Catfish Fever

The Impala pulled into the parking lot of the Garden Inn Motel in the sleepy town of Pauls Valley, Oklahoma. While Dean went to the office to pay for their room, Sam retrieved their bags from the trunk of the car.

The younger hunter yawned, having spent half the night researching the sport of noodling and the disappearances of the men that had started last summer. Sam’s gut told him that something evil had crept into the county’s waterways, something diabolical. And, deep down, he knew that the newspapers weren’t revealing everything. It was time to go undercover.

“Gotta room, Sammy,” said Dean, walking up to the Impala.

“Here.” Sam handed the older Winchester his bag.

Once they had settled into their room, they changed out of their jeans and tee shirts and into their suits.

“Let’s talk to the Sheriff first,” said Sam when they got back into the car.

Dean backed out of the parking space before peeling out of the parking lot and onto west Grant Avenue. They drove the nearly two miles to the Sheriff’s station.

When the brothers entered the building, they informed the clerk behind the counter that they were F.B.I. agents and needed to speak with the Sheriff.

A few minutes later, a deputy approached the two. “You the ones with the F.B.I.?” he queried, his hazel eyes doing a quick survey of the brothers.

“Yes,” replied Sam with a nod of his head.

“Follow me,” instructed the deputy, turning on his heel and marching down the hallway.

Dean remained frozen to the spot, ogling the buxom secretary behind the half-wall.

She smiled back, batting her eyelashes at the elder Winchester.

Before Dean could make his move, Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ow! What did you do that for?” he said in a low hiss, rubbing his side.

“Not now, Dean,” Sam threatened in a mere whisper.

They followed the deputy into the Sheriff’s office.

Seated behind the cluttered desk was Sheriff Kyle Whitaker. He was a portly fellow, nearly bald. The only hair on his head was the gray strips that arched over either ear. A toothpick, which he chewed from time to time, dangled from his mouth. With the telephone receiver pressed to his ear, he motioned the two men to the empty chairs in front of his desk.

From behind, the brothers heard the office door close with a click. The deputy that had escorted them remained in the room, leaning against the back wall with his arms folded across his chest.

While the Sheriff finished his phone call, the two hunters looked around the room and at the many animal heads mounted on the walls. By the looks of it, the Sheriff was an avid hunter and fisherman. There were deer and wild boar heads affixed to the wall as well as a couple of large mouth bass.

“Sorry about that, boys,” said the Sheriff with an Oklahoman twang, as he hung up the receiver. “I’m Kyle Whitaker, Sheriff of Garvin County, but people ‘round here call me Sheriff Kyle.” He offered the two men a weak smile. “I hear you’re F.B.I.,” continued the Sheriff, reclining back in his chair.

Immediately, both hunters’ hands slipped inside their coat pockets, pulling out their fake I.D.’s.

“I’m Agent Blackmore, and this is my partner, Agent Gillan,” answered Sam, nudging his head towards Dean. “If you don’t mind, Sheriff, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Sheriff Whitaker nodded in reply.

Satisfied that the Sheriff wouldn’t question their identities or make that dreaded call to the Bureau, the Winchesters slipped their I.D.’s back into their pockets.

“I knew it was only a matter at time before the suits in D.C. showed up,” the Sheriff confessed with a heavy sigh. “That damned A.P. story’s brought all types of folks skulking about our little town here. Mostly reporters and the like. Act like I’m some dumb-ass hick, that I don’t understand the severity of the situation.” He shook his head dismally. “I just wish this whole thing was over.”

“The reports said that the bodies had been mutilated,” remarked Sam, very businesslike.

“Yeah, the ones that turned up, that is.” Sheriff Whitaker’s chair squeaked as he heaved his massive frame from his seat. He walked over to a bulletin board hanging between two deer heads. “Only twenty-one bodies have been found. These guys here,” he revealed, pointing to a group of photos of men tacked to the corkboard, “their bodies have turned up. But these fellows,” his stubby finger shifted to a separate set of pictures, “we haven’t seen hide nor hair of ‘em. My posse has been scouring the woods along the riverbanks in search of ‘em - ”

“ - And the rivers. Don’t forget, we’ve been doing sweeps of the rivers too, Sheriff Kyle,” interjected the deputy from the back of the room.

“ - But nothing.” The Sherriff shook his head yet again. “We’ve got some lunatic running around here, targeting fishermen. What the hell’s up with that?” he asked, fixing his troubled gaze on the Winchester brothers. “You guys specialize in profiling, don’t you? What kind of wacko are we dealing with here?”

“It’s hard to say,” answered Dean. “We need more info first.”

“Exactly how were the bodies mutilated, Sheriff?” asked Sam, eager to obtain as much information as possible in order to find the culprit behind the massacres.

The Sheriff didn’t immediately answer. He nervously chewed on his toothpick, his eyes shifting to the deputy. He slowly returned to his chair, easing down onto the seat, which groaned from the man’s weight. Rifling through a stack of files on his desk, he pulled one out and handed it to Sam. “Have a look for yourself,” he answered grimly. “But, I’m warning you - those crime scene photos are… well, disturbing, to say the least.”

Sam flipped open the file.

Dean leaned closer to get a better look at the pictures. “Jesus,” he muttered, his eyes wide from shock.

“Heinous, ain’t it?” commented the Sheriff, keenly watching the change in the Winchesters’ facial expressions. “All the victims had one thing in common: their sex organs had been cut out. The medical examiner seems to think that our killer has a medical background, that no average Joe off the streets could make incisions that precise.”

At the mere mention of genital mutilations, Dean had crossed his legs and placed his cupped hands protectively over his crotch.

“I think we’re dealing with some modern day Jack the Ripper,” suggested the deputy at the back of the room. “A copycat killer.”

Sam twisted around in his chair, fixing his gaze on the deputy. “I don’t think so,” he answered. “The m.o. isn’t quite the same.”

“Sheriff Kyle,” started Dean, “do you recall any strange or unusual happenings in the area before the killings started?”

“Like what?” queried the Sheriff, narrowing his baffled eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know. Any one, perhaps, move into the area around that time, someone that seemed a little… odd or reclusive?”

The Sheriff leaned forward in his chair, placing his clasped hands on his desk. “People come and go all the time. Most people moving into the area just want to be left alone, to try their hands at farming. I can’t imagine anyone coming here to slaughter noodlers.”

“Unfortunately, sir, someone has,” answered Sam.

The Winchesters finished their interview with the Sheriff, who graciously offered all his resources to the young men. Sam and Dean were anxious to speak with some of the victims’ friends and family and it was suggested that they go to Bob’s Pig Shack, a local barbeque joint that doubled as a hangout for noodlers.

“So what do you think we’re dealing with here, Sammy?” asked Dean as they made their way toward the car.

“I don’t know yet,” replied the younger Winchester.

“Well, to me, it sounds like we’re dealing with a deranged succubus.”

Sam looked at his brother, his brow raised in question.

“It’s possible,” answered Dean off his brother’s look.

“Yeah, well, maybe. Let’s see if we can learn anything from the noodlers themselves.”

The brothers then drove over to Bob’s Pig Shack.

Of course, all the talk inside the restaurant was about the two latest victims that had been found in the Washita River.

“So, both of you knew the victims?” asked Dean of the two men seated in the booth opposite himself and Sam.

“I’ve known Scott and Billy since we were young'uns,” answered the grief-stricken man, Carl Truluck. “I can’t believe they’re gone,” he added softly.

“And Sheriff Kyle’s fat ass is good for nothing!” spat Bob Barber angrily, adjusting the John Deere cap on his head as he spoke. “Thirty-seven have gone missing, and only twenty-one have washed ashore, dead. And no one knows crap!”

“The County Commissioners have called off this year’s tournament too,” said Carl. “Say they don’t want anyone noodling the rivers until the killer’s caught.”

“Did,” Sam glanced at his note pad, “Scott and Billy have any enemies?”

“Nah,” answered Carl with a shake of his head.

Yet the look on Bob Barber’s face said otherwise.

“What?” queried Dean, immediately honing in on the man.

“Well, Billy and Al Sutter got into a scuffle the day before he disappeared… ”

“Al Sutter?!” repeated an appalled Carl. “Al ain’t no murderer.”

“He was pissed off that Billy was fishing his hole. They did get into a knock down, drag out fight.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” remarked Carl to the man seated beside him. “Sometimes, I wonder why I’m even friends with you. How could you ever say a thing like that?” He turned his gaze back to the Winchesters. “Billy was at Al’s house for supper not two nights before he vanished. They weren’t enemies. Competitors, yes, but not enemies.”

“Then why did Al skip town?” asked Bob, accusatory in tone. “Tells me he’s guilty as hell!”

“Al Sutter left town?” queried Sam. “When?”

“I don’t know exactly,” answered Bob, adjusting his cap again. “Maybe a few days ago.”

“Al wouldn’t hurt a fly!” protested Carl. “Bob here’s just pissed ‘cause Al could out-fish him.” He turned his narrowed eyes toward the man seated beside him. “You still can’t get over the fact that Al beat you in the tournament last year. Man, just let it go.”

Bob’s face turned pink. He shifted his gaze out the window, brewing in silence.

Carl rubbed his stubbly chin and then continued. “Listen, we noodlers look after one another. This a dangerous sport. We’re all… we’re all like family. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that any of us are behind these murders. Hell, Sheriff Kyle even checked us all out. Every one of us was accounted for when the disappearances happened.” He paused, looking furtively at those seated nearby. Carl then leaned closer to Sam and Dean and said, “My boy, Sonny, says he saw something strange out at the Washita River - ”

“ - Aw, shit,” interjected Bob, screwing his face in exasperation, “don’t start that crazy talk again.”

“What? What crazy talk?” asked Dean, his interest piqued by what Carl’s son had seen.

Before Carl could answer, Bob continued with, “You can’t believe a thing that boy said. Hell, Dale Johnston said that he had caught Sonny in his pastures, picking shrooms off his cows’ turds. He was hallucinating off that stuff.”

Dean tried his best to conceal his amusement. He had tried psychedelic mushrooms once in his teens, and had vowed never to do them again.

“What did your boy see?” asked Sam in all seriousness.

With a look of disgust on his face, Bob barked, “You’ve gotta be kidding me. How could you take anything that kid says seriously - ”

“ - Sir, please,” interjected Sam, cutting off Bob’s sentence. He turned back to Carl. “Please, tell us what your son saw.”

Bob mumbled his discontent, as he took a sip of his iced tea.

“My boy is a noodler too. Third generation,” explained Carl. “Says he went out to the Washita River about a week or so ago to, you know, scope out a potential flathead hole - ”

“ - Flathead?” queried Dean, unsure of what Carl was talking about.

“Flathead,” repeated Carl. “Catfish.”

“Oh, I see,” replied Dean with a nod. “Go on.”

“Any ways, says he had no luck and was heading back up the embankment to the trail when he heard something break the water’s surface. He turned and said he saw… ” Carl paused. His face began to turn slightly red. He took a deep breath and then added, “He said he saw Nessie.”

“Nessie?” repeated Sam, his brows darting upward.

“Yeah, you know, that Loch Ness Monster, the creature in them waters over there in England or somewhere.”

“It’s Scotland,” corrected Sam.

“Well, whatever. Sonny said he just saw the tail end of it, slithering in the water. Said it was long, green and scaly.”

Bob burst out laughing, slapping his John Deere cap on the edge of the table. When he noticed that the two F.B.I. agents hadn’t joined him in his mirth, he exclaimed, “Surely, you don’t believe this shit! I told you the boy was on shrooms! There ain’t no such thing as a Loch Ness Monster. It… was… a… hallucination,” he enunciated his last sentence very slowly.

“Can we speak with your boy?”

“Sure,” answered Carl. “He’s working at our campground out on Longmire Lake. I‘ll give him a call and have him come to town. Where y’all staying at? I can have him meet you there.”

“Um, the Garden Inn Motel,” answered Dean.

Both of the local men cringed upon hearing that. “That place is a dump,” remarked Carl with disdain. “Why don’t y’all come out and stay at my campground. Got some cabins - hell of a lot nicer than those rooms at that shit hole.”

“We’ll consider it,” answered Sam, offering the man a quick smile.

“Well, excuse me, while I call my boy.”

Carl then slid out of the booth and headed outside, leaving Bob alone with the two Winchesters.

“Hey,” began Dean. “I’ve gotta ask. What the hell compels you to fish with your bare hands? That’s nuts, man.”

Bob’s eyes slowly narrowed. He was insulted by the agent’s comments.

“Let me tell you something, boy,” he answered back with a sneer. “It takes a real man to noodle. Fishing poles are for pussies.” He lifted his left hand, wiggling his stub of a forefinger. “You see that? That’s what you get when you do a man’s sport.”

“A catfish bit your finger off?” asked Sam in amazement.

“No, a beaver did.”

Dean couldn’t contain himself any longer. He broke out in laughter, his mind in the gutter where it usually was. “I didn’t know beavers had teeth,” he said in his amusement.

Angered by Dean’s response, Bob left the booth in a huff.

“That doesn’t help,” scoffed Sam, slipping over to the other side of the vacated booth.

“Dude, he walked right into that,” chuckled Dean.

Shaking his head, Sam shifted his gaze to the window. He could see Carl in the parking lot, talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette. “So what do you think about what Carl’s son claims to have seen?” he asked, looking back at his brother.

“Can’t rule nothing out, bro. Whether the kid was on drugs or not, his story makes more sense then some serial killer.”

“What about your succubus theory?” queried the younger hunter.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. I think we need to check out the rivers, see if there’s any clues. If it’s a succubus, we should be able to pick up some EMF readings.”

“Yeah,” replied Sam. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

A few minutes later, Carl Truluck came back into the restaurant and informed the Winchester’s that his son would meet them at their motel in about thirty minutes.

Sam and Dean then asked the man if he could draw a map of the area where the victims had washed ashore.

“Sure thing,” he answered. Taking a seat beside Dean, he grabbed a napkin and began to sketch the roads leading to the various places on the three main waterways in which the bodies had been found.

When he had finished, the Winchesters thanked him. Dean shoved the napkin into his pocket before all three vacated the booth. They continued talking, making their way outside.

Not a second later, the shrill sound of sirens rang out from down the street.

The men watched as an ambulance went zipping by on Ash Street. Five squad cars turned onto the road from a nearby intersection. While four followed the ambulance, the other veered off the road and into the parking lot. The car screeched to a halt before the three men.

Sheriff Kyle rolled down his window. His rotund face was etched with concern and glistening with sweat. “Another body turned up,” he announced to the men.

“Who is it Sheriff Kyle?” asked Carl gravely.

“I’m afraid it’s Al Sutter,” answered the Sheriff.

Carl turned away, overcome with grief at the loss of another close friend.

“I thought you boys might want to come along,” continued the Sheriff. “Examine the crime scene first hand.”

Sam looked at Dean. “You go. I’ll wait for Sonny at the motel.”

Dean nodded. “I’m right behind you, Sheriff,” he said, running toward the Impala. The elder hunter jumped in his car and sped off, following the procession of cop cars.

When the cars had disappeared from view, Sam started walking back to the Garden Inn Motel, knowing that he could now eliminate Al Sutter from his list of suspects…