Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

The Anonymous Body by Nancy A. Black

The suddenness of the blow sent me sprawling. I struggled in a swirling fog to keep my feet... then the world came down on me and I slipped into a bottomless pit.

* * *

It stood there, rising stark against the sky. The barn next to it was weathered and discolored by years of rain, snow, and wind beating against it. The silo itself was old and nearly as weathered as the barn, although there was some evidence of the red paint that must have once shone brightly upon its wooden staves.

I drove my new station wagon into the rutted driveway, feeling each bump and jolt with the anguish only an owner of a new car can feel. When I saw Clyde Jenkins, the county sheriff, waiting for me some of my annoyance at being called out here to this part of the county vanished. Clyde had greater problems than my resentment. Ever since he’d taken office a little over two months ago, after Tom Rinehart died suddenly of a heart attack, he’d had more trouble than Tom had encountered in twelve months. Clyde, a short, undersized man, was nearly dwarfed by the big western-cut hat the sheriffs in this state have taken to wearing. Following in the footsteps of a long line of big, bluff, stockily built sheriffs whose size alone had often been enough to quell a disturbance, Clyde had become the butt of some of the county’s worst ruffians, who wouldn’t hesitate to take a swing at a lawman they thought they could whip in a fight. Clyde’s brow was knitted now in a frown which he seemed to wear continuously these days.

As I left the wagon and walked toward him, Clyde beckoned me to follow him and trudged off toward the barn. I followed him, a little surprised at Clyde’s lack of a greeting. We walked through the barn, its musty odor and the layers of dust over everything proclaiming its long disuse. We stoped in front of the door to the silo and my eyes followed Clyde’s pointing finger. I looked, blinked, and then staggered backward as a wave of nausea gripped me. I’d seen death before but not quite like this. I backed hastily away from the door and looked at Clyde. The frown on his forehead had deepened and his eyes were very tired and very dull.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I asked foolishly, for one glance at the body lying at the bottom of the silo was enough to tell me that she was dead.

“She’s dead, all right,” Clyde answered.

“I’ll get my equipment,” I said. “I suppose you want it from all angles. The works.”

“From every angle you can think of. Close-ups, especially. Lot’s of them. This is murder.”

Clyde’s words, “This is murder,” hit me as I walked back to my station wagon for my equipment. Murder was something I hadn’t expected to encounter when I returned to my hometown after the Korean War bent on making my living as a photographer. Working as a small town photographer, I soon discovered, was not the way to acquire riches, especially if you were competing against two well-established old-timers. Hence my preoccupation with the photographic needs of the county offices, particularly the Sheriff’s office.

I found another man and Cal Lewis, Clyde’s favorite deputy, with Clyde when I returned to the silo. I had a nodding acquaintance with Clem Pitkin. While I set up my equipment I listened to Clem explain again to Clyde how he had found the body.

Clem, who owned the farm next to this one, had arranged with old Mrs. Banning to run part of his herd of cows into the barnyard for the coming winter. He’d also gotten permission to fill the silo. Mrs. Banning had been happy to let him do it since the farm had been vacant since her last tenant left over three years before. Clem and his son Jack had come over this morning to clean out the silo in preparation for filling it sometime the next week. Right away they’d found the body of a woman, covered over with some old straw that apparently had been carried from the barn floor and dumped on top of her.

I went to work, taking shots from every angle. I tried not to look at the woman too closely as I worked. She’d apparently been strangled and wasn’t a pretty sight to look at. But I couldn’t help noticing a few things about her. Her dress looked as though it was a new one and fairly expensive. But it didn’t go with the woman at all. It was gaudy, and much too young for her. Twenty years before she could have probably worn the dress and looked attractive in it, although in a cheap sort of way. Now she just looked hard and rundown. I put her somewhere in her forties, although it was hard to guess. Her hair was long and loose, and obviously dyed a reddish brown.

Once I looked up and found Cal Lewis looking intently at the dead woman. He had a funny look on his face. “Know her, Cal?” I asked.