Killing Joe
Chapter 1
The old man wandered down towards the bridge with his fishing rod lying loosely over his shoulder. It was a beautiful autumn morning and he intended to spend it dangling his legs over the side of the bridge and not really hoping for the fish to bite.
His wife never understood that. She often commented on how odd it was for the old fisherman to never actually want to catch anything. But for him it wasn't the catching that was so attractive now, it was more just the time alone. Fishing was his respite from the real world, and – although he'd never tell her this, because he did dearly love his wife – his way to get out of the house for a couple of hours each morning.
So, filled with no more intention than just that, the old man trod up the gravel path and towards the small single lane bridge that crossed the Sheila River.
Not a big river by any stretch of imagination, the Sheila, however, was deep and well known amongst the locals for its heavy undertows and shifting river bottoms. Children were warned to stay away from the river from the time they were babes, but still, every couple of years or so, there was always a drowning.
'Not one of late,' the old man mused as the bridge came into sight. He thought about the last one and shook his head. It had been a sad tale – two young brothers had been rough-housing on the bridge deck, when one fell over. His body was never recovered…and neither had the family. They ended up leaving the small town, finding being so close to the Sheila River too much a reminder of what they had lost.
Hearing raised, angry voices, the old man slowed down, his nervousness increasing when he heard muttered curses and then the sound of flesh striking flesh – someone was fighting!
Breaking into a trot, the fisherman burst through the underbrush in time to see two young men engaged in a vicious battle on the bridge deck.
"Hey!" he shouted out as he saw the taller, dark-haired one wrap his hands around the other guy's throat, pinning him back against the feeble railing. They were kids really, he realized in shock, not more than eighteen or nineteen, at the most, he figured!
The dark-haired teen looked at him and the old man stopped in his tracks, their eyes locking briefly; the distraction allowed the other kid, a shorter blond male, to break the hold and shove the other away as he made a run for it.
Recovering quickly, the dark-haired kid grabbed the other boy's arm and while the old man watched in horror, he cocked back his fist, and landed a powerful blow on the blond youth's jaw.
The old man actually winced as he heard the sound of the crack; saw the blond teen's head snap back and then watched as the dark-haired boy grabbed the other guy and with one mighty shove, pushed him over the railing and into the swirling Sheila River!
"NOOO!" the old man shouted and then, dropping his fishing rod, turned and ran back towards town as fast as he could.
ooooooOOOOOOoooooo
Frank Hardy glanced at the old man's retreating form and then down into the water where his brother's body had disappeared. He waited for a few moments longer and then left the bridge, rubbing his sore hand as he did so. 'Damn, that hurt,' he grumbled to himself.
Casting one more look at the river, he jogged after the old man. He wanted to make sure the old guy didn't have a heart attack or something along the way….
ooooooOOOOOOoooooo
Sheriff Tom Oakes was just finishing his cup of coffee when a white-faced, gasping Walter Miller burst into his office.
"Sheriff," the old man gasped, "there's…been…a…killing!"
Immediately the tall red-haired man was on his feet. Grabbing the old townsman by the arm, he led the distraught figure to a chair, made him sit down and got him a cup of water.
After downing the water, Walter thanked him.
"What are you talking about, Walter?" Sheriff Oakes demanded as he stood in front of the old man, leaning back against the desk with his hands folded across his chest.
"When I went fishing this morning," the old man started, "like I always do, you know? Like everyone in Sheila Flats knows I do. I saw two young men fighting up on the bridge and then—" the old man stopped to gulp down another mouthful of water, "and then one of them pushed the other one over!"
Oakes straightened up, his face grim. He nodded at Walter as he moved to grab his coat. "Do you think you'd recognize the guy if you ever saw him again?"
"Oh yeah! Tall, dark haired! The devil looked me right in the face! Oooh…I'll be having nightmares about that one," Walter assured the other man as he got up to follow him out of the office.
The sheriff radioed his deputy to get a search party together. If they were lucky they'd find the body, but the red-haired man was not optimistic. The Sheila rarely gave up what she took.
ooooooOOOOOOoooooo
Frank saw the old man come out of the sheriff's office and let out a sigh of relief. Making sure he was seen, the eighteen-year-old walked slowly towards the small Sheila Flats diner. He'd get something to eat while he waited. There was no use running.
He'd rather not risk getting a bullet in the back.
ooooooOOOOOOoooooo
"That's him!" Walter squeaked as he grabbed Sheriff Oakes' arm and pointed towards the young man walking towards the diner.
The sheriff glanced at the suspect in surprise. He looked back at the old man. "Are you sure?"
"Yes sir," Walter stated resolutely and then he frowned, "Do you know him?"
"Not personally," Oakes admitted and then tipped his head at the old man. "Now, you wanna show me exactly where this happened?"
"You aren't going to just go and arrest him?" the old man asked in disbelief, "He might take off!"
"I doubt it," the sheriff said and then unlocked the door of his jeep. "Let's go, Walter."
Ten minutes later, Walter led the sheriff exactly to the spot where he had seen the dark-haired teen push his victim over.
Sheriff Oakes stared over the railing and into the murky water. He shook his head and then stepped back and looked around. Already two beat-up pickup trucks and a dozen men, many wearing checked thermal shirts, had responded to the call to search.
Catching the eye of his black-haired deputy, Sheriff Oakes called him over.
"I'm going back to town," he told the younger man, "You're in charge here." The deputy nodded and then went back down to the riverbed.
"Come on Walter, I'll drop you off at home. Deputy Parsons will be by in a bit to take your statement. " The sheriff was already walking back towards his jeep.
"What about the kid? You aren't going to just let him get away with this, are you?" the old man demanded as he sat in the passenger seat and buckled up.
"Nope," Oakes said and then started the jeep and pulled away.
Frank had just scooped the ice cube out of his glass of water and ran it across his bruised knuckles when he saw a big, red-haired uniformed man come into the diner, look around and then approach him. He already knew who the man was and had been expecting him.
The man sat down in the chair across the table from him without saying anything. He waited a moment and then said, "I'm Sheriff Oakes. Local law in Sheila Flats." He added, "You want to tell me where your brother is?"
"Who?" Frank feigned innocence.
"You know who," Oakes said, his voice cool but curt, "I make it my business to know everything that goes on in my town. Including about the two hot shot young brothers who've come in, looking for a good time at a cheap price. Now where is he?"
Glancing around the diner, Frank then sat back in the chair, "Not here."
"I can see that, you wise-ass," the sheriff said.
"Than why'd you ask?" the teen pressed.
"Why?" Oakes leaned across the table towards him. "Because I was hoping that maybe you had a better explanation for him not being here than the one given to me by one of the local boys. A witness, if you'd prefer….A witness who claims you were fighting with your brother up on Sheila Bridge and tossed him into the drink. I guess I was wrong, though, wasn't I?"
"I guess so," Frank grit out.
The sheriff stood up and then motioned for Frank to stand. The youth complied and then turned around and put his hands behind his back when he saw the handcuffs dangling from the man's hand.
He winced as the cuffs were snapped around his wrists and then the sheriff stated, loudly, "Frank Hardy you are under arrest for the murder of your brother, Joseph Hardy."
Frank never said anything. There was no point. The sheriff had a witness.
And then without further ado, Oakes read him his rights as he led him from the diner.
"You get one phone call," the sheriff told him, and Frank nodded.
"Good, 'cause I want to call my father."
Sheriff Oakes nodded. He had been expecting that….