Chapter 6
Approaching town, we passed an old weathered wooden sign proclaiming, WELCOME TO WILLOW RUN, FOUNDED 1890, POPULATION 2395. The main road was lined by a mixture of old wooden structures with saggy roofs probably pushing 100 years or more in age, some not quite so old brick buildings, and a few more modern glass and steel store fronts. Nothing was taller than two stories. Whether intentional or not, it afforded all the buildings a nearly unobstructed view of the surrounding tree-covered hills. There were a few side streets, which appeared to be lined with small single-family homes. The roads on the south side of town were short, ending after a couple of blocks where they intersected a creek. The roads on the north side of town extended further, rising upward toward a forested hillside. A few rustic houses, A-frames, and log cabins poked out of the trees.
We cruised past a feed supply store, post office, Teton County Observer newspaper office, and general store. It appeared to be a nice quiet girl-next-door kind of town. I was pleased to note their public library remained open. Libraries had become heavily used during the recession as a source of free entertainment: books, CDs, DVDs, magazines, newspapers, even time surfing the Internet. They were a favorite of mine, providing a brief escape from living in my car. But even though libraries are heavily used, their funding was often one of the first to be cut in the recession. This library had somehow survived.
Yet Willow Run also seemed to be a town hit hard by the recession. A closed movie theater and several empty storefronts lined the main street. I wondered what businesses some of them had housed. Any signs identifying the previous occupants had been removed. These closed stores also suggested that the population figure on the Willow Run welcoming sign was probably wrong. When things are bad, people move on, populations shift, and towns wither.
Near what appeared to be the center of town was a small square plot of ground with a pole bearing the American flag. Behind that stood a small brick building with a sign over the front door. It read Willow Run Administration Center. Deputy Powell pulled into a gravel parking lot in back where I noted a rectangular plaque with Police Department printed on it.
The Deputy ushered me through a door and into the small dimly lit office. Straight ahead was a counter. Behind it was a swivel chair and desk topped with a computer, printer, and fax machine. A locked gun rack filled the wall above, and beyond that was a door leading presumably to a bathroom in the back or a connector to the front of the building. A wooden name tent on the desk read Sheriff Rex Tyler on top and Deputy Enid Powell below. To the left was a single cell. To the right was a small room, a walled cubicle, containing a table with telephone and two chairs. A small town and a small budget, with little in the way of amenities.
He steered me into the cell, closed and locked the door, and then reached through the bars to remove my handcuffs. After their removal, I brought my arms in front of me and kept my back to him so he could not see me rub my wrists to restore circulation to my hands. He had clamped the cuffs tighter than was comfortable, but I didn’t want him to know that it had affected me in the least.
The windowless cell was bare bones. Painted white walls, a metal bunk bolted to the wall and floor. The bunk held a narrow mattress, blanket, and pillow. No sink, no toilet, no mirror. Just a box with a bed.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not officially,” he said calmly. The ride into town had quieted his anger. Then a few beats later he added, “At least not yet. I’ll call the Sheriff for our chat. You just sit tight.”
“If you keep me too long, I’m going to want my phone call and a lawyer.”
He huffed and grimaced at me tightly. He seemed unmoved. But I figured even in a town this small, there had to be at least one lawyer who could serve as legal representative, and probably for a lot less than the going rate in even a conservative city like Cincinnati.
Deputy Powell went into the enclosed cubicle and shut the door. Through the glass window in the upper half of the door, I saw him open each pocket of my backpack, examine the contents, and pull items out for a closer look. There was nothing in the pack that concerned me. Then he talked on the phone. He made several calls, some of which seemed to include sharing information he retrieved from my wallet, cell phone, and motel key. He came out a couple of times and banged on the computer. Probably more checking on me, my keys, my car, my life.
I lay back on the bunk and thought more about my situation. I chastised myself, again. If I had ignored the urge to investigate the crime scene, the body would still have been there, and all of this would not be happening. If I had stayed near the body waiting for the Deputy to arrive, Enid Powell would be trying to identify him, determine why he was out there, and securing the scene to find out what happened.
Instead, the Deputy did not even believe there was a body. To him, it was just someone who fell down, got up, and walked away. Someone, who in spite of my incompetence, had survived to get into his vehicle, drive away, and re-enter his life.
But the guy couldn’t re-enter his life. He was dead. I checked for a pulse on his wrist, though that effort was pretty superficial. Why didn’t I put two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse in the carotid artery? That was a more reliable method than the wrist. But I knew he was dead. There were the opened lifeless eyes, the flies, the vulture, the putrid smell. They all told me he was dead and had been dead for hours. There was no reason to be thorough in checking for a pulse.
He was running out of the woods and went off the cliff. An accident. It must have been dark so he didn’t see the drop off. Went airborne and died. But why was he running? What was he running from?
No matter. He went off the cliff. A few hours later I found the corpse because of my curiosity about all those buzzing flies. If I’d just walked on by, I would now be back at my motel room enjoying something cold to drink, waiting to watch the sun settle over the mountains for the night.
The guy with the rifle was troubling. While he didn’t really threaten me directly, it was unnerving to realize I was out there alone and unarmed, with someone aiming a gun at me. I could have easily been shot and joined the dead guy on the ground.
I lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tumbling through my mind. I finally relaxed, the rush of today’s events draining away, and eventually dozed off.