The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

Rick McMahan Baddest Outlaws

from After Midnight

The Creeches of Clement County were the baddest outlaws I’ve ever known. That’s a pretty big accomplishment when you look at that statement in the larger scheme of things. Many Kentucky counties are known for being rough, with some having whole communities damn near lawless. Even folks outside the state have heard of Harlan County. The region’s reputation started way back during the blood spilled during the feuds between the Hatfields and McCoys, but it was the Depression-era coal wars that cemented Bloody Harlan’s violent name.

People in the know, the crooks and cops who truly know the underbelly of the commonwealth, might say the Cornbread Mafia had the roughest criminals. They would have a point. After all, Johnny Boone’s crew all came from Marion County, and that county has a long outlaw history. Back during Prohibition, it’s said, Al Capone himself traveled to Marion County to make deals for alcohol to feed his Chicago-based speakeasies. Moonshine and running outside the law, some would say, runs deep in the DNA of Marion County. Decades later, Johnny Boone turned that outlaw way from moonshining to growing and selling marijuana on a large scale. The Cornbread Mafia had a reputation for protecting their own, demanding fierce loyalty. It was said that those who went against the Cornbread Mafia or talked to the law were met with swift, violent retribution. To this day the Cornbread Mafia is the boogeyman to would-be informants. You snitch and the Cornbread Mafia will kill you. They’ll nail your house shut with you inside before they torch the place. They’ll grab you and put you in a dark hole. Even though the feds arrested most of the Cornbread Mafia members, not a one turned state’s evidence and testified. Not one. So there must be something to the loyalty and fearsomeness of the Cornbread Mafia.

Still, my money is on the Creeches. And I think if you listen to what I’m about to tell you, you too will agree that the Creeches of Clement County are the baddest outlaws in the whole Commonwealth of Kentucky.

I was sent to Clement County fresh out of the Kentucky State Police academy. This was the time before cell phones and social media and instant communication. CDs were the rage, but many folks still had cassette players in their cars or on their home stereos, and DVDs were slowly winning the battle with VHS tapes. As a rookie trooper, I was destined for the midnight shift. Clement County is one of the commonwealth’s biggest counties in terms of land, but not so much of people. We rode shotgun with old dog road troopers, learning the hollers and back roads of the county. At the same time those troopers eyed us to see if we were going to measure up to the standards of the thin gray line. They wanted to see if we had the mettle to be the only law in the county at 3 a.m. when we stopped a car alone.

First time I had a Creech sighting I’d been wearing my badge all of two weeks. I was on day shift partnered with Shawn Morman, a grizzled bear of a trooper whose presence took up most of the front seat of a Ford Crown Victoria. He was a large, imposing man who smoked cheap cigars and could wither you with just a look. He had been a Kentucky state trooper longer than I had been alive. We were driving along when he stabbed his two fingers holding his cigar at the windshield and declared, “That’s the most dangerous man in Clement County.”

I looked where he was pointing. There was a single car parked in front of the gas pumps at the Texaco, but no gas was getting pumped. The only person in sight was a guy leaning against the front fender of a long Caddy in a tough-guy pose. Arms crossed. Hard stare.

“Londell Creech,” Shawn said. “King outlaw of the Creeches.” Shawn eased his foot onto the brake of the Crown Vic, and we eased in front of the gas station. Morman rolled his window down.

“Lonnie,” he called out.

The man leaning against the fender never broke eye contact with Morman as he pulled a pack of Camels from inside his leather jacket and shook one out. Firing up his smoke, he gave a curt nod of his head. Creech wore a fancy dress shirt underneath his jacket, a large collar folded over the lapels. He had on khakis and brown ankle boots that zipped up one side. I saw the boot only because his foot was wedged against the shiny front hubcap. His shoulders barely cleared the side-view mirror.

“Mister Graybelly,” Londell Creech said as introduction. He took a long drag on his cigarette. He and Morman blew out tendrils of smoke almost in unison.

“How’s that Brahma bull of yours doing?”

“Blue’s dead,” Londell said nonchalantly.

“Blue?” Morman asked, perplexed.

“Yeah, Blue,” Londell explained. “Like Paul Bunyan’s bull.”

“Ah, I see,” Morman said. “How’d he die?”

“Too damn stupid to live,” Londell said. “One time he got to chasing me in the field next to the house. He was serious, so I had to show him I was more serious. Hit him in the head with a hammer to get him to stop.” He shook his head. “Was never right after that.” He let out a fog of smoke. “We made the best of a bad situation. Barbecued old Blue for the family reunion.”

After a polite pause to mourn Blue’s passing, Morman said, “I heard Hobart came home.”

“Yeah,” Creech said, drawing the words out. “Them big cities weren’t for him. Mountain’s in his blood.”

Morman nodded, then patted his hand on the side of the cruiser. “My partner and I have to move along. Gotta keep the county safe, so you stay out of trouble now, Lonnie.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, Mister Graybelly,” Creech said as we pulled away.

As Shawn rolled up his window, he mumbled, “Paul Bunyan, my ass. I don’t think Lonnie can read.” The Crown Vic picked up speed as we pulled away. Morman gave me a sly smile as he said, “He hates being called Lonnie.”

I was thinking I was being played. I already suspected that Master Trooper Shawn Morman was the one who had sent me on a run up a lonesome mountain road to locate Mr. Squatch, whose car was broke down. When I called back for a first name, I was told Sas. “That guy is the king of the roughest outlaws in Clement County?” My disbelief was obvious in my tone.

Shawn threw me a sideways withering glance that cut me off. He clamped his cigar in his mouth, chewed on it a minute. Finally he said, “I’m hungry. Let’s get lunch.”

Slinging the wheel with his hand, he spun the cruiser around and headed back into town.

There weren’t too many fine-dining options in Clement County, so when Shawn turned the car around I knew where we were going. Poppa’s place. There was a sign out front that simply said POPPA’S. A few years later, when the rock band Papa Roach made it big, since the old man’s last name was the same, though spelled differently, Poppa put up a new sign. POPPA ROCHE’S PLACE. I heard the band made a special trip to visit the store when they came through Kentucky.

Poppa’s was more of an everything store, with various additions sprouting this way and that on the building, sprawling uncontrolled on the lot. What started out as a general store had morphed into more. One area rented VHS movies, another had foodstuff and kitchenware. Another had generally everything you’d need and a lot you didn’t, usually things Poppa bought on the cheap out of derailed rail-car sales. One week he might have a sale on those Chia Pets and the next he might have a whole pallet of parrot food cheap. You never knew what he’d have. But us troopers were interested in the small side room with mismatched tables and chairs where he served breakfast and lunch. Poppa’s place was probably the most protected establishment in all of Clement County.

Trooper Shawn Morman waited until we had finished with the lunch plate special of chicken-fried steak and sweet tea before educating me further about the hierarchy of criminals in Clement County. Pushing back in his chair, Shawn started unwrapping a fresh cigar as he explained, “Trooper Stokes, don’t underestimate the Creeches. They are dangerous. Every one of them.”

I nodded and was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

“Most dangerous group you’ll find in this here county,” Shawn declared. “I know what you saw — ​a midget. Whatever’s the right way to call ’em — ​midgets, small people, little folk. Dwarfs. I don’t know what the correct phrase would be, but I can tell you this, they’re dangerous. They’re the baddest outlaws in all of Clement County.”

“Are they all...” I began, and trailed off.

“That small?” Shawn asked as he put the cigar cellophane wrapper on his discarded plate. “Not all of the women, but every man carrying the Creech name is small. In fact, old Londell is a bit on the tall side for a Creech.”

“And they’re Clement County’s worst criminals?” This time I wasn’t able to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

He pointed his unlit cigar at me from across the table. “That most definitely is part of their DNA, as sure as their short stature. Each and every one is a born crook. The Creeches do anything crooked to make a buck.” He paused to light the cigar before continuing. “Hell, I think they do some stuff just to do when they’re bored. Or out of meanness. But most anything illegal, the Creeches have a hand in — ​dope, stealing, chopping cars. You name it, they do it. And Londell runs all of it.”

“So he’s the king of the outlaws?” I asked. He could still see the doubt on my face.

“He is that,” Shawn said in an even voice. “Londell runs the whole show.” He paused to fire up his cigar and take a long pull. “Boy, I know at the academy they taught you that with that campaign hat, that badge and gun, you boys are ten feet tall and bulletproof.”

Damn straight, I thought. I felt myself sit up straighter.

“Well, don’t let your notion of things blind you to facts,” Morman said. “Watch yourself when you run across a Creech. Don’t let their size fool you. They’re dangerous.”

Being a trooper is a great job for a young twentysomething full of piss and vinegar. You get paid to drive fast and fuss and fight. And in a big old rough place like Clement County you did all three on a regular basis. You learned fast. I kept my eyes and ears open and tried to pick up from the experiences of older troopers. I quickly learned that listening and talking to folks could calm down most situations, but I also learned when the time for talking was done. Sometimes you just had to fight. You hit fast. You hit hard. And you damn sure hit first.

Still not completely sure that Trooper Morman was shooting me straight about the Creeches, I made a point to learn a bit about the clan. At first there was nothing. I just would spot a Creech around town. Mostly it would be Londell driving his long Caddy, his head tilted back so he could look through the windshield. Usually he had heavy metal music blaring so loud you could hear him coming a mile away. He favored AC/DC and Def Leppard. Sometimes he would have passengers, usually a full-sized blonde or brunette hanging all over him like he was a movie star. The car was spotless, and I wondered how he kept it so clean and ding-free on our rutted roads and with all the trucks flinging coal from their open beds.

Then I’d listen to old-timers talk. Every so often the Creech name would come up in conversations around town. Citizens and crooks alike just said the same thing. You don’t mess with them. They’re bad news. Other cops who talked about the Creeches echoed what Trooper Morman had claimed — ​the Creeches did anything dishonest to make a dollar. They were great con artists. The biggest con had been pulled off by the Creeches’ late mother. There are plenty of charities that come and help the poor in the hills of Appalachia. Well, apparently Mother Creech convinced one such group that her kids needed a special house, and the group built a large rambling brick house at the head of the holler on Whitehouse Road. All of the Creeches resided up and down that road, but Londell and his brothers lived in their mother’s house halfway up the mountain. Though none had scammed as well as Mother Creech, the rest who could would get on the draw for food stamps or disability. Other Creeches’ criminality was less finesse and more pure blunt action. Some Creeches stole. Others fenced said stolen stuff. And they were big into marijuana. Rumor was most marijuana fields were owned, if not tended, by a Creech. Still, the first Creech I arrested did nothing to cement my belief that they were a hardcore group of bandits.

I was on my own working the midnight shift, which is a misnomer, since we actually went eleven to seven, an hour before the witching hour. I was working on my second cup of coffee, sitting on a logging road turnabout just outside of town. From my spot I could stay hidden, but I could also see the ragged two-lane highway down below, and I could pick out likely speeders for good felony stops if I wanted to get into something. I had just settled in with not much traffic on the road when my radio crackled to life.

“Unit 322?” dispatch called out. I keyed the mic, letting them know I was awake and listening. “We have a call of a child riding down Main Street on a bicycle. In the middle of the street.”

There was a pause and I was about to key up a 10-4 when the dispatcher continued a little slower. “Three twenty-two, be advised, caller says the child is riding a black Huffy.”

“Ten-four,” I said as I fired up my Crown Vic, which really sounded like a death rattle; as rookies we got the oldest, most raggedy cars the Kentucky State Police could find.

“Further,” dispatch continued.

I was beginning to think dispatch was enjoying this.

“The operator of said Huffy is wearing a black bowler.”

I looked at the radio. Even though my mind told my mouth not to, I keyed up the mic anyway and said, “Dispatch, please repeat.”

“Three twenty-two, caller advised the operator of the Huffy is wearing a bowler hat.” Pause. “Nothing else.”

That time I did hear laughter in the background. I was betting the night sergeant and other dispatchers sitting at post two counties away were yucking it up at my expense. I noted that the time was well after midnight, and I was wondering who in their right mind would let a kid out on a school night. And I didn’t even think about the clothes. I kicked the car into high and headed toward town. Did I mention before that we young road troopers loved to go fast every chance we got?

The town’s main drag wasn’t much, and the stoplights went to flashing yellows after ten. The storefronts were closed, though some light leaked out onto the sidewalks. We didn’t have much of a downtown, but we did have sidewalks on what we had. It didn’t take me long to find the bike in question. Indeed it was a Huffy and indeed the rider was naked except for a small black bowler. I turned on my lights and hit the siren just one chirp. Without looking back, the bicycle’s operator raised his arm, making the signal for a right turn, and pulled to the curb, where he promptly fell over.

It wasn’t a pretty sight awash in my headlights. All limbs and naked torso matted with dark hair. And the bowler had fallen off to reveal a bad case of male-pattern baldness.

Sliding out of my cruiser door, I yelled out, “Sir, are you okay?”

The nudist got himself free of the bike without catching any needed parts in the spokes or chain and stood wobbly at attention, hands stiffly at his sides. My eyes caught a glimpse of something glowing just under the bike’s spinning front tire.

“Trooper,” the nudist said. All deep bass voice as steady as his legs weren’t. The pungent odor of marijuana rolled off him.

Making a leap of logic, I asked, “Mr. Creech, where are you headed?”

He didn’t answer. He just stood there at attention, rocking slightly back and forth. As I got closer, his eyes blinked, trying to focus on me. He had a heavy five o’clock shadow.

Squatting, I reached underneath the still-spinning front wheel and picked up the dying doobie. The joint was as big and fat as a good Havana cigar. Cheech and Chong would have been proud.

“This yours, Mr. Creech?”

“I don’t mind sharing,” he answered, breaking out into laughter.

As I stood there looking at this naked stoned midget, I couldn’t take Shawn’s words seriously. I couldn’t believe this guy was a member of a hardcore criminal clan. He never gave me a bit of trouble. Just climbed in the back of my cruiser and fell asleep. I tossed the bike and bowler into the trunk of my cruiser. The doobie went into an evidence envelope.

When I booked him into the jail, I learned I had arrested Hobart Creech, Londell’s younger brother. Hobart had spent the last few years in New York City, presumably working (or being a criminal) before moving back home. While I was filling out the citation, the jail staff tried to find a jumpsuit that would fit Hobart, but none were small enough. In the end one of the jailers went to her car and gave him a pair of her kid’s pants and a Power Rangers T-shirt to wear.

That small arrest turned into something big in my learning about how the Creeches handled things. While I was finishing up my shift, Hobart Creech and another inmate named Eddie Tremayne got sideways with each other in the drunk tank. It seems that while Hobart was mellow while stoned, Eddie was a mean drunk. He sucker-punched Hobart and proceeded to stomp the downed Creech into unconsciousness. The next morning the jail staff asked what had happened, and Hobart Creech refused to say a word. A few days after that, both Tremayne’s house and his truck burned to the ground while he was in jail, trying to make bail. By then he knew he had made a major mistake. In fact, he refused to make bail when he could, thinking jail would protect him. Eventually, though, Tremayne had to leave. Now, we know Ed Tremayne walked out of the county jail. From there no one knows where he went. Rumors were that he wound up at the bottom of some well or coal mine, but for all we knew, he hopped a Greyhound bus out of Clement County.

But that still didn’t convince me that the Creeches were the baddest outlaws in Clement County. The next time I encountered the Creeches I became a true believer.

Talk all around town and most all of Clement County was the burglary of Poppa’s place. Someone had cut the electricity to the building before knocking down the side door. After that they just backed a truck up to it and waltzed out with everything they wanted. Every cop on every shift wanted the hides of those thieves. Now, the reason the cops were fired up was because whoever broke in took Poppa Roche’s big stove and griddle, and Poppa wasn’t sure if and when he could replace them. No stove, no lunch plate specials. Which meant there were a lot of hungry, angry cops.

Though it seemed like the burglary was the work of a professional crook, the randomness of what they stole had us all scratching our heads. The thieves took the time to tote out the restaurant-sized stove and grill, but they didn’t touch any of the guns in sporting goods. The same thing for the rings and earrings in jewelry display cases. Yet they did take twenty rolls of plastic that farmers and landscapers use to protect plants. They then waltzed down aisles picking this and that, with a particular interest in chips and Twinkies.

Besides the kitchen appliances, the biggest and most bizarre item stolen was one of the most controversial products ever featured for sale at Poppa’s. Like I said, Poppa would bid on shipments from damaged or derailed box cars, sometimes sight unseen. Before the burglary Poppa’s was already the talk of Clement County for cases of products stacked knee-high all over the store. More conservative church groups were offended that every other aisle at Poppa’s displayed bottles of something called The Love Doctor’s Personal Lubricant.

I am not a prude, but I did think Poppa was never going to sell all of the Love Doctor’s product, even if every person in Clement County bought two of the economy-sized bottles. The Love Doctor lube wasn’t flying off the shelves until the burglars came along and loaded up as many cases as they could carry off. Did I mention that each one was the economy-sized half-gallon plastic pump bottle?

Nope. I’m not joking. I didn’t think they packaged that stuff in such large containers.

Some of the people around town thought the break-in was the result of some bored teenagers’ prank that got out of hand. Another theory was that some overzealous members of the Holiness Congregation had taken it upon themselves to rid Clement County of the horribleness that Poppa was peddling. But everyone was betting that if the cops caught the thieves, there would be plenty of mountain justice handed out before the thieves made it to jail. Not so much for the burglary, but for disrupting the public servants’ favorite eating routine. You don’t mess with cops and their meals.

About a week after the burglary at Poppa’s, well past midnight, I was once again perched upon my favorite hiding point above the state two-lane. Like a hunter in a duck blind, I was watching the highway, waiting for a speeder, able to see a long ways in either direction. Calls and disturbances on midnight shift rolled in ebbs and flows in Clement County. Weekends you were going call to call from drunk and disorderly to domestic disputes to just general stupidness. Wednesday nights were usually pretty calm. You might get a call now and then, but mostly after 1 a.m. it was quiet, so you either worked at staying awake or tried to stir something up. Even though there was only myself and Jack O’Bannon, another rookie trooper, working the whole county, I wanted to get into something, so I was hawk-eyeing the highway. I was in the middle of eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my wife made for my dinner when Jack O’Bannon radioed dispatch that he was pulling a car over for speeding.

I started my cruiser, thinking if the car rabbited on Jack we might get in a good chase. Young cops love chasing people. I was no different; whether it was a car chase or running someone down on foot, I ate that stuff up. Instead Jack almost immediately radioed dispatch that the driver had pulled to a stop. Jack called in the car tag. Listening, I thought it was odd that the car was from a county almost all the way across the state from us. Jack called back and said he had made contact with the driver and all was fine. Settling back in, I was about to open my little cup of applesauce when Jack keyed up the radio.

“Unit 322, you in service?” Jack asked. Looking down, I noticed that Jack had called me on our car-to-car radio channel, which didn’t reach outside the county. We used that when we didn’t want our talk overheard back at post. Rattling off a mile marker on a road outside of town, he asked, “Can you meet me at my location?”

Shoving the applesauce in my lunch pail, I answered, “Ten-four.”

Though it wasn’t chasing someone, I did get to drive really fast to get to Jack’s location. I found Jack’s cruiser sitting on the side of the road. In front of his car was a Ford Mustang. What surprised me was a man was sitting on the grass at the rear of Jack O’Bannon’s Crown Victoria. Getting out of the car, I walked up, and as I got closer, the bigger this guy got. Jack’s easily six-foot-six in his stocking feet, and I would bet this guy was just as big. But his arms were pumped up like Popeye’s, and his arms barely made it behind his back to meet the cuffs. I saw the full-sleeve tats and the pale pallor of a man not used to sunlight.

“What’s going on, Jack?” I asked as he intercepted me outside earshot. A small breeze was blowing, and I got a distinctly weird smell wafting off of Jack’s prisoner. Something chemical. And something else I couldn’t quite put my nose on.

Leaning in conspiratorially, he said, “I stopped this guy doing almost a hundred. I mean, he was screaming, but once I lit him up he just pulled over like a kitten.”

I nodded. I got it. An easy stop.

“When I asked him where he was going in a hurry, he said, ‘I want to get out of this crazy county.’”

I shrugged. Jack was excited, but I didn’t see why. “Okay.”

“Just listen to what he has to say.”

I made a noncommittal grunt, already regretting that I had left my applesauce for this.

“Trust me, Bo. This is great. You’ll see.” Leading me over to the guy on the ground, Jack nudged him with his foot. The man looked up with hangdog eyes. “Tell my partner what you told me.”

The guy shook his head, droplets of water flinging off the ends. “Man, if you’re going to take me to jail and violate me, just do it. I don’t want to be made fun of.” I tipped my flashlight and shined it on the man. He was completely wet. Hair. Clothes. Shoes. Not just wet. He was soaked through, and here we were in a drought.

“Ronnie,” Jack said before I could ask about how Ronnie got wet. “Tell the story. We might can help you.”

I shot Jack a look. He just smiled.

Ronnie cleared his throat. “Okay.” Long sigh and another head shake. “I’m out of the joint just two weeks. I owe a guy a favor from when we were locked up together.” He glanced at me and Jack. “Don’t ask, I’m not going to tell you the guy’s name. No way. I’m not going to snitch that way.”

As I stood there, the chemical smell was getting stronger, and the other smell was too. It was a weird one. Like someone had tried to replicate a natural odor and didn’t get it right.

“Ronnie, get to the story,” Jack said, directing the guy back on point.

“Okay, okay,” Ronnie said, hair falling into his eyes. “So my friend gives me a piece of paper. Directions. He says just drive over to Clement County and pick up five pounds of weed. No money. It’s all on the front. All I have to do is go see the little dude.”

Jack smiled at me, really broad.

Ronnie kept on rolling with his tale. “Only my guy told me, ‘Don’t call him little, dude, or midget, he don’t like that.’ I said, ‘Cool, man. I just go pick up five pounds of homegrown from a dude and drive it back.’”

“And you got five pounds?” I asked, my excitement growing.

Ronnie sighed, tilting his head back. “No, man, you can check. I don’t have any weed. No cash. Nothing.”

Now I was getting into this. I knew he had to be talking about Londell Creech.

“Tell him,” Jack prompted.

The smell was distracting me. I couldn’t place it, though it kind of smelled familiar. Almost like suntan lotion.

Ronnie gave us a ticked-off look like he thought we were making fun of him. Another sigh. “So I drive out in the middle of nowhere on this road. Whitehouse Road. I remember because it made me think of D.C. and the president. And I went way back, and just like my guy said, there’s this big old brick house on cleared land. It’s lit up like the Vegas strip. Music going. Every light on, like a party. I pull up in the yard, thinking there will be a ton of folks there, but no one was around. I rang the front door. I yelled.”

“And?” I asked.

“No one answered. I walked around the back, where this big old steep hill was. There’s one dude and a chick. All stoned. And they’re slip-sliding.”

“Slip-sliding?”

“Yeah,” the guy said. “You know, those things kids have that are slick plastic. Lay it down and hook a hose up and they slip-slide on it.”

“Got it,” I said.

“This little dude is running around smoking a big old doobie and is only wearing a leopard-print man-thong. And the chick is naked. They are slip-sliding. Except this is the longest, biggest slip-slide I think ever was made.” He paused. “So I said hello and asked about the weed. He said his brothers were gone and I had to see one of them. He said I could wait. So we smoked some weed, and they slid down the hill.”

“Tell him about the water,” Jack prompted.

Ronnie gave a disgusted snort. “It wasn’t water on the slip-slide.”

Coconut! The funky not-right smell I was smelling: it was coconut.

Ronnie kept talking. “They had tons of these industrial-sized jugs of the stuff. Poured on the plastic and rubbed it on themselves.” He made a disgusted noise.

“Love Doctor’s Lubricant?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Ronnie said. “It was everywhere. Empty jugs thrown around. And more stacks of full bottles waiting to be used. So the chick and the dude were sliding around. I sat and smoked a little. Somewhere along the way the dude grabbed one of those funny hats like foreigners wear.”

“A bowler,” I said. Hobart Creech.

“Whatever,” Ronnie said. “The slide had to be close to a football field long and ran straight down this big-ass hill. They’d pump some of that stuff on their hands, rub it all over, and dive onto that plastic. Slicker than snot, they’d shoot down the hill. Laugh all the way down. Walk up the hill. Smoke dope. Slide down again.” He looked at me. “I got bored. I had just drove halfway across Kentucky, so I was already tired. A few tokes on a joint and I was out like a light. It was awesome weed. I woke up just as they rolled me onto the plastic, and that little dude gave me a shove, and I started downhill headfirst.”

He glanced back and forth between Jack and me. “Man, once you hit that stuff there was no stopping. And the worst part was that little dude jumped on my back like I was a sled or something. I’m a big dude.”

“And gravity,” I commented.

“Yeah, gravity. Just like in school,” Ronnie said. “Gravity sucked us down faster and faster. We were zipping down this hill, between trees. Rocks. Whatever. And then it ended. And we skidded another twenty feet, damn near slamming right into a boulder. The little dude laughed all the way down the hill. That ride scared me.”

Falling back into the grass, Ronnie looked up at the sky. “Man, I’ve been in some fights in prison. Shanks and knives. But I was more afraid zipping down that hill inches away from a big old oak or a rock splitting my head open. I said, forget this. My guy told me the main dude I was to deal with was crazy. And he wasn’t the one nearly banging my head off the land riding down that slip-and-slide. That dude in the leopard-print thong was crazy enough for me. I didn’t want to meet his brother. I got the hell out of there intending not to slow down until I got out of this county.”

Jack pulled me away a few steps. “What do you think?”

Raising my voice, I said, “Ronnie, I think we can let you off with a warning this time.”

After we had Ronnie give us all the info he had about the house, Jack and I raced back to the office, where we came up with this great idea. Others would call it harebrained. But to us two rookies, it was a great plan. We used Ronnie’s statement about where he went (the Creeches’) and who he met (Hobart Creech) as well as the description of the slip-and-slide (matching the type of material stolen from Poppa Roche’s) and the brand and enormous quantity of Love Doctor lube (ditto for Poppa Roche’s burglary), and we thought we could get ourselves a search warrant for the Creech residence. Even better, with only a stoned and half-naked Hobart there, the two rookies could easily be the heroes and solve Poppa’s burglary. One stoned Hobart against two of the finest of the thin gray line. No problem. It was a foolproof plan.

When we knocked on the county attorney’s door with our freshly typed affidavit in hand, he was more than a little mad. However, after he read our work and saw what we were doing, he was all in. Did I mention that the prosecutor and judge also liked eating at Poppa’s place? From there we went to the judge’s house, where Jack swore out the search warrant.

When we finally got the warrant, it was after 3 a.m., so we figured even the ne’er-do-well relatives on Whitehouse Road would be asleep or passed out drunk or stoned and not be able to rouse old Hobart. Our plan was to ease up Whitehouse Road. Not going too fast. Not going too slow. With a little luck we would get to the Creeches’ big brick house while Londell and the others were out doing Lord knows what. We would snatch up Hobart, and once we located the missing stove and griddle, along with all of the plastic and Love Doctor’s product, it would be time for first-shift troopers to come in to work. All of those senior troopers could come help us heroes tote out all of the stolen property.

Sounded like a great plan.

Jack and I slid into his car and headed toward our destination. We waited until we were already headed down the road before I keyed the radio to dispatch. “Dispatch, be advised Units 322 and 575 are en route to 1072 Whitehouse Road.”

A long pause as the night dispatcher probably rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Unit 322, I don’t have a call for that address.”

“Dispatch, we will be serving a search warrant for stolen property there,” I said. Then I keyed the microphone and made static noises and half words. “Dispatch we... when... contact post when we’re ten-seven.”

Jack suggested we switch off the radio. I didn’t do that, but I did turn the volume all the way down, so we could honestly say we couldn’t hear dispatch call for us.

To get an idea of Whitehouse Road, you have to picture a small, barely two-lane road that snakes this way and that. More curves than straightaways. Hillside on one side and wooded drop-offs on the other. Every little bit, a house or trailer would be in a flat spot or just visible through the trees. Most with only a porch light on, or a lone bulb glowing in through a window. The rest was darkness and shadows of trees, the road only illuminated as far as the light from the headlights.

As we drove deeper into the holler, the thicker the trees got and the farther apart the houses were. And the darker it seemed to get.

We rounded one long curve and there was a great big house and driveway. And it was lit up like it was on the Vegas strip. We didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing us roll up. AC/DC’s “Back in Black” was pumping out of a huge stereo someone had dragged out into the driveway with an extension cord running back into the house.

Jack pulled the Crown Vic to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, and we quietly got out, each taking one side of the driveway. Heading up the gravel drive, we kept our eyes open and one hand on our holstered pistols. As we passed the stereo, Jack reached down and gave the cord a yank, killing the music. The silence was deafening.

Together, Jack and I eased around to the back of the house, since that was where Ronnie said Hobart had been when he left. Moving through the carport, we took a flagstone path toward the rear of the house, where I could see at least an acre or more of cleared land sloping down to the bottom of the hill. As I rounded a corner, my foot kicked into something that skittered away, bouncing into the night. Looking down, I saw there were empty plastic bottles scattered along the pathway and into the yard. Love Doctor’s Lubricant. Sure enough, there was a long tongue of black plastic rolled all the way down the backyard out of the range of the light into the darkness. The slide started fifteen feet from a nice concrete patio with lounge chairs and a grill. Two of the lounge chairs were occupied. Curled up on one was a woman as naked as the day she was born. Flopped in the second chair with his legs and arms spread out in a wide X was Hobart Creech. Still wearing the leopard-print thong and bowler. Snoring away. Tucked in at the corner of the patio were neatly stacked cartons. You guessed it. More Love Doctor product standing by, ready to slather up and slide down.

Jack kicked the side of Hobart’s chair with his shoe. “Mr. Creech. MR. CREECH!” Raising his voice had gotten a slight stir out of him. “MR. CREECH. STATE POLICE!” Jack had a booming voice that could rattle your teeth.

Hobart stirred and opened an eye. Lazily a hand rose, pointing. “I know you.”

I nodded. “Trooper Stokes and Trooper O’Bannon, Mr. Creech. We have a warrant to search your house for stolen property.”

Now, you would think a man stoned and slow to stir would not be so quick, but my words must have been like a starter pistol going off for a track star. Hobart sat up bolt straight and yelled, “I’m not going to jail.”

“Now, Mr. Creech,” Jack said, reaching a hand to grab the man’s wrist. Hobart yanked. His hand slipped right out of Jack’s grasp.

Jumping up, Hobart cried, “I’m not going to jail.” He leapt between Jack and me to make a dash toward the front. Running between us should have been a mistake, because we both instinctively grabbed for him, but our hands just slid off his skin. Hobart was lacquered up in Love Doctor slippery action formula in layers like wax on a surfboard. And for a small fellow, Hobart sure could run fast. About every time his foot came down, he yelled, “I’m not going to jail. I’m not going to jail.”

Jack and I gave chase. Now, Hobart’s advantage was he had a good start and he knew the lay of the land. Jack and me weren’t stoned and we had greater strides on Hobart. Still, he rounded the corner into the carport and made it into the house in time for the screen door to slam closed. Pausing, Jack ripped the door outward and off its hinges in one yank, and in we went.

“Hobart, calm down and stop,” I said. The carport door led us into the kitchen. Hobart was already across the linoleum floor into the living room, two angry state troopers on his heels. There was a large couch in the middle of the room, and Hobart paused on the back side of it to catch his breath, keeping the couch between us.

“Troopers, I’m not going to jail,” he said in between ragged breaths. Jack edged toward the left side of the couch. I moved to the right. I had to move quick, because I thought Hobart might try to make it to the front door on my side and run into the night. Hobart feinted toward me but spun on his heels and tried to squirt past Jack on the inside of the couch. He almost would have made it, but Jack dove onto Hobart and both of them rolled onto the carpet in a mess of limbs.

“I’m not going to jail!” Hobart wailed, thrashing.

Jack had a hold of one of Hobart’s arms and was trying to fish a pair of handcuffs out of his belt pouch with his free hand. I grabbed Hobart’s other arm, figuring that between the two of us, we should be able to hang on to one arm until we could get him cuffed.

Now, if this was the worst of our plan falling apart, we could have handled a little slicked-up thief trying to get away. But no. What we didn’t know until later was that the other Creech brothers had been gone all evening trying to pull Londell’s Caddy out of a ditch. They tried to use their second car to pull Londell out, but all they succeeded in doing was getting both cars stuck and having to hitch a ride home. We knew none of this as Jack and I tussled with Hobart on the living room floor. Hobart had quit screaming. It was taking all of his concentration to keep us from cuffing a hand. It was all we could do to hang on to him. I felt like I was in an oil wrestling contest. And I was losing. We were all grunting and squirming. Rolling this way and that.

Then I had this feeling that someone was watching me. I looked over my left shoulder at Londell Creech, the king of the Creeches, standing in the doorway. Behind him was a line of Creeches. Without a word, Londell took off at a dead run toward us, the other Creeches following right behind, like a charge of warriors from a medieval battle.

Rolling away from Hobart, I tried to get to my feet but only made it to my knees when the first body slammed into me, followed by a second piling on top. A rain of kicks and punches started hammering me. Luckily the body armor under my shirt absorbed a lot of that energy, but my head took a few shots. For several minutes it was a mass of bodies rolling around and around, trying to gain leverage and the upper hand. I think we wrestled from one end of the living room floor to the other. Londell Creech was trying to choke or hit me, and one of his brothers was trying to wrap up my legs. At one point Londell scrambled onto my back, slipping his arm around my throat. Choking me. My lungs screamed for oxygen, but none was coming. Desperately, I flailed my arms, trying to get him off me. I was hoping to hit any body part. Then I started trying to pull his hair. When my fingers found a nostril, I dug in deep. Yanked. Hard. The arms choking me dropped away as my attacker howled.

Pausing to suck in lungfuls of air, I looked over and saw that Jack had managed to stagger to his feet with a Creech latched onto each arm. Windmilling his body back and forth, he threw one Creech into a wall behind him. When he pivoted the other way, he let that one sail across and land in a cupboard. Standing straight up was Jack’s downfall.

Hobart had gotten up but had not run away. Instead of shooting out the front door, he scrambled onto the back of the couch, standing at full height, sort of reminding me of Nature Boy Ric Flair on the top rope of a wrestling ring. Once Jack was upright, Hobart let out a banshee scream and jumped off the couch, his fist hitting Jack right in the face. Blood spurted from Jack’s broken nose as he toppled back to the ground.

At that point I had my own hands full. Both of my attackers had clambered up on me and ridden me to the ground. One smacked my head into the floor, sending bright shards of pain through my brain. I felt a pair of hands clawing at my holster. Now, I don’t know if they would have killed me if they got my gun, but I locked my hand down on my pistol, feeling panic rise in me. Here we were just wanting to be heroes with an easy bust, solve a crime and show the old guys we knew what we were doing. I really didn’t want to shoot someone over a stolen kitchen appliance, some plastic sheeting, and all the Love Doctor lube in the world. I knew if this kept up, either I would lose my gun or, if we couldn’t get them to stop, I’d have to shoot. The hand pawing at my holster was relentless. And the other one was pummeling my sides and back.

I felt the holster give and the heavy Smith slide. Instead of pushing the gun back in, I frantically grabbed the grip, swinging the heavy hunk of steel this way and that in a wide arc. On one swing I felt the blade of the front sight hit something fleshy. Shifting around, I rolled until my gun grabber and I were almost face-to-face, but I had rolled on top. Rearing up, I smacked the gun down, splitting his head open.

Struggling to my feet, I put my back against a wall, wildly pointing the gun this way and that, sweeping the barrel over every person standing in the room. I thumbed back the hammer on that big-old-hogleg .357 Magnum.

With one hand I reached down and helped Jack stand up. He was wobbly on his feet, blood pouring from his nose, staining all the way down his torn shirt. My badge was halfway torn off of mine.

My desperation must have been plain on my face. Motioning with the muzzle, I told the Creeches, “The first one that even moves wrong, I’m going to shoot.” They saw I was serious and raised their hands. Londell was bleeding from his own ruptured nose. A Creech I didn’t know had his hand held to his scalp where I’d laid him open. Another one was nursing a broken arm.

Marching them out into the front yard, I had them sit on the ground, arms still up, while Jack staggered back to the cruiser to radio for help. I was beyond caring about the immense trouble Jack and I were going to be in. I just kept hearing Morman’s voice in my head telling me to take plenty of backup when dealing with the Creeches.

Over the years I’ve dealt with criminals who have wanted to fight. But I have never had a knock-down drag-out fight like that night. Those Creech boys were small but they were determined. It dawned on me right then that they might be disadvantaged as criminals. It’s easy being a bad hombre when you’re as big as my friend Jack O’Bannon. It’s another to be a bad outlaw when your genes have shortened your stature. The Creeches hadn’t shied away from their outlaw ways. They relished it. Yet they had to be twice as tough and twice as mean to make it as criminals.

In my book, pound for pound, inch for inch, no criminal is as flat-out bad as the Clement County Creeches.

I’m here to tell you, them Creeches are the baddest outlaws alive.