Pity and a Shame

Chapter 1

The fox loped purposefully through the wooded hills alongside the farm. Its pads made no noise on the scattered blanket of pine needles and leaves as it skilfully navigated the narrow trail running up to the rail fence. It paused, tilting its head to sniff the wind, curious of the strange odour it carried.

Ducking under the weathered rail, it carried along up the hard packed ruts of earth, formed by the many years of traffic that passed along the road. Halting again, the fox sniffed at the grass ridge that grew between the ruts, reading the spoor of other woodland creatures that had used the same trail.

A rusting, rooster-shaped weather vane on the barn roof suddenly stirred by the breeze made a sharp squeak, causing it to start; it sniffed the air again, shivering at the tingle in its spine.

Ahead sat the slumping structure of an uncared for farmhouse, its foundation fringed with dried dead stalks of weeds allowed to run wild. A broken, iron rimmed wheel jutted from a stiff pile of old compost, the spokes rotting away from the hub. The frame of an old harrow aimed its bent and rusted spikes down the drive as though suggesting a way out.

The fox skirted the pile and slowed, stepping cautiously toward the sagging front steps. The door stood partially open, and the odour increased in strength as it climbed tentatively onto the porch. Curiosity was a strong opiate, overriding nerve and instinct, pushing the young fox to dare entry into the lair of a mortal enemy. It stopped in the dingy hall sniffing again at the fetid air.

A buzzing monotone drew attention to the room behind the open door and it padded slowly toward the strange sound, nose twitching sensitively. The fox paused in the doorway, the golden red fur standing up along its spine, its whole body trembling uncontrollably. The rank smell and the droning buzz emanated from a rotting pile in the centre of the room.

The fox jumped sideways and backed out; its last impression before bolting from the house was that of a curled fist crawling with flies.

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Sheriff Brian Weller watched through the foggy glass as the doctor tweezed the rotting wet clothes from the corpse on the table. How anyone could do that for a living was way beyond him. He pinched his nose and snuffed away the smell that leaked from the autopsy room into the hall.

An abundance of uncollected mail in the highway mailbox had prompted a curious mailman to drive up to the farmhouse and check on the occupant, a decision he immediately regretted as he fled the house heaving his lunch ahead of him. It took quite some time for the Sheriff to calm the man down and get a coherent report on what he had discovered.

Paynter Gough held the view of the townspeople of Split Oaks as a scurrilous, mean tempered, hard drinking troublemaker, and although the news was unsettling for the otherwise placid community, few were surprised to hear his death had been a violent one. Now, as he stood awaiting any helpful news from the doctor, Weller reread his notes from the first visit to the crime scene and sucked his teeth noisily.

Aside from the mess the unfortunate mailman left, it seemed that some wild life was also present at some point, messing up the prints in the dusty hallway. In the interest of thoroughness, another trip to the farmhouse was probably in order. He rapped on the window and pointed up to let the doc know he'd be in his office, and then thankfully left the malodorous corridor outside the autopsy room.

A damp autumn breeze drifted down the tiny main street of Split Oaks, barely stirring the brown wet leaves that plastered themselves on the sidewalk in front of the few stores the main street boasted. Outside the courthouse, the flag snapped feebly and wrapped itself around the pitted aluminum pole, sticking out of the gable over the entrance.

The town looked lifeless except for the two-man work crew patching the perennial potholes in the macadam roadway. Lunchtime in most places would bring a bit of a bustle to the business section of a town, but in Split Oaks, most people who worked in the town ate where they worked or went home for a meal. Then again, there was only one restaurant in town, in fact there was only half a dozen stores altogether.

It was a tiny bedroom community for the Sarvak Engineering Company of Ingersol. When one enterprising employee bought some shoreline and erected a marina, the area grew in popularity until a number of people began buying property for cottages and eventually homes. Weekend picnics and fishing trips became the attraction for families of workers and soon the obvious need for amenities arose. Some small businesses began to blossom until the short stretch of river was saturated and growth stopped.

Split Oaks was still a no place on the way to nowhere, thriving on seasonal industries of Christmas trees, tourist fishing, and the most lucrative, because it was year 'round, Nature's Gateway, an artist's retreat and instructional centre.

The town, facing east, occupied a stretch of rural highway that curved inward around the mile and one half wide Marsh River, at the foot of a shallow prominence incongruously called Oak Mountain; a tall man on a tall horse could see over the top. Except for the Split Oaks Marina, Bait and Tackle Shop, all the other businesses were on the inland side of the highway.

The feature building, the courthouse, stood sedately between the Heaven's Oven Bakery and Garrison's Hardware. It also housed the bank, jail and post office. Beyond the hardware store, separated by the service station, were Keldman's Groceries, Gillys Diner Deluxe, a modest dental and medical clinic and the aptly named, Hairs Lookin' at You salon, run by Janet Bogart.

On the north end of town was the small subdivision that housed the commuting workers and their families. The other permanent residents were scattered throughout the surrounding hills and further south. Traffic passing through Split Oaks hardly had time to reduce speed before clearing the few thousand feet of highway it occupied and it fell to Brian Weller, as the sole law enforcement representative, to monitor that traffic and extract as much in fines as possible for the town's kitty.

Today, however, Sheriff Brian Weller had business that was more pressing. He was working one of the rare cases to affect the town-a possible homicide. Unlike the other professional and business people in town, Brian had no previous training of any kind in law enforcement, other than a short stint in the military police, an experience he was happy to be rid of but one that left a residue of interest which he pursued in civilian life.

He was elected solely based on his age, thirty-seven, his fitness, the fact that he was single, had a cousin who was a police constable, and was willing to take the job for the little money the town could afford. The military portion of his resume was greeted with a, 'that's nice' acceptance.