

or maybe drool, extended from the left side of his mouth, spreading across his cheek almost to his ear.
    He was wearing a red flannel shirt that looked like the neighborhood dog had gotten a hold of it. Wearing that in this heat, it’s no wonder he smelled so bad. His blue jeans had enough grease on them to lube an entire engine. Under the jeans, I observed ratty brown sandals with toenails sticking out that looked like they had a form of gangrene or some alien virus that we have yet to identify.
    And he was white. Not white like us normal white folk, but an absolutely pale, deathly white. “Honky white,” is what a friend of mine calls people like that, but even that term did not do this guy justice.
    I blinked a couple of times to make sure I was seeing him. It was hot. I was also trying to figure out where he’d come from, because I knew he wasn’t anywhere around when I pulled up. My eyes veered to the direction of the cars parked in the driveway, and I saw the driver’s-side rear door of the Honda standing open. He’d clearly been sleeping in the back seat.
    “What the fuck do
you
want?” the man snarled, his alcohol-laced breath assaulting me with every word.
    I stepped down off the breezeway, still facing him, and immediately knew I was in trouble. Regardless of shows on television or movies, no normal, everyday, law-abiding citizen would ever consider speaking to a deputy sheriff or police officer in that manner. When people do, they usually are crazy, drunk, on drugs, have warrants, or all of the above. My heart was pounding so loud it felt like someone was banging a drum in my ears. I started to shake, a habit of mine that I hated but had no control over. Whether I was happy excited or bad excited, any time my adrenalin kicked in, I shook. The bad part of this is that I can’t let a perp see me do that or let them see any type of fear on my face. I took a couple more steps backward and said, “Are you Jack Delphy?”
    “No, I’m his son, and wh-what fucking business is it of yours!” he stuttered, undeniably drunk.
    I knew I had to get other patrol cars started this way, because God only knew how far away they were, and I couldn’t set this guy off.
    Calmly, I keyed the shoulder mic that was attached to my lapel, and said, “Seven-twenty-seven to seven-hundred, 10-23.”
    That was the code for, “Send me a backup, my shit’s getting weak.”
    The only problem about this was that once an officer called 10-23 on the radio, it started blaring with other officers asking for the location and what the problem was. Knowing this ahead of time, I slid my hand to the volume knob on my portable radio, and turned it all the way down as soon as I requested back-up. It could possibly have set this mental case in front of me off if he heard officers on the radio saying they were coming down to Garber Road.
    Raising my chin up in the usual stoic manner, I told the guy in my official voice that I needed to see some identification.
    “What the fuck for? This is my fucking property and you’re trespassing! Get the fuck out of here, bitch!” He took a step towards me as he finished saying this. Right on the word, bitch.
    My hand immediately went to my Taser, resting on it. Seeing that, he stopped, then smiled with teeth so rotten it made me physically sick to look at them.
    “Okay bitch, here’s your fucking ID,” he snarled. He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took his driver’s license from the sleeve and proceeded to throw it at me, but it landed on the ground to my right. We were standing in the front yard with about eight feet between us, with my cruiser to my right also. For a split, and I mean a split second, I thought about something an instructor in the police academy had told us, “Listen to your warning bells and your red flags. Trust your instincts.”
    Right now, I had bells ringing and flags flying from here to Canada, and a really bad feeling on how this was going