The Big Cat Nap

Deputy Cynthia Cooper stepped out of the squad car. While Albemarle County hosted a few murders a year, most of them lacked much mystery or spectacle. X shot Y or stabbed him. The victims were usually men. A woman might be killed in a domestic dispute or a female student snatched from the University of Virginia only to be found months later. Fortunately, such loathsome killings happened rarely. Years would go by before another female was murdered, but the males could be relied upon to dispatch one another with regularity.

The sheriff, Rick Shaw, with whom Coop usually rode in the squad car, happened to be in Richmond with other sheriffs for a meeting with the governor to discuss crime.

Compared to that of other states, Virginia’s homicide rate was reasonable, but as far as Coop was concerned, one murder was one murder too many. Then, too, how would the state ever live down or recover from the horror in 2007 at Virginia Tech? Much as the long, lean blonde officer hoped people could settle their differences responsibly, experience had taught her otherwise.

She walked in to the garage, where the mechanics and men from the body shop were still absent. “Where is everybody?” Coop asked, hoping the forensics team would soon appear. Harry, Susan, and Herb waited for her.

Coop was Harry’s neighbor, renting the old farm that had been the Reverend Jones’s home place.

“Couldn’t take it,” Harry tersely replied. “Half of them ran outside to throw up when they finally came back from lunch. I believe they’re now in the front waiting room.”

“Ah.” Coop strode over to inspect the body. Putting on thin rubber gloves, she knelt down to feel his flesh.

“How long do you think he’s been dead?” Susan curiously inquired.

“I expect when you found him he’d just been killed,” Coop said before standing up. “He’s still warm, cooling a little.”

“Whoever did it must have been frightfully angry,” Herb said. “Such a violent act.”

Coop looked at Herb with her pale eyes. “He—” She glanced down to read the name sewn onto the mechanic’s uniform. “Walt faced his killer. I’m pretty sure of that based on how he’s sprawled.” She then walked around Walt Richardson. “Why don’t you all vacate the premises before the circus arrives? I’ll take your statements later. Actually, once you get home, write it all down before you forget.”

They heard a siren traveling in their direction.

“Where’s Rick?” Harry asked her neighbor and friend.

“Richmond. Politics.” Coop sighed. “All life is politics. Someone, somewhere, will find a way to make this murder serve their political ends, just watch.”

“I hate it all.” Harry’s voice carried an edge. “And whoever did this must have hated Walt. I mean, to crack open a skull, take off part of his face. That’s hate.”

“And power,” Herb added. Then, gently, he began to herd the two women toward the door into the waiting room. The Volvo was parked out front.

“Don’t say anything to the folks in the waiting room other than that someone will be with them shortly. Anyone know where Victor is?” Coop added as an afterthought.

Victor Gatzembizi was the owner of ReNu; besides this one in Charlottesville, there was a large shop in Richmond, one in Virginia Beach, one in Norfolk, and one in Alexandria.

“No. When we arrived, there was only the office fellow, Kyle.”

“Okay. Move on out.”

The deafening siren cut off, which meant one law-enforcement team had just arrived. And soon to follow would be the vans for the TV stations.

The three friends walked silently through a somber waiting room, where five mechanics sat looking glum and dazed.

Once in the car, Harry turned north to the next stoplight, then made a legal U-turn.

In the back, Susan leaned forward. “At least we know we all have strong stomachs.”

“Farming will give you one.” Harry reached fifty-five miles per hour and held steady.

“Mmm-hmm,” Susan answered. Though not a farmer, she’d spent plenty of time way back when on Harry’s farm, even when it was owned by Harry’s parents.

Arms crossed over his chest, Herb’s voice was deep. “It’s always a shock, sad. Even when you find a dead deer. Sad.”

Harry thought about this. “But no one there was crying.”

“All men.” Susan spoke as though this was a hard fact of behavior.

Herb unfolded his arms and reached for the door bolster. “Harry has a point. When something is that shocking, a lot of men would break down or show some emotion other than physical illness. No one would think less of them. It’s not like how workers perceive a woman who cries because her feelings are hurt or she’s frustrated on the job. This is different, and, Harry, you’re right—no tears.”

“Maybe no one liked Walt.” Susan accepted Herb’s analysis.

“It’s for sure someone didn’t.” Harry knew she’d remember that split-open head for the rest of her life.