Ollie smoothed his uniform shirt as he declined our request for Spiesz’s location. He reminded Tony that professionalism prevented a casual release of such information. 

Tony and I shared our suspicions and the need to confront Spiesz about his life of destitution and slavery following his tormented childhood in Eureka. Tony cajoled Ollie with stories of harrowing detective work, of shots fired and bullets bitten. My friend even lifted his shirt, exposing the ragged scar line where a bullet had ripped him open during a previous adventure in detection.

Officer Ollie agreed to scare up a deputy on the radio.

Tony and I gave each other pug-faced smiles of satisfaction. It was a great plan that would make our job much easier.

Only, Deputy Spiesz never answered.

“Weird,” Ollie said, his generous expression transforming into a confused frown. “He’ll answer the radio if he’s on the toilet. Makes no sense.” 

“Proves my suspicions,” I said.

Ollie grimaced. “He was headed out on Tobacco Road, checking on an absentee witness for Judge Markowicz. He’s got to be down that way, somewhere.”

Tony and I climbed into the Tacoma and followed Officer Ollie Gerulis’s directions. The high beams cut a swath ahead of us on the southbound traffic artery. Trees lined both sides of the road, adding degrees of ambiguity to the mountain world.

“Dark out there,” I said.

“Too dark,” said Tony.

We both sniggered. The false humor coagulated like jello. Anticipation for the intense “come to Jesus” conversation blistered beneath my skin, crackling like electricity. I was a Tesla coil charged to deliver my message of righteous indignation. 

“Damn his trickery.” I growled for emphasis.

Tony harrumphed. “Can’t imagine nobody ever questioned his background? How did he get around the vetting process?”

“He was probably vetted by his mysterious patron.”

“If the guy actually exists,” Tony said with a snort. “We need to be more worried about how smart is he really? It must have taken an act of genius to pull off the dumbest cop since Barney Fife.”

My Tacoma lumbered along the two lane road like a wounded animal, high beams creating a narrow path of light, while the rhythmic purr of the engine echoed in the quiet. Thick timber along the edges formed a corridor of blackness. Hairs on the back of my neck played against my shirt collar. The speedometer had dropped by five miles per hour. 

I willed my foot to accelerate back from a paranoid creep to cautiously slow. 

We eased along Tobacco Road until we found Spiesz as expected.

Well, almost as expected. He was on the road all right. He was also very dead. 

I choked back a gasp. 

Tony shared a rare expletive.

From inside the cab of the truck, it appeared he’d been run over by his own cruiser.

“Don’t look good,” Tony muttered, hopping out of the pickup at a run to check on the inanimate deputy.

I moved cautiously, captivated by the horrific irony.

Stan Spiesz supported the full weight of the right front tire of his Ford Expedition Special Service Vehicle with his chest. His eyes and mouth were wide open.

Tony kneeled beside the body. “He is definitely as dead as he looks.” The churning of his jawline indicated he was having a difficult time of it. “It’s the attire gets me, Connor. Burns to see a uniformed lawman put down on a duty call.”

“How does that even happen?” I asked, with a breathless quality. My anatomy had recently been wrought with pain, probably by this man. Viewing the weight of a full grown SUV on Spiesz’s chest made those aches flare to their vibrant best.

“He always acted kind of stupid.” Tony squatted to examine the ground around the corpse. “Maybe he was reading sign and the cruiser rolled forward.”

I pointed at the asphalt. “On level pavement? Seems unlikely.”

“Yeah.” An angry fist thumped his knee. “Just want a natural answer to make this more palatable, dammit.”

I went to the driver’s side and peeked into the cab through the open window. “Doors all closed. Shift lever in Park, keys on the seat,” I observed aloud. The interior smelled clean and fresh, with a hint of floral perfume. An odd thing juxtaposed with the odor of death beyond its confines. “Guy sure kept his vehicle high and tight.”

Tony straightened again, made his way to the roadside to inspect the shoulder. He snorted like an elk looking for a fight. “We best move back, Connor,” he said, regaining some of his composure. “Got a couple of tracks heading into the woods. Forensic team might be able to find something.”

I tiptoed back to my truck. Somehow, being more careful elicited a greater number of aches and sharp stabs in my body. I grabbed the Nokia off the dash.

Tony climbed in beside me. “I can make the call if you’d like,” he said, eyes fixated on the dead deputy.

I pushed the keypad buttons and let their chirpy tones answer his question.

“Ollie?” I said. “Best get Sheriff de Lude out here. We found Deputy Spiesz dead, out on Tobacco Road.” I paused a second while the party on the other end sucked a deep breath. “Just past Forest Highway 668 ‘bout two miles south of town.”

“I know where it is,” Officer Ollie bleated after a surprised curse. “I’ll get the Sheriff over there lickety.” His voice quavered with alarm, but he stayed on task. “And the Doc. You guys sit tight.”

“Sure enough,” I said, feeling as emotionally unstable as Ollie sounded. “We’ll just sit here and direct traffic around the scene.”

“Don’t touch anything,” he said in a shaky tone.

“Got it.” I clicked off the line, and turned to Tony who continued to stare at Spiesz. “Didn’t expect Ollie to break like he did.”

“It’s an odd thing,” my friend said, almost like he was talking to the corpse. “When a cop is killed, dirty or not, the world tips off its axis. Chaos looms on the horizon. Order, doubled over and wheezing.”

I wanted to reach out, grab his shoulder, squeeze reassurance into him. It pained me at a much deeper level than the bruises and contusions I’d suffered to see my secret hero distraught. I patted the seat beside him. The best help I could give was to focus on solving the crime. 

“This muddies the waters,” I said. With my prime suspect dead, the conceptualization for the crimes whirled into madness. “I was pretty sure he was the guy, Tony. But here he is all dead and screwing up my theory. Who could have killed him?”

“I’m with you.” He took a long breath, and turned toward me. Determination burned in his coffee-colored eyes. “Made a lot of sense with the big secret he was keeping.”

With a grimace and nod, I said, “This is getting crazier by the hour. Spiesz had to be a part of the trafficking ring.”

“Or maybe he was on to someone,” Tony countered.

“If this deputy was killed because some yahoo figured out his trafficking gig, then took the law into his or her own hands, that is a wild card. Convolutes the hell out of things.”

Tony chimed in for law enforcement. “Or what he learned and planned to share with the Sheriff got him iced.”

I rocked my head from side to side. “There’s a small chance he was working for the good guys, I’ll give you that. It’s all the secrets and intrigue he’d got into that I struggle to make into a good guy theory. And there’s the mystery client as well. Never did get a meet up with that character.”

Tony pursed his lips. “Don’t forget the ninja who threatened you and beat you up.”

“I’m trying to put that out of sight, Tony. It attracts nightmares. Anyways, I’d come to believe it was Spiesz. Part of my disintegrating theory.”

“Could have been Spiesz,” Tony agreed. “Crazy tends to put you in the light of an oncoming train. Specifically one that hits you with a shit ton of more crazy.” He held up a spread of fingers and ticked off a list. “If not him, though, we get a passel full of suspects. Officer Ollie Gerulis, Doc Myrtle Gibbons, Lorna Peale, Derek Cooley, the obvious Sheriff de Lude—everyone except Renée.”

“Being in jail has its advantage,” I agreed. “Jenkins has to be at the top of that list. He’s out there somewhere and damned mad that he missed a big payday. Might have been trying to force money out of Spiesz.”

“You should be a detective, bro. I’d completely forgotten that anarchist goofball.”

“It’s what happens when an artistic librarian inflates your ego.”

He chuckled. It warmed me to hear his grip on optimism restored.

We waited silently for the Sheriff, each ruminating on the meaning of life as we understood it. My thoughts revolved around my stupidity. How could I have been so blind? So easily manipulated? I was supposed to be an intelligent man, capable of critical thinking and deductive reasoning. Now Spiesz lay dead in the road, very probably a victim of his own arrogance, and incapable of answering any of my questions. 

Renée might get out of jail, but I was still losing the family business if I didn’t get back with a wad of cash. I’d missed my court date. The Miles City Chief of Police would love to have that hanging over my head. Nansi would have more evidence that I was a selfish son of a selfish son. She might just use it to pack her bags for Minnesota and a permanent vacation with her family of origin. 

All of this so I could prove I was a better mother than Mother. If Sheriff de Lude did not let Renée out of jail immediately, that maternal argument wouldn’t even get airtime. A little girl lost her father and I didn’t protect my sister. Mother wins by a length. 

Everything going forward hinged on de Lude’s decision to let my sister go.

“I should have known better,” I heard myself tell the windshield.

“Are we talking about the same Connor Pierce?” Tony asked. His smirk had a flavor of wisdom. “Because that guy keeps going even when he knows better.”

It was the inducement I needed to break free of the self-deprecating funk.  I acknowledged this with a resolute grin. “That’s me alright. Only this time, it’s gonna hurt.”

“The right thing always hurts,” my friend reminded.

His words rang true. I wished he could also tell me by what means it would hurt. That answer rarely came ahead of the climactic outcome. 

But it would come. I’d pushed the metaphorical barrel to the crest of the hill, climbed in, and gave it a kick to start it rolling. The tumbler tumbled at a maddening rate with no sign of slowing. It was a statistical certainty that I would collide with a boulder and blow into a million pieces. 

The only question remaining, was how soon would this collision occur?