Sokowski
The trailer reeked something awful. Mindy’s body had released a bunch of shit and piss, and the place smelled like a goddamn outhouse. A garbage can propped the front door wide open, but it didn’t help matters much.
Sokowski sat at the kitchen table smoking another cigarette. He had found a bottle of Jack in the cabinet and was in the midst of putting a pretty big dent in it. He didn’t give a shit. Who would blame him for taking a drink after he found a murdered girlfriend in her trailer? Everybody in town knew that they dated off and on over the years. He planned on playing the victim card and soaking up all the sympathy that it would bring with it. Most folks would be glad that he kicked the shit out of Danny—served the retard right. If he played this thing the correct way, he could come out looking like a goddamned hero.
Sokowski smiled to himself. He knew exactly what he would say.
The son of a bitch killed my girl. Murdered her for no good reason. I knew something was bound to happen. Goddamn retard showed up at the diner nearly every day. Always staring at her, gawking at her. He probably planned this thing for years. If he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want anybody else having her either.
Sokowski thought he’d even be able to work up a few tears when he delivered his sad-ass speech. Folks around here would eat that shit up. By kicking Danny’s ass, he’d provided a little street justice and done a service for every father out there that had lost a daughter at the hands of some murderer. Every man in town would be lining up to thank him and admiring his self-control in not killing the stupid moron.
Carl, on the other hand, needed to keep his big fat yap shut. Sokowski knew that Carl wasn’t that bright, and if he got asked too many questions and got too nervous, he would slip up about something. Sokowski wished that he’d had the chance to talk to him before he left with the sheriff, but Lester needed help unloading Danny’s fat ass over at Doc Pete’s.
Sokowski also wished that Lester would have just brought Danny’s ass down to the station and tossed him in the lockup, but the old buzzard wanted Doc Pete to take a look at the retard’s jaw. Doc Pete’s was closer, Lester said. Besides that, Lester thought Danny wouldn’t try anything else. Goddamned Lester. Treated everybody with kid gloves. The old bastard was more worried about how people would feel and what they would think of him than just doing his job right. He wouldn’t even let Sokowski cuff Danny, for Christ’s sake.
Fucker needs to go and retire already.
He poured another drink and drank it down. His head was buzzing pretty good now. The numbness gave him a sense of calm. It was all gonna work out. Danny was so fucking dumb that he wouldn’t say nothing, and even if he did, who was gonna believe a goddamned retard?
He looked over at Mindy’s corpse.
Her and her big fucking mouth. If she weren’t such a smart-ass bitch and just gave me a little, this whole thing wouldn’t have happened.
She knew about his temper. Wasn’t nothing new. She should’ve known better than to pop off at the mouth. He would have probably ended up getting married to the woman someday and having kids and all that happy shit. He made good money selling weed, and once Lester dropped dead or hung up his hat, Sokowski would step into the sheriff’s shoes and make even more money off the county.
It’s her own damn fault that she’s dead.
Sokowski had witnessed death up close—it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. Not long after he put on the deputy hat for the first time, he found his own father with his head split open like a smashed watermelon. Found him in the same barn where Sokowski currently grew his weed. The old man hadn’t been dead long. Blood hadn’t dried, still trickling down the walls, and the shotgun still leaned against the bastard’s chest. The ten-gauge had removed the better part of his skull and splattered his pathetic brain across the barn. It was up to Sokowski to clean up the mess after they hauled away his old man’s sorry ass. The old bastard was always weak. He was soft. Never had a backbone. Then he got even weaker after his whore of a wife ran off for the last time when Sokowski was sixteen. The old man became a walking shell. Many a night Sokowski could hear him crying like a goddamn baby in his bedroom. Pissing and moaning about losing his wife. Love made the old bastard weak. Sokowski could never understand it—he didn’t even love his own goddamned mother. She slept around, drank like a damn fish, and treated the two men in her life like an inconvenience. Then, on Sokowski’s twentieth birthday, the old man couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take the loneliness and knew that his whore wife wasn’t ever coming back. He stuck a ten-gauge shotgun in his mouth—the same ten-gauge he gave Sokowski one Christmas—and blew his troubles away.
Sokowski wasn’t weak like his old man. No sir. He’d never let some stupid bitch ruin his life.
The bottle of Jack called his name, and he answered. Poured another drink and looked over the glass at Mindy as the burn went down. Blood still worked its way out of the back of her head, soaking into the carpet. Sokowski snorted a laugh at the thought of Mindy and his old man having something in common after all—the backs of their heads split open at the end of their sorry lives.
Sokowski looked over at Mindy’s phone and had a thought. Maybe he needed to stir the pot a little more. Make sure this thing looked like what he wanted it to look like.
He drank some more, then stood and dropped his cigarette into the sink. He searched through her kitchen drawers and finally found what he was looking for—a thin Yellow Pages book, dog-eared and dirty. Mindy had doodled a few flowers on the cover and written down a couple of phone numbers.
Probably some guys she’s been fucking.
Sokowski considered calling their sorry asses and finding out who the hell they were, but he wanted to stay focused on the task at hand. He’d deal with them later. He thumbed through the phone book and squinted at the names and numbers that were blurry spots of ink from the whiskey. He found the number he was searching for and reached for the old rotary phone and dialed a number. After a few rings, someone on the other end picked up.
“Hey, Bobby. It’s Mike. Is Johnny Knolls drinking tonight?”
“We’re closed, Mike.”
“Hell. I know that. But I figured that you hadn’t kicked Johnny out yet. So is he there or not?”
Bobby didn’t answer. Just banged the phone down on the bar and Sokowski waited and could hear the din of drinking and laughing on the other end of the line. After a long minute, a man got on the phone.
“Hey, Mike. What’s up?”
“Johnny. ’Fraid I got some bad news. Been an accident out here at Mindy’s. Might want to head out this way.”
Johnny asked a few questions, irritation in his voice. Sokowski said yes to a few things and reached for the bottle of whiskey.
“Best you come out and see for yourself. Gotta go. Sheriff will be here any second.”
He returned the phone to its cradle and decided to skip the glass and drink straight from the bottle. It bubbled a few times before he set it back on the counter.
Damn. Bladder’s full. Have to piss like a racehorse.
He stepped over Mindy’s body like she was a piece of furniture and made his way toward the bathroom.
