Dead of December

I walked into the bar and tried not to grimace at the smell. It was almost like the beginning of a bad joke; a detective walks into a bar... says the wrong thing and gets his ass handed to him by the locals.

I'd already spent a week in the town trying to piece together what had happened, and I was no closer to getting solid answers than when I started. I hit roadblock after roadblock, and I figured out pretty quickly that the locals didn't like to talk, even if a man was missing. His brother reported him two weeks ago, and when the local Sheriff couldn't turn up anything, I was sent into the hellish rabbit hole of small town politics. But no one wanted to talk. Not one.

The bar was nearly empty, as it was almost noon and in the dead of December, but a large man snoozed in a booth in the corner. My sights were immediately set on the bartender, who was also the owner and, if you believed the rumours, a witch.

Sabine had her back to me. She was in her late sixties, portly, with long, stringy grey hair. I continued to the bar itself and tapped on the counter. Her spine stiffened, and I could tell she already knew who I was.

"In a minute," Sabine barked, still with her back turned.

She slapped her books shut, shoving them under the counter, and then tottered to the back kitchen. Bad right knee. Old injury from a fall, I had to guess. She was gone for a minute, and I took the time to examine the bar. Carpet worn and faded. Peeling wallpaper. Bar stools chipped and cracked and creaking. Booths with torn fake leather. Ice gathering on the insides of the windows and doors.

It was rough, just like the locals, and it showed its wear with unapologetic candour. Sabine returned and I got a good look at the woman. She, too, was weathered and torn, like an old alley cat who had seen a dozen too many fights.

"Who are you?" She declared loudly, far too loudly, as if there was a lively crowd around us instead of the paltry company.

"You know who I am, Sabine."

I showed her my badge just for formality's sake, but she didn't move her gaze from my eyes.

"I got nothin' to say to you," she said, keeping her volume consistent. I doubted she had anyone hiding and listening, and maybe it was intended to jar me, to establish her dominance.

You are not welcome, city trash.

Get off my property, pig.

"Well, can I order something, then? The coffee at the motel is horse piss," I replied in an appropriate volume, digging out my wallet.

She studied me for a second, debating whether or not to outright kick my city ass to the curb, but faltered when she saw I had cash.

"Coffee? Or do I have to make you breakfast, too?" She asked, her tone coming down a notch.

"Just coffee would be lovely," I replied, giving her a hint of a smile, which she returned with a sneer.

She made my coffee and poured it into a chipped mug, because every single item in the bar had some level of damage, and made a beeline for the kitchen.

"Ted Greaves told me you were a pageant queen at one point," I said, and she stopped dead in her tracks, sighing heavily. I heard her eyes roll.

"Ted Greaves doesn't know his head from his ass," she replied.

I downed the coffee, and it burned my throat, but I immediately asked for another.

She saw what I was doing, keeping her engaged, but didn't argue. Her lips set in a tight line, she poured me another cup.

I had a strange talent for being able to talk and drink obscene amounts of coffee at the same time. My superior officer once told me that my kidneys would blow out my back one day.

"I guess that was a long time ago, those beauty pageants, but I still see it," I said, and she rolled her eyes again. Shameless flattery. I don't even try to hide it.

She set the carafe of coffee at my elbow and turned to leave again.

"Can I ask you a question? As a paying customer of your establishment?" I prodded.

Her jaw worked. "What?"

"Can you tell me about that pond you've got in the back?" I gestured vaguely towards the back of the bar. I glimpsed the pond in snippets, catching sight of it here and there.

"What is there to tell?" Sabine shrugged noncommittally.

"Who owns the land?"

"I do."

"So it's private property?"

"Yes, detective," Sabine snipped, as if the word detective was a carefully chosen slur.

"Anyone ever fall in?"

"A stupid kid every now and then. I know where you're going with this, detective. I'm not talkin' to you about Sam."

"I didn't say anything about Sam. I just was curious about your pond."

Sam was the missing man.

"You want to know if Sam fell in, right?" She asked.

I shrugged noncommittally. "Is the pond good for skating on?"

"No. The ice isn't thick enough."

"Hmm. I thought a nice pond like that would be good for the local kids. Skating, hockey, all that stuff."

"I just said. Ice isn't thick enough. You deaf, detective?"

"Nope. Just dumb."

I poured myself another cup of coffee. And emptied the carafe. I wiggled it at her and she snatched it out of my hand.

"Can I have another cup?" I inquired.

"You got one in front of you."

"I'd like another after this one."

"I charge by the cup."

I looked her dead in the eye. "I'd like another one."

It wasn't a request. I knew she was about six seconds away from either kicking me out or hexing me, but she went off into the kitchen to make another pot.

"Maybe I'll tell you what I learned about Sam," I hollered. I heard the tap run, and the grounds shake.

"57, not married, no kids. Lived with his brother Marvin. 54, also not married, also no kids. The only thing I could gather was that they were both antisocial. But Sam was one nasty sonofabitch. Assaulted a few women here, right?" I tapped in the bar top. I heard the coffee maker rumble and cupboard doors open and close.

"I read the Sheriff's reports, Sabine. You kicked him out a handful of times, right? But I bet those were the only times the Sheriff was called out. I bet you threw him out more than that. Way more than that."

Sabine, unable to avoid me any longer, wandered back to the bar. If looks could kill, I would have been curb-stomped straight to hell.

"No one gives a shit that he's gone," Sabine said. "I bet you already know that."

That is the one thing that everyone I tried talking to agreed on; Sam was gone, and that was a good thing.

"I gathered. Pain in the ass, right? I've seen that type before. A lot, actually. Just all-around assholes with nothing to do and don't have charges that stick. Am I right?" I said.

The twitch in her lip, the twist of her grimace, told me that I was not wrong.

"So a bunch of residents just clam up when he's gone because they're glad he's gone and took all his bullshit with him,” I surmised.

It’s good that he’s gone.

No one will miss that asshole, except his brother.

"Sam was a monster," Sabine said with pure venom. She had experience with him. More than just a bartender throwing out a rowdy patron. More than a nuisance.

I nodded, then tapped my cup. "Got any more?"

She said nothing more to me, but trundled back to the kitchen to retrieve the carafe. What I'd worked out in my head would frustrate any detective, regardless of whether or not they were from a small town. I quickly figured out that small towns are a lot like enmeshed, dysfunctional families. One could commit some horrible crime against an even more horrible person and no one would bat an eye. No one would talk. There was a thing that needed to be taken care of, and it was taken care of, and everyone would ensure that it would continue to be taken care of. Including hiding a body under the ice of a frozen pond.

There was no way I'd ever be able to prove it. Even if I went back after the thaw, the body would be long gone. Cleaned up in the dead of night when no one saw anything about anything. Didn't hear anything, either. Clamped down and locked tight.

My own conjecture would not be enough for probable cause. I would never get a warrant to search the pond. Marvin, Sam’s brother, would die of a heart attack within the year, and with him, any inquiry into Sam’s disappearance. I would file the case away to be forgotten.

I finished my coffee. I paid Sabine. I left. I caught another glimpse of the pond behind the bar, a pristine sheet of white with one wrinkle, one flaw, one solitary crack that had already frozen over.