Art by James Kunkel
I woke up in a dark corn field, facedown in a puddle of my own stale vomit, holding hands with a dead man I’d never seen before.
–
It was near the end of summer—late August in the early two thousands—when I spotted a news item in the police blotter column of a local newspaper.
It told of a shoot-out between supposed gang rivals that had taken place at a nearby convenience store the previous Saturday afternoon.
According to the only witness available at the time, Mr. Patel–store owner and sole evening shift clerk–was being robbed at gunpoint by three young Black men when they were interrupted by a pair of unwitting customers who casually strolled in, talking amongst themselves as they headed to the rear of the store.
As Mr. Patel testified (and as the video footage apparently supported), the three would-be robbers then took up different positions around the store, and in a vain attempt at nonchalance, began studying random items with unyielding interest.
The relatively small store was now occupied almost to full capacity by the five customers and a clerk, but it was utterly silent. The oddness of the silence did not go unnoticed by one of the new interlopers.
The camera footage from aisle three shows him suddenly raising his head from the shelves crowded with Corn Nuts and pork skins, taking a long, slow look around the place.
He then proceeds to walk empty handed to the beverage cooler, where his partner is attempting to wrestle out two ice-cold cases of Bud Light. After speaking quickly and quietly to his comrade, who brings his fishing expedition to a sudden halt, they both draw pistols and move to the center of the aisle, where our connoisseur of sodium announces something to the effect of: “We ain’t looking for no trouble, so go on about your business, or, get the fuck out of the way!”
It was at about this time that the parking lot camera and an interior camera aimed at the entrance both picked up the image of a single figure skulking towards the entryway at an angle. He was hunched over and holding his left hand close to his leg. This new character to the story happens to be a friend of the two new, unsuspecting shoppers, who, along with their buddy in the car, thought that it was taking an unusually long time to buy beer and cigarettes. It was then decided that one of them should go check up on them.
It was while he was crossing the parking lot that he noticed three black guys inside as well, all looking to the back of the store. Out of concern for his homeboys, he drew his pistol and became stealthier.
Back inside, the three would-be robbers looked to one another after the new ultimatum and decided to voice their answer by drawing guns of their own. However, as (mis)fortune would have it, one of the hoodlums’ weapons fired as he drew, blow- ing a box of Nilla Wafers to smithereens, thereby dictating how this peaceful and easy score was going to end.
This unintended first shot led to a total of seventeen others, five of which came by way of the parking lot. The fate of the trigger happy robber was decided rather quickly, as he was shot three times where he stood through the plate glass window by the man out in the parking lot. The first robber to exit the store also suffered a gunshot wound at the hands of our gallant parking lot attendant, who shot him in the leg as he attempted to flee the scene. He dropped instantly, screeching like a stuck pig, his own gun skittering out of his reach as he flopped down to the sidewalk, .
Mr. Patel, the intended victim, put up his hands in surrender, then in a superb instance of fear and insight, hit the deck behind the check-out counter. It surely saved his own life; just behind where he was standing, two cartons of Kool Super Longs and a neon Miller High Life sign met the same fate as Mr. Itchy Trigger Finger. Sparks from the neon sigh lent the situation a certain Hollywood Special Effect for a brief moment, which happened to be commented on by the investigating detective during his initial interview. Everyone’s a critic.
Robber #3 managed to make a clean break, somehow avoiding being shot while hurdling over his fallen comrade, who was still splayed out on the sidewalk, hollering: “Tyrone! Man, help me up! Tyrone! Don’t leave me! Noooo!” To my knowledge, “Tyrone” was never arrested in connection for his participation in this matter, even though his wounded associate sung like canary after he was apprehended and hospitalized for his “catastrophic leg wound”.
Our attentive parking lot skulker-turned-hero kicked the perpetual sidewalk howler once in the head, instantly silencing him, while the two devoted shoppers exited the store carrying an unintended package: the body of the trigger man himself, which they unceremoniously dumped into the trunk of a “beige, late-model, nondescript four-door vehicle that was last seen leaving the area heading north on Court Street.”
The article went on to say that Mr. Patel, dedicated store owner and now a neighborhood icon, although grateful to the 3 unidentified men who foiled the armed robbery, was nevertheless upset by the damage done to his precious store. And, being the discreet, upstanding citizen that he is, he never commented on the fact that a man was shot to death inside of his fine establishment, or that the body was mysteriously hauled away by his chance saviors–the killers themselves.
This same fact had the investigators scratching their collective heads in dismay. Neighborhood scuttlebut failed to produce any useful information regarding the identities of the two shoppers, their man in the parking lot, or the getaway driver. Despite the airing of the security tapes, nobody came forward with any positive ID’s, although they did manage to elicit quite a bit of incriminating testimony from Jerome “Pookie” Hughes, the wounded beggar who was “left for dead” on the sidewalk after nearly having his “legs shot off” and then was “viciously attacked” as he bled-out on the sidewalk, his life flashing before his eyes (his own words). No one–not the detectives, not Mr. Patel, not Pookie–could fathom a guess as to why the killers-cum-heroes would leave the scene of a recorded homicide with the body of the victim. Basically: WTF?
This pretty much sums up the entire episode from the official perspective. I, however, learned more of this story on the following Monday, about one day after reading the article, when a close friend of mine called. He asked if I’d heard about the “adventures” four of our mutual friends had over the weekend at a liquor store near my parents house. My jaw hit the floor.
After telling him a little bit about the article, he told me to grab the paper and meet him at Prisco’s, a favorite bar we liked to hang out at. Little did I know that we’d be joined by two of the fortuitous liquor store patrons themselves.
To help make a long story shorter, I’ll skip the tedious BS and get right down to it. There was a specific purpose to our meeting that evening, and it was most definitely not the ice cold beer, though that did help. A lot. We were meeting to discuss plans for how, when, why, and to where “we” were going to move the body of the guy who was killed two nights previous. “We” of course meaning “Not Them.”
As it just so happened, the decision to take the body from the scene of the crime was made strictly in haste, without a shred of reasoning behind it whatsoever. And, lucky for me, this led to a new dilemma being laid squarely at MY feet: moving the body before the Fall Harvest, a month and a half away.
Sounds easy enough, right? WRONG!
The evident problems with this scenario mounted ever higher with every pitcher we downed. In all honesty, I kinda lost count after the seventh one. I can’t imagine why…
The first issue was the location of the body: in a corn field, between two houses, about 8 rows in from the road. Next was the fact that these geniuses had only had an ice scraper, an aluminum softball bat, and their bare hands to dig the impromptu grave with that night, so it was only two or three feet deep, max. This led to other possible (and probable) issues, such as scavenger animals like coyotes, stray dogs, and/or possums (do possums eat rancid meat?) digging at the ground to gain access to an easy meal, while also exposing the shallow grave to the elements of Nature, as well as to discovery by passing motorists, who could very easily notice the smell of something dead and rotting nearby. My buddies held on to the theory that any reasonable person would most likely attribute the smell to that of a dead dog. Or maybe something as large as a deer. (Or a freaking elephant! Have you ever smelled a rotten corpse before?)
Beyond all of this, my main questions were: who was gonna help me dig this dude up, and where were we gonna rebury him? I figured that we could hash out some of the finer details right here, over a few beers. It’s just the simple task of moving ONE dead body, right?
Well, yes and no. In their brilliance, diligence, and cool-headedness in digging a grave on the fly, two of our wannabe morticians inadvertently left behind some potentially incriminating evidence. I use the word ‘potentially’ here only because that was the word thrown at me during our discussion. It seems that our newly deceased friend was laid to rest with some personal effects that did not belong to him: a matte black Glock 15 semi-automatic pistol–hand loaded, so there were plenty of fingerprints–and, get this, a wallet.
Yes, a wallet. A black, fancy Italian Leather tri-fold wallet, conveniently stuffed to the gills with a valid drivers license, one Social Security card, a couple of credit cards, various business cards, family photos, $173 in cash, and a condom. The whole shebang, left right there, either in the grave itself, or in the immediate vicinity thereof, just waiting to be discovered by some unassuming, accidental archaeologist–or worse.
Speaking of worse, the gun in question was sought after for ballistics testing in multiple other shootings, and quite probably another homicide (or three), while the aforementioned wallet belonged to a known felon who was out on parole at the time, with restrictions placed on him as to who he could associate with. You can guess how many people in the bar that night were on the list of approved associates. So, I’m sure you can get our sense of the urgency here. Our little corner table in the dimly lit bar was damn near in complete panic mode. And the four of us were almost drunk enough to run off and do something even stupider.
Thankfully, Fate showed her presence, right on time, in the form of a totally unorthodox jukebox selection: ” Friends in Low Places” by the legendary Garth Brooks. An extremely odd choice, considering that we were in a cantina in a southern suburb of Chicago, but it worked nonetheless. All of us calmed down while we listened to this strange, out-of-place song. We also managed to somewhat reluctantly agree to think things through a bit more carefully after we sobered up. After all, I had a napkin with the scribbled notes I’d taken on it, including a half-assed description where the body was located. It was even marked with an “X” like a treasure map! So, it shouldn’t be any problem to take a drive out there, and, pulling over under the guise of having to take a leak, getting a quick look around for any obvious signs of a handgun or a wallet sitting out in the open, right? STRIKE THREE!
–
Oh, I found the area easily enough with the help of my napkin. But what my brilliant cohorts failed to mention (or notice?) was the fact that there was a farm house directly across the street, with what felt like twenty running loose around the property, just waiting to chase away any intruders who dared invade their hallowed sanctuary.
Enter: me.
Once I took notice of the dogs (there were actually only 3 of them), I noticed that the dogs had noticed me as well, so as they collectively gathered up a head of steam to charge at me, wildly barking their threats and insults, I downshifted into first gear and hammered the gas on my little Chevy S-10, ensuring that my untimely presence and premature evacuation were duly noted by anyone within a quarter mile of the targeted area. And in passing the next house on the right, two more mangy mutts were overly excited and impatiently awaiting their turn to add to the ruckus, canceling out any thoughts of returning to the scene anytime soon to have that oh-so-important look around.
There was no Plan B. My sole intentions were to get in and out of there, either with the missing items, or with the direct knowledge that they weren’t lying out in plain sight, thus giving me a little more time to plan out the exhumation and find a suitable reburial site. THAT was the plan.
Amongst my many travels, contemplating the dire situation I was currently in, I found the perfect place to move the body. I was also able to take my time digging out the plot–three weeks time, to be exact. It got so deep that I had to lower shipping pallets into the hole via a rope in order to get in and out. I wasn’t going to take ANY chances that this was going to have to be done again. It was a solo mission–too many chefs and all that. To this very day, only I (and a handful of earthworms) know where this body lies, and I’ll be taking this information to my own damn grave, thank you very much!
D-day arrives. Well, D-night really, but I’m sure you get the gist of it. Over the course of the last two days, I’d selected four different spade shovels and two rakes. My thoughts behind this were that if, for any reason, I was forced to leave the grave sight in an unexpected hurry, I’d leave the impression that multiple people were involved, throwing any potential pursuers off my trail, however briefly. (Take notes: criminal genius at work here. After all, I’m attempting to dig up and rebury a man someone else killed.) Fortunately, I didn’t have to fall back on this plan, as things went rather smoothly. At first.
I found a good place to pull off the road and hide my truck–next to an old, unused corn crib, about 300 yards from Ground Zero. I threw the four spades and two rakes over one shoulder, tucked two camouflage patterned tarps under the other arm, counted twenty rows over from the connecting road, and entered the corn field.
Slowly I moved forward, and every ten feet or so I veered into the next row, easing my way over until I was within a dozen yards of the dig site. Then, like Toucan Sam, I followed my nose until I literally stumbled upon the grave. I don’t think I have to describe the myriad (first time using THAT word!) clues that gave away the location, especially when you take into consideration that it was only two or three feet deep.
Not to mention, there were no less than five bored, overprotective mongrels living in the immediate area. These animals had taken it upon themselves to give me a head-start on the digging aspect, hence the highly noticeable, romantic fragrance of Eau de Carcass in the air.
I couldn’t clearly make out any semblance of particular body parts, leaving me to assume that the dogs hadn’t done as much digging and damage as I initially feared, though I was able to distinguish scraps of various articles of clothing, a wallet, and some dried out corn husks through the dirt. A wallet? Yes! I stuck three of the four spades in the ground around the mound and commenced digging.
No less than seven spade-fulls later I hit something solid enough to impede my progress, so I moved over about a foot to the left and repeated the process, until I could definitively see (not just smell) my ultimate goal. It was about this time that things stopped going so smoothly for me.
First, there was the overpowering smell. Then the sudden barking erupted, and the fear set in. (Okay, perhaps this is when I came to the realization that the fear was there the whole time. It just wasn’t as convincing before then.)
I swear, all these things seem to show up at the most inopportune times! Once I regained my courage, I continued to do what I originally set out to do. The fact that the barking never came any closer, or increased at all in volume or ferocity helped a bunch. Then I scored another bonus–while scraping around the body by hand (I had gloves on, by the way–thick, mismatched winter gloves that I found in my Mom’s coat closet), I found the missing gun. HAT TRICK!
Ah, but the Winds of Change quickly blew my way. (I say this only for the dramatic effect; there really wasn’t any breeze at all.) I positioned myself at the head of the corpse, fully intending to drag it out by the arms and onto one of the tarps I laid out. I could then roll it up like a burrito along with the tools, making it possible to tow everything together, down the rows and to my waiting truck. Then it would just be the simple matter of load-n-go. Or so I thought.
Silly me. Will I never learn?
This guy died wearing a long-sleeved shirt, right? About a month or so ago by now? Well, in the time intervening, multiple elements partook in the breaking down of all things organic. Things like cotton clothing. And skin. So when I grabbed his arms, just above the elbows, and pulled, both sleeves came off in my hands, causing me to fall back solidly on my ass.
Now, when I say both sleeves came off, I mean skin and all. They just sort of slid down, making this disgusting slurpy-squishy sound as his forearms slid off the bones, right down to his fingertips.
Here I was, holding on to this dudes… Stuff… When all of a sudden the putrid stench of decomposing flesh slapped me square in the face, fresh all over again, overwhelming my senses. I evacuated my stomach. Violently. Raaaalllfff! Cough! Cough! Gag! Repeat.
I finally passed out from a lack of oxygen, due to all the dry heaving.
I may have fainted. I don’t know. But I’m going to go with the more masculine vernacular.
When I came to, I was still in the corn field, lying in a puddle of puke, holding hands with a dead man I’d never seen before.
The End?
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