It only took fifteen minutes for him to figure it out. I hate to admit when I’m wrong. The problem germinated with the gestation cycle of a lab rat. Discovery stormed out of the barn like a horse escaping fire. Success, sweet success blossomed on the face of the investigator. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the circuit. Watching him stumble over himself trying to exhibit intelligence was like plugging a 110 volt lamp into a 220 volt outlet. I thought he was going to explode with overwrought energy.
“I figured it out; poor slob you didn’t have a chance.” He blabbered. I let him talk. What was I going to do?
The problem stemmed from a broken tie rod. I hoped that would be the revelation that would halt the investigation. “Success, sweet success was difficult to corral. Police investigators in this Podunk town weren’t motivated to turn over every stone. If the rat was discovered under the first rock, there was not need to find the balance of the family.
He continued to dig. I watched, handcuffed to the workbench. I tried not to focus on the pain in my wrists. Detective Arthur Whitfield caught me by surprise. He gloated as he watched me put the bracelets on my wrists; his .38 pressed into my left temple. The detective was about as crazy as a neurotic cat. He would have pulled the trigger except writing up the death, along with the discharge of a weapon was about three times as voluminous as an arrest.
“That tie rod was broken for a while.” I tried to deflect his sudden interest in finding Waldo.
“That’s not what I’m looking for scumbag.” Whitfield said.
“You’re wasting your time my man.” I replied. Whitfield looked over without replying.
“Johnny, run your light over those lines.” Whitfield pointed the mechanic to the power steering and brake lines. Johnny McCain was an acquaintance who handled my mechanical problems. He wasn’t Einstein except when it came to cars. I whistled a Van Morrison tune hoping Johnny would remember the last time we heard that song. He paused, looked over at me and smiled. He got the message.
Whitfield studied the exterior of the car hoping the answer would appear. The only message the exterior would send was “did anybody get the name of that can opener?” the right front quarter panel was mangled; the passenger front door was crushed; the window blown out. Fragments of glass littered the front seats.
We disposed of the body several hours before the police found us. Johnny buried it on his farm. This was going to be a crime scene without a victim. I liked the way that sounded.
“Ah, the fluids on these brake lines are only partially dry.” Whitfield said as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The Cheshire cat smile made me want to hurt him. Johnny ran his light over the hoses.
“Let me check the fluid levels. If there’s a lot of fluid in the reservoir then that fluid is from the accident.” Johnny spoke with conviction. The hood of the car was twisted; bent up in an awkward fold from the passenger side. Johnny pressed the release valve. The lift lowered. Whitfield was preoccupied; he did not realize the lift was moving until the he felt the weight of the machine pressing against the top of his five foot two inch frame.
“What the hell…” The detective ducked and scrambled. His rear foot slipped on the greasy floor under the lift, causing him to stumble forward. His groin muscle popped shooting pain down his leg and freezing him in a half bent position. “Stop the lift, stop the lift!” he called. The mechanic watched as the detective folded under the weight of the vehicle snapping his back.
When the groaning stopped McCain grabbed a bolt cutter and snapped the chain connecting the handcuffs. I watched as he grabbed a hack saw and a screw driver. Leading me to a stationary vice grip he locked a corner of the bracelet on my left wrist. Before he began sawing he closed the garage door and locked the entrance to the customer area of his shop.
Fifteen minutes later my wrists were freed. Grabbing a pry bar and pulling tools we ripped the covers from the rear seats and extracted the tightly packed kilos of uncut heroin. Johnny and I had been planning the run from Mexico for months. An untimely collision with a preoccupied driver wrecked the car. The detective tracked me down. He figured he had me on an insurance scam. He had no idea. Johnny was impatient. He feared the car would be impounded. He had his life savings invested in the kilos of raw dope harvested from the vehicle.
The lift rose as I looked on. They approached the broken body, twisted and bent unnaturally. Johnny wheeled a creeper over.
“Help me lift him.” I hesitated before engaging.
“You got gloves or something?” I asked. Johnny flashed his grease blackened hands.
“You think I wear gloves?” He asked. I didn’t bite on the rhetorical question. We strained to get the corpse onto the low slung mobile sled.
“Where are we taking him?” A bolt of ice shot up my back as I realized I was handling a dead body. Johnny tugged his head.
“I got a chroming shop next door. We’ll drop him in.” My face twisted into a question. “Acid; you get it now?” Johnny shook his head as if I should have known. Across the threshold and into the room with the sinister vats the chemical fragrance struck me like smelling salts.
Three hours later, after Johnny had pulled and replaced the vehicle identification numbers in every place they were displayed and hidden we returned to the chroming room. Detective Whitfield had dissolved. I wretched again; my stomach empty from hurling several times after watching the body sink into its final bath.
