Stillborn Armadillos (John Lee Quarrels Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Nick Russell
out, so I guess it's in there somewhere. And when I changed the tire I could hear the third one rolling around inside when I took it off. Tire's still the trunk."
It only took the tech, whose name was Albert Symansky, a few minutes to dissemble the door panel and recover the deformed copper jacketed bullet he found inside. He used a battery powered Sawzall to cut the tire apart and recover the bullet from inside of it. He bagged each of them in separate evidence bags, then walked across the road with John Lee and spent some time looking for where the shooter may have been positioned.
John Lee told him about his theory that whoever had been shooting at them had not been aiming to kill, and the technician nodded his head in agreement.
"At that distance with a rifle like that, especially with a scope on it, if he had wanted you dead I think you would be. You're a lucky man, Deputy."
Just then Greg shouted his name from across the road. "John Lee, dispatch is on the radio. D.W. wants to see you in his office, ASAP."
John Lee sighed as he walked back to his car. Albert Symansky might think he was a lucky man, but he had a feeling his luck was about to run out.
***
"What am I gonna do with you, John Lee? I'm just speechless."
John Lee didn't say anything, but he was tempted to write the date on the calendar. His father-in-law was much more a politician than a lawman, and he seemed to have a ready made speech for anything and everything that came along. Especially if it was one he could deliver before a group of voters to remind them of what a good job he was doing. And to D.W., a group consisted of anything more than just one person, as long as they were registered to vote.
The sheriff had never really anticipated a career in law enforcement. Actually, growing up he had not given much thought to what he was going to do when he became an adult. Yes, his grandfather, Big Jim Swindle, had worn the sheriff's badge for a decade before an out of work ne'er-do-well named Buster Palmer had gotten liquored up and started beating his wife. When a neighbor called in to report the disturbance, the sheriff went out to their shack on Cass Road to put an end to it. He never got the chance because as he was getting out of his Plymouth squad car Palmer had come around the corner of the house and blown most of his head off with a single shot 12 gauge Stevens shotgun. He then went back in the house, murdered his wife, and killed himself.
Big Jim's son, James Swindle, better known as Junior, had taken up where his father had left off and served as Somerton County's sheriff for over 25 years before he pitched over dead on his 60th birthday. The way the story had been presented to the public, the sheriff had been answering a prowler call when his heart gave out. But it was no secret around the courthouse that he had actually been celebrating the occasion in bed with a 30 year old barmaid named Brenda Davidson when the Grim Reaper came to call.
At the time, D.W. was a young deputy with only a couple of years on the job, but he had already decided that life sitting behind the sheriff's desk was a lot better than life in a squad car, and was more than ready and willing when the county appointed him to fill his late father's shoes. He found that he enjoyed the popularity and being in the spotlight, and while he was more than happy to delegate field duties to Flag Newton and his deputies, he made it a point to get his picture in the paper often enough to convince the public he was on the job. That and kissing a lot of babies, and as many influential asses, assured that he had not lost an election since.
"I just don't understand what this world is comin' to," D.W. was saying. "First Emily runs off to Orlando without a word and we don't see hide nor hair of her for over a month, and then she shows back up in town with that woman she's sharing an apartment with and says she's a bisexual. I don't want to think of my little girl having sex, let
It only took the tech, whose name was Albert Symansky, a few minutes to dissemble the door panel and recover the deformed copper jacketed bullet he found inside. He used a battery powered Sawzall to cut the tire apart and recover the bullet from inside of it. He bagged each of them in separate evidence bags, then walked across the road with John Lee and spent some time looking for where the shooter may have been positioned.
John Lee told him about his theory that whoever had been shooting at them had not been aiming to kill, and the technician nodded his head in agreement.
"At that distance with a rifle like that, especially with a scope on it, if he had wanted you dead I think you would be. You're a lucky man, Deputy."
Just then Greg shouted his name from across the road. "John Lee, dispatch is on the radio. D.W. wants to see you in his office, ASAP."
John Lee sighed as he walked back to his car. Albert Symansky might think he was a lucky man, but he had a feeling his luck was about to run out.
***
"What am I gonna do with you, John Lee? I'm just speechless."
John Lee didn't say anything, but he was tempted to write the date on the calendar. His father-in-law was much more a politician than a lawman, and he seemed to have a ready made speech for anything and everything that came along. Especially if it was one he could deliver before a group of voters to remind them of what a good job he was doing. And to D.W., a group consisted of anything more than just one person, as long as they were registered to vote.
The sheriff had never really anticipated a career in law enforcement. Actually, growing up he had not given much thought to what he was going to do when he became an adult. Yes, his grandfather, Big Jim Swindle, had worn the sheriff's badge for a decade before an out of work ne'er-do-well named Buster Palmer had gotten liquored up and started beating his wife. When a neighbor called in to report the disturbance, the sheriff went out to their shack on Cass Road to put an end to it. He never got the chance because as he was getting out of his Plymouth squad car Palmer had come around the corner of the house and blown most of his head off with a single shot 12 gauge Stevens shotgun. He then went back in the house, murdered his wife, and killed himself.
Big Jim's son, James Swindle, better known as Junior, had taken up where his father had left off and served as Somerton County's sheriff for over 25 years before he pitched over dead on his 60th birthday. The way the story had been presented to the public, the sheriff had been answering a prowler call when his heart gave out. But it was no secret around the courthouse that he had actually been celebrating the occasion in bed with a 30 year old barmaid named Brenda Davidson when the Grim Reaper came to call.
At the time, D.W. was a young deputy with only a couple of years on the job, but he had already decided that life sitting behind the sheriff's desk was a lot better than life in a squad car, and was more than ready and willing when the county appointed him to fill his late father's shoes. He found that he enjoyed the popularity and being in the spotlight, and while he was more than happy to delegate field duties to Flag Newton and his deputies, he made it a point to get his picture in the paper often enough to convince the public he was on the job. That and kissing a lot of babies, and as many influential asses, assured that he had not lost an election since.
"I just don't understand what this world is comin' to," D.W. was saying. "First Emily runs off to Orlando without a word and we don't see hide nor hair of her for over a month, and then she shows back up in town with that woman she's sharing an apartment with and says she's a bisexual. I don't want to think of my little girl having sex, let
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