Bootleg Freight

“Well, Billy, I can just ‘up and disappear.’ I’ve done it before and I intend to do it again. But before I get into that and make my proposal to you, let me describe what I have been doing during the last five hours in addition to making Jud’s burial arrangements.”

Isaac called an old country lawyer in Somerset whom he knew to be reliable. If he was annoyed by the early hour of the call he didn’t allow it to show; quite the opposite in fact when he learned of the fees he stood to collect.

The old country lawyer was in good stead with an auctioning agency equipped to handle farm and estate sales and he agreed to contact the agency as soon as they were available that morning.

The items available for immediate auction were Isaac’s house, barn, assorted buildings and equipment, including the Ford coupe and the entire one hundred sixty acres it all rested on.

Proceeds of the sale were to be forwarded to another, not so country, lawyer in Louisville who had the ability to transfer the funds to an out of state account designated by Isaac.

A man in Georgetown was called next. This man had shown a strong interest in Isaac’s horses over the past year, particularly the two Thoroughbreds in his stable. Isaac made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The rancher promised to be there at four o’clock with cash for both Thoroughbreds and the three Arabians.

He next contacted all of his truck drivers with the exception of Billy and a driver currently unloading in Indiana who was due to return early afternoon. He informed each of them that he regretted having to terminate their employment. He told them they could come by and collect whatever was owed to them in full. He also told them they were free to keep their assigned tractor and trailer and become independent truckers if they chose to do so. He would sign the titles over free and clear and give them recommendations to his current customers. He knew one of them would be going full blown outlaw but that would be his choice.

Isaac’s final telephone call was to yet another attorney, this one in Roanoke, Virginia. He informed him he would be taking residence soon in his home remotely tucked away in the Shenandoah mountains.

Isaac gave Billy recap of his morning, omitting the location of his hideaway for the time being.

“How many took the truck?” Billy asked.

“Everyone except Simmons. He said he was going to work for his father-in-law where his wife has been wanting him to work all along. It pays less but he will be home every night and keep peace in the family. Something to be said for that.

“What I have to offer you is confidential. It doesn’t go beyond this porch. I trusted you with my life yesterday but I still have to make sure we are clear on this,” Isaac told him.

“Yes, sir, of course.”

Isaac picked up an unmarked business sized manila envelope, bound with a thick cord, from the smooth plank floor at his feet. He held it loosely in his hands as he offered Billy his proposal.

“To put it simply, I want you to come with me. I need a good man and you’ve admitted you have nothing to hold you back, no one to miss you. I have Samson, of course, but he’s not as versatile as I would like. Besides, he doesn’t exactly blend in to a crowd, which is sometimes necessary in certain types of work.

“I’ll pay you well. You’ve proven to have the skills I need and I will teach you more as we go along. You will be paid well, along with meals and a roof over your head.”
Isaac paused to let that sink in before handing Billy the envelope.

“If you would rather not go with me, the Diamond Reo and the trailer are yours. The envelope is yours regardless of what you decide. You’ve earned it.”

Billy untied the cord securing the flap of the envelope. He couldn’t hide his astonishment as he peered inside. He had seen hundred dollar bills before, but never that many at once, not even delivering a COD load of hot whiskey. The stack of bills was tightly wound with a rubber band and he didn’t need to count it to know it was more than he would have expected to earn at one time in this lifetime.

“I don’t know what to say, boss.”

“Just say yes.”

And thus a partnership was born.

 

Me and the '58 Biscayne in western New York

 

SEVEN



Steve Whalen was enjoying the view from his back deck while drinking his second cup of coffee when his cell phone rang at exactly eight-thirty Saturday morning and spooked the white tail doe a mere fifty feet from where he sat. He no longer wondered how he might spend his day, for the weekend dispatcher wouldn’t be calling him for an idle chat.

“Detective Whalen here,” Steve answered.

“Mornin’ Steve. I hate calling you at home on Saturday but this sounds like it could be bad,” Shawna said. She was a part time dispatcher with the Hatchet County Sheriff’s Department.

“Don’t ever hesitate to call me, Shawna. What’s going on?”

“Willy Davis is over at the Interstate Plaza and there’s a dead guy in a truck.”

“Interstate Plaza?”

“You know, that little shopping center on 224 out by the interstate, has a Dairy Queen out front?”

“Huh, long as I been here I never knew it had a name.”

“Most people don’t. Anyway, Willy is pretty much freaking out and I figured you would be interested.”

“Yes, I am, Shawna. Did he give you a description on the truck?”

“He just said it was a big eighteen wheeler and the guy was dead behind the wheel. Oh, and he said he was already interviewing somebody.”

“I’m on the way over there, ETA ten minutes. Get Willy on the radio and tell him to not let anybody leave the scene and for God’s sake don’t let anybody touch anything.”

Steve didn’t bother with lights or siren for the twelve mile drive through the countryside from his cabin to Interstate Plaza for traffic was light to nonexistent, as it was most any other day of the week.

As he slowed for the right turn into the plaza, Steve caught a glimpse in his side mirror of a black and white Kentucky State Police cruiser coming off the interstate exit ramp behind him.

When Steve parked next to his deputy’s squad car the state car pulled in on his other side. He was pleased to see the man behind the wheel was one he knew and respected. Sergeant Oscar Hicks was a veteran law man who could very well be an asset here for Steve wasn’t the type to shy away from a helping hand when it was offered.

“Mornin, Sarge,” Steve said over the roof of his Mustang as the six feet, five inch Kentucky native unfolded from his vehicle.

“Howdy, Steve. I picked up the radio transmission and figured you wouldn’t mind if I dropped by to take a gander.”

“No, sir, don’t mind a bit. Let’s go and see what my deputy has uncovered over here,” Steve said, motioning to where Willy Davis, note pad and pen in hand, was talking to two overall clad men who were presumably the operators of the garbage truck that was nosed up to the red Freightliner with the apparently deceased driver slumped back against the door glass at an awkward angle.

“Are these your witnesses, Willy?” Steve asked, as he and Oscar approached the men standing by the garbage truck.

“Yes, sir. They said…well, be better if they just told you what they just told me.”

“My name is Steve Whalen and I’m the homicide investigator for Hatchet county and I’m going to be recording this conversation. Just letting y’all know,” he told them, displaying the small recorder he had withdrawn from his pocket.

“Well, go ahead,” Steve prompted, for the pair of sanitation workers just stared at him.

The one with Jimbo sewn above his shirt pocket began speaking. “We don’t normally collect on Saturdays but we had a truck broke down yesterday and had to make up on some stops that got missed. When we got here it was about eight-fifteen so we was already runnin’ late when we seen this rig blocking the dumpster.

“At first I thought he was just getting a little nap, so I told Bucky here to just pull up to him like this and blow the horn. Well, that’s what we done, ‘cept he never flinched. That’s when I got out to bang on the door, but then I seen his face and I just, I just couldn’t believe what I was lookin’ at.”

It occurred to Steve then that it wasn’t a random decision that Jimbo and Bucky were standing with their backs to the semi.

“Did you touch the door or anything else on the truck?” Steve asked.

“No, sir, I didn’t. I got the hell away from there is what I did. Then I told Bucky to call the police since my cell phone is busted and he called 9-1-1.”

Steve knew the rest since there were no dedicated 9-1-1 operators in this rural area; all calls went directly to the sheriff’s office.

“You did good Jimbo. Now I know you boys are already running behind, but you might as well skip this pick up and move on. There’s no telling when this truck gets moved since it’s now part of an investigation. Just give Officer Davis here your phone numbers so we can reach you if we have to.”

Oscar was standing by the truck cab, slipping on a pair of latex gloves when Steve walked over. “I think one of us ought to go in through the passenger side and hold onto this fella before we open this door. The way he’s positioned, he’s liable to try to fall out otherwise,” Oscar suggested.

Buddy was slumped back and toward the door, his left shoulder against the window and his head bent forward, forehead almost touching the glass. The source of Jimbo’s distress became clear upon seeing Buddy’s face. His eyelids were open, revealing only the whites as the eyeballs had rolled upwards. A viscous film such as neither of the cops had ever seen had formed on the eyeballs. The swollen purple tongue protruded from his mouth like the fat head of a cottonmouth snake emerging from a stagnant pond.

“Holy Jesus,” Oscar whispered. “When I picked up the call I was thinking heart attack, which is more common than one might think among long haul truckers, but this isn’t like any heart attack I’ve ever seen. Who the hell knows what this is?”

 

I have rewritten the last entry entirely but mostly a few style changes so the basic content wasn't affected. I won't be reposting all of it but there will be some overlap to include some additions I feel add to the story.

Thank-you for your patience.



“Are these your witnesses, Willy?” Steve asked, as he and Oscar approached the men standing by the garbage truck.

“Yes, sir. They said…well, be better if they just told you what they just told me.”

“My name is Steve Whalen and I’m the homicide investigator for Hatchet county and I’m going to be recording this conversation. It’s being witnessed by Sergeant Oscar Hicks of he Kentucky State Police. Just letting y’all know,” he told them, displaying the small recorder he had withdrawn from his pocket.

“Well, go ahead,” Steve prompted, for the pair of sanitation workers just stared at him.

The one with Jimbo sewn above his shirt pocket began speaking. “We don’t normally collect on Saturdays but we had a truck broke down yesterday and had to make up on some stops that got missed. When we got here it was about eight-fifteen so we was already runnin’ late when we seen this rig blocking the dumpster.

“At first I thought he was just getting a little nap, so I told Bucky here to just pull up to him like this and blow the horn. Well, that’s what we done, ‘cept he never flinched. That’s when I got out to bang on the door, but then I seen his face and I just…I just couldn’t believe what I was lookin’ at.”

It occurred to Steve at that point that it wasn’t a random decision that Jimbo and Bucky were standing with their backs to the semi.

“Did you touch the door or anything else on the truck?” Steve asked.

“Hell, no…I mean no, sir, I didn’t. I got the hell away from there is what I did. Then I told Bucky to call the police since my cell phone is busted and he called 9-1-1.”

Steve knew the rest since there were no dedicated 9-1-1 operators in this rural area; all calls went directly to the sheriff’s office.

“You did good Jimbo. Now I know you boys are already running behind, but you might as well skip this pick-up and move on. There’s no telling when this truck gets moved since it’s now part of an investigation. Just give Officer Davis here your phone numbers so we can reach you if we have to.”

Oscar was standing by the truck cab, slipping on a pair of latex gloves when Steve walked over. “I think one of us ought to go in through the passenger side and hold onto this fella before we open this door. The way he’s positioned, he’s liable to try to fall out otherwise,” Oscar suggested.

Buddy was slumped back and toward the door, his left shoulder against the window and his head bent forward, forehead almost touching the glass. The source of Jimbo’s distress became clear upon seeing Buddy’s face. His eyelids were open, revealing only the whites as the eyeballs had rolled upwards. A viscous film such as neither of the cops had ever seen had formed on the eyeballs. The swollen purple tongue protruded from his mouth like the fat head of a cottonmouth snake emerging from a stagnant pond. The face was devoid of color, blood having drained from the lower extremities, and had taken on the oily sheen of melted candle wax.

“Holy Jesus,” Oscar whispered. “When I picked up the call I was thinking heart attack, which is more common than one might think among long haul truckers, but this isn’t like any heart attack I’ve ever seen. Who the hell knows what this is?”

The odor that struck Steve brought back unwelcome memories of his time in Nashville where finding a homicide or suicide victim in a closed up house or apartment wasn’t all that uncommon. Even sadder was the discovery of an elderly person who had died alone of an illness, so alone in life that there were no friends or family members to miss them for days, or even weeks. Despite the cool fall night, the enclosed cab temperature was in the seventies, which did nothing to slow the inevitable process of decomposition.

He opened the door slowly, cognizant of the unlikely but nonetheless real possibility of an armed, living occupant prepared to ambush him. He once encountered a ten year old boy with a nine millimeter pistol hiding under his bed as his father was being arrested for cocaine possession. The boy’s vigilance wasn’t in defending his Dad but in his reluctance to being shipped to a state facility, for he had no other family. Fortunately for Steve the kid had failed to rack a round into the chamber before squeezing the trigger, a lesson that wasn’t lost on either of them.

Steve climbed the steps stealthily, ignoring the dead trucker for the time being, while focusing his attention on the sleeper compartment, easing to his feet to peer over the edge of the upper bunk. Satisfied that he was he only living occupant of the vehicle, he focused on the deceased for the first time. He was subconsciously keeping his breathing shallow, an ingrained habit of his former crime scene investigations, but that typically only delayed the eventual inhalation of the dreadful stench. It was a rare cop who didn’t lose his last meal facing this experience for the first time.

Steve did a cursory scan of the cab for any obvious signs of drug or alcohol use or any firearms, of which there was none, before turning his attention to the deceased.

There were no signs of a struggle; no torn clothing, no visible bruises or scratches, no blood splatter that would indicate a gunshot wound.

“Ready?” Oscar asked from outside of the driver’s door.

“Give me a minute. I have an idea,” Steve answered. Even with gloved hands, he was reluctant to risk Doc Hawkins’ wrath by unnecessarily touching the body.

Reaching over the inert trucker Steve grasped the shoulder harness, carefully draping it across the body before clicking the lock into lace. He then reeled in the slack before locking the belt down.

“Okay, Sarge, let’s see what we got here.”

Steve kept a grip on the harness as Oscar eased the door open, keeping the passenger stationary. Oscar slid his hand behind the driver searching for a wallet in the left rear pocket. When he found none he asked Steve to check the other side; none there either. Nor could one be found in the glove box or overhead storage bins. There was no cell phone either.

Oscar did have a stroke of luck when he searched the map compartment in the driver’s door, finding the bill of lading for the now missing load of whiskey.

“This looks like something that might be useful,” Oscar announced.

“That’s good, because there sure don’t seem to be any clues to this guy’s identity, or anything else for that matter, in here.”

Oscar closed the driver’s door but Steve left the other door open after exiting the cab, thinking Doc wouldn’t mind the attempt to let some outside air in.

“This is fresh paper, time stamped with yesterday’s date, and the tractor and trailer numbers match up,” Oscar explained as he marched to the end of the trailer.

The hollow sound they heard as he unlatched the doors told him what he already suspected. The trailer was empty.

“I’m guessing there was a load of whiskey in here,” Steve said as he looked over the paperwork.

“It could be argued that it was legitimately delivered but there’s no way this rig has been to Plano, Texas and back in seventeen hours,” Oscar said.

“Not to mention the fact of us not knowing who the driver is or even if he is indeed the actual driver.”
“#### good point, Steve. Once they get the dead guy out of the way we can check the truck’s activity on the Qualcomm,” Oscar said as they walked back to the front of the rig.

“Well, would you just look at this? Holy ####, I don’t believe it.” Seeing Steve’s confusion, he explained. “As if things weren’t unclear enough already, somebody has severed the cable to the unit, which is roughly equal to removing the hard drive from a laptop. Not only will the information not be available to us here, but the company will have no record of the truck’s movements since the time the cable was cut.”

Before Steve could respond Willy trotted over bearing his notepad and cellphone with a facial expression that was oddly hesitant and triumphant.

“Detective Whalen, pardon me for interrupting y’all but I might have something here,” Willy said.

“Go ahead and tell us, Willy. What is it?”

“Well, I heard y’all saying you couldn’t find a wallet so I called Shawna and gave her the name off the side of the truck and she got me a phone number. I hope that was alright?”

“Yes, it was alright, Willy. Now please continue,” Steve said, trying to hide his exasperation.

“Okay, I called this company, OnTime Transport of Fort Wayne, Indiana. I got ahold of a weekend dispatcher named Doug. He said the driver assigned to that unit is Buddy Hinton, age thirty-six, from Kent, Michigan, which is almost Grand Rapids.”

Steve was nodding, pleased so far with the young patrolman. “Now you realize at this point we have no idea if we actually have the assigned driver. Right now we don’t have much of anything.”

“Yes, sir, I picked up on that. I figured they had to have pictures of their employees, or at least of their drivers licenses. Well, Doug tells me he doesn’t have access to that information on account of it’s Saturday and nobody is in HR.”

Willy hesitated before continued, a sheepish grin forming on his lips. This time Steve didn’t urge him on, as anxious as he was to hear what was coming next.

“That’s when I told him this thing is on the verge of becoming a Federal investigation and unless he wants the FBI knocking down his door we better have a picture in our FAX tray in an hour or less.”

For a beat neither Oscar nor Steve spoke or altered their poker face expressions. This scared Willy, who was now convinced he seriously overstepped his bounds.

“Guess what, Willy,” Steve said.

“What’s that, sir?” he answered, somewhat fearfully.

“You spoke the truth.”

“I did?”

“Yep. This load originated in Kentucky and was destined for Texas. That makes it an interstate shipment and that’s a Federal offense. And if it is proven that this man was murdered, in conjunction with the theft, that makes another Federal offense.”

“That’s a fact,” Oscar said. “Y’all are going to have them boys in black suits and dark sunshades swarming like ants around here.”

Steve groaned inwardly at the thought of circus atmosphere that would ensue with the influx of outsiders to his once peaceful environment. But conversely he accepted the fact that his rural department lacked the resources to be half as efficient as the Feds were capable of being at solving these crimes. Crimes that found their way here by some cruel twist of fate.

“You did good at gathering that information, Willy. But did you tell your contact to absolutely not notify next of kin, or anyone else for that matter who is not directly involved in obtaining the picture? I’m sure you can grasp the ramifications involved if this is the wrong guy.”

Willy paled as he hurriedly hit redial on his cell phone, clearly embarrassed over his rookie mistake.

In the meantime Oscar wrote out a quick note for Willy to ask the dispatcher for the time and location of the truck’s last known movement and to notify him that the Quallcom was permanently disabled. It wasn’t much, but they could possibly gain a clue of the vehicle’s previous location.

*

 

I have no idea how the font changed like that; must be a ghost. I'm leaving well enough alone rather than screw around and lose it trying to fix it.

 

Willy handed his note pad to Oscar as he ended his call. “Doug told me he would print out a transcript of the truck’s movements for the prior week and send it to us ASAP, in case we thought it would be helpful.”

“Willy, see that pretty blonde with the PayLess tag on her shirt?” Steve said as Oscar began reading what Willy had written on his notepad.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to interview her and gather up Snipes and Jones and send them around to the other stores, including the Dairy Queen,” Steve said, indicating the newly arrived patrol car. He felt Shawna must have read his mind for he was about to call her for reinforcements.

“Make sure to ask about any movement of this rig or anybody around it. And get numbers for anybody who was working last night. Matter of fact, get a number from everybody you talk to.”

“Yes, sir, I’m on it.”

Oscar Hicks had a look on his face that told Steve a serious matter was about to be discussed, as if this situation was lacking drama already.

“Riddle me this, Detective. According to our man Doug up in Indiana, the last time this truck moved was when it was parked at this very spot at 1912 HRS last night. The coordinates match this location.”

Steve gave him a look that said so?

“These bills were time stamped at the distillery at 1728, which gave him just enough time to drive from there to here.” Seeing Steve’s curious stare he said, “You still don’t get it, do you?”

A light clicked on in Steve’s eyes. “Where did the liquor go? He surely didn’t have time to stop anywhere to unload it.”

“Bingo! Unless it got offloaded here, but that just doesn’t feel right.”

Before Steve could respond the state medical van arrived at the scene. Despite Steve’s initial misgiving, Doctor Eli Hawkins seemed affable enough as he emerged from the van and greeted the two lawmen.

“Good morning, gentlemen. What seems to be the focus of our attention on this fine morning? Y’all should have seen that large mouth bass you caused me to abandon my pursuit of,” he said, spreading his hands apart at shoulder level about three feet. “I could have fed my numerous grandchildren all weekend on that one.”

Before anyone could respond he walked closer to the truck, getting a closer view of Buddy’s face against the glass.

“Oh, I see now. You boys were right to call me,” he said, waving his arm in a motion aimed at his crew. “Come on fellas, let’s get him down from there and take a look see.”

As Eli and his crew began the removal and examination of the trucker they now called Buddy, Steve and Oscar stepped away, seeking some privacy to continue their theorizing of the missing freight.

“You don’t think this is related to that deal up in Lebanon Junction a few years ago, do you?” Steve asked Oscar.

He was referring to a series of thefts that occurred at a truckstop not far from the well known distilleries at Bardstown, where truckers tended to stop for a nap or meal break upon getting their whiskey loads.

Truckers would awaken to find cargo missing and call the police. After a few months of this a small group of guys, aged nineteen to twenty-six, were caught red handed by an undercover cop. They could have closed the case sooner but were trying to follow the merchandise to its eventual buyers. It turned out the thieves were strictly amateurs and were selling it by the bottle to random acquaintances directly from their homes.

“That was small time stuff, just kids really. They took no more than would fit in the bed of a pickup truck, sometimes twenty cases or less. Nah, this is different.Something strange is going on here that I can’t put my finger on yet.”

“I just don’t see that volume of freight being transferred right here without somebody noticing. Maybe our interviews will turn something up, but I’m with you. I just don’t see it,” Steve said.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Eli Hawkins said as he approached. “I presume y’all may have been inside the vehicle already since that is your nature, but I recommend you get back in there and conduct a thorough, but careful search. And I stress careful.”

“Just what are you getting at, Doc?” Oscar asked.

“Come over here and I will show you,” Hawkins said, leading them to the body, now resting on a stretcher.

“Is that what I think it is?” Oscar asked upon seeing the snakebite wound on Buddy’s inner forearm, the shirt sleeve having been cut away.

“If you think it is a snake’s bite you are correct. But what should surprise you is the type of snake that did this. See how close together those fang marks are?Any poisonous snake from this neck of the woods, this entire continent even,will have a considerably wider spread. Without the benefit of an exact lab analysis I can still deduce with some degree of certainty that our little killer was what is generically known as a pit viper, indigenous to India and Pakistan.”

The wound itself had everyone except Eli enthralled. The pair of fang marks had erupted into what could best be described as purple volcanos with the overlapping diameter of dimes. What was once a creamy yellow discharge had dried into something resembling a crusty sulfur deposit. The surrounding skin was the worst blue-black bruise shade imaginable, fading into a bizarre green tinge along the perimeter.

 

Steve shivered at the possibility that the pit viper responsible for this man’s apparently horrible death was holed up in the vehicle that he had just so casually entered and poked around in. The grim look that passed between him and Oscar confirmed the patrolman was reading his thoughts.

With that in mind Steve marched over to the Dollar General store located across the parking lot from the PayLess. Jeffery Snipes was interviewing a cashier as he entered the store. Steve gave him a curt nod as he passed by without slowing, intent on finding the most protective gloves available for his upcoming task.

After navigating the narrow aisles jammed with inexpensive merchandise he chanced upon the glove rack near the rear of the store. He chose a pair of rugged cowhide gloves featuring stiff, canvas type cuffs that reached nearly to his elbows. He figured he would wear his windbreaker with the cuffs outside of the sleeves. He briefly considered buying some safety glasses as well but decided odds were low that the serpent would attempt to strike his eyes, although he had nothing to base this on.

Almost at the register he did an about face to search for the glasses, admitting to himself that his true reluctance to wear them was based on a macho sentiment. Screw that, let’s protect those peepers.

After selecting a pair of industrial style, hard plastic safety glasses Steve decided on another purchase, this one from the electronics section.

“Just the man I was looking for,” Steve told Willy Davis as he stepped from the store out onto the sidewalk.

“Iwas just waiting on Snipes to finish here so I could take him to Dairy Queen with me. I figure there would be a good crowd in there on Saturday morning and we could team up. I planned on letting Jones get the veterinary office and the consignment shop down in the corner which are probably the least busy places.”

“Good plan, Willy. Here you go, take this with you,” Steve said, handing Willy the digital voice recorder he had just purchased in the Dollar General.

“Oh, you’ll need to put these in,” handing him a pack of batteries from the shopping bag.

“Thanks, Detective Whalen. I really appreciate this,” Willy said.

“If you ever end up in court, it can prove to be mighty handy.”

“Do you think this could end up in court?”

“I have no idea where this is going, Willy. But we need to keep our bases covered is all I’m saying.”

Steve suited up in his impromptu snake hunting outfit before doing a thorough search of the Freightliner using a flashlight for shadowy corners and a patrolman’s night stick for poking and prodding into places he dared not place his hands, despite the heavy cowhide gloves.

Fortunately, there was no critter to be found, which only added to the compounding mystery.Where did it come from and where did it go? How did it find itself in a man’s buttoned long sleeved shirt?

By the time the truck search was completed Shawna had emailed a photograph of Buddy Hinton to Steve’s Android. It was taken at his company orientation sixteen months earlier. There was no doubt as to the identity of the snake bit truck driver on the stretcher.

“I’ve done it more times than I care to remember. There’s no easy way to do it and the outcome is never pleasant,” Steve told Oscar.

“I know all about it. We had a church van lose it on an icy bridge down near Hazard years ago. The preacher was the driver and the only fatality. His wife didn’t make the trip because she had slipped on an icy porch step and broken her ankle the week before. They had been married forty-six years. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done; facing that woman in her home and telling her that her husband had died so tragically.”

There was an awkward moment of silence before Steve spoke. “I really don’t know the protocol with the next of kin being out of state. I’ll have to discuss it with the Sheriff. If I have to fly to Michigan, so be it. Whoever this man has up there deserves more than a phone call.”