Catfish Fever

The Impala raced along the open stretch of road, whipping past vast fields of corn, wheat and soybeans. Deep Purple’s Highway Star blared through the speakers of the car. The current tape in the cassette player had been the inspiration for Dean’s and Sam’s latest choice of identities.

Dean loosened the knot of his tie, feeling that it was too restraining. He pulled the strip of fabric from his neck, tossing it on the seat beside him. He then wrestled with the topmost buttons on his crisp, white shirt, no longer wanting anything binding around his neck.

Now, more comfortable, he continued to follow the Sheriff’s car at speeds approaching one hundred miles per hour. Though he was on his way to a crime scene, he was delighted to open his baby up without risk of getting ticketed.

The procession of county vehicles began to turn off the paved road. A plume of dust immediately engulfed the Impala from the tail end of the cars before him. Dean’s visibility plummeted to near zero. If not for the whirling blue lights on top of the car in front of him, the hunter probably would’ve driven off the road.

He was relieved when they left the dusty road, to drive on what looked like ruts through tall grass and weeds. Up ahead, at the end of the field, stood a tall stand of trees, and a lone man.

One by one, the cars came to a halt at the forest’s edge.

Dean exited the Impala, stepping into nearly waist high weeds. He made a point to walk on the area where the tires from the vehicles before him had knocked the grass down.

The Sheriff stepped out of his car, and placed a cowboy hat on top of his bald head. He waited for Dean to approach, as the rest of the deputies and two paramedics disappeared into the woods.

“We’ve gotta trek about a quarter mile through the woods,” announced Sheriff Kyle once Dean had joined him.

Both men set off, following the same path as the others.

“What do you know about this one, Sheriff?” asked Dean, trudging alongside the hefty man.

“Henry Ledbetter spotted the body from across the river,” began the Sheriff. “Wasn’t sure what it was, so he climbed into his canoe and paddled over. Turned out it was Al Sutter.”

“How long had he been missing?” asked Dean.

“Not even a week,” answered the Sheriff. “Al was a family man. A good Christian. I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like there’s some type of black cloud looming over my town, killing good people.”

The two then entered the woods. Due to the density of the trees and underbrush, Dean had to walk behind the Sheriff instead of beside him.

“You know, Agent Gillan, this past Sunday at church, I prayed to God… Truth be told, I begged Him, I begged Him to help us, to put an end to this craziness that’s going on around here.” He glanced over his shoulder, sweat already dripping down his chubby face. “I have a feeling that God answered my prayers by sending you and your partner. I’ve got a good feeling about you, Agent. I really do.”

“I appreciate your faith in me, Sheriff,” answered Dean with a forced smile. A mosquito was buzzing around his ear, slightly distracting the hunter. “Me and my partner are pretty good at solving cases like this, that’s why the Bureau sent us. Hopefully, we’ll put this nightmare behind you soon.”

“I hope so, Agent. I hope so.”

Dean whacked his neck. Pulling back his hand, he saw a splatter of blood with the flattened villain in the center. “Little bastard,” he mumbled, rubbing the corpse of the mosquito from his palm.

Throughout the rest of the trek through the woods, the elder Winchester attempted to wave away the army of mosquitoes that seemed to swarm only him. He now wished that he kept a can of Off in the car, and vowed to buy one once he got back to town.

Several men stood at the edge of the embankment, shouting instructions to those below.

“No! No!“ shouted one of the men, who happened to be the lieutenant. “Get pictures first!”

Before Dean actually saw the body, he could smell it. The rank, putrid stench of decomposing flesh wafted into his nostrils, threatening to expel the burrito he had wolfed down earlier in the day. He chose to breathe from his mouth, but it was too late, the rotting particles were already trapped in his nose hair.

The deputies and paramedics stepped aside, allowing room for Sheriff Kyle and Dean. The two men squeezed through the dozen or so people at the top of the embankment.

At the bottom of the clay slope, about two yards upstream, was the naked body of Al Sutter. His corpse had become entangled in the skeletal limbs of dead tree that had snapped, nearly in two, at the top of the bank. The body lay face down in the water. One of the deputies snapped pictures from the bottom of the embankment.

From behind, Dean heard someone gagging, before hearing the sound of vomit splashing against the layer of shriveled leaves that formed part of the forest floor.

“Get him up, boys,” the Sheriff ordered.

The Sheriff turned away from the morbid scene and began to question Henry Ledbetter. Dean listened to the Sheriff questioning the man who had found the body, while watching a deputy’s attempts to lasso the body with a coil of rope.

“Don’t do that!” yelled one of the paramedics. “The medical examiner will have kittens if you mangle the body.”

“Well, what the hell do you expect me to do?” shouted the deputy with the rope.

“Use the damn canoe, Wiley!” the paramedic answered, pointing to the boat only a few feet behind the deputy.

“I’m not gonna touch that thing!” complained the deputy, his face wrinkled in revulsion.

“That thing, as you call it, is Al Sutter,” spat the lieutenant angrily. “It’d do you good to show some respect for the dead! Now get your ass in that canoe and retrieve his body. Wayne! Carson! You two help him!”

Dean watched as Wayne and Carson carefully got into the canoe that was moored by the jut of earth that extended out into the river.

“Careful now,” said Carson, as Wiley climbed into the vessel, his weight causing the canoe to rock dangerously from side to side.

The last deputy that entered the craft then untied the rope attached to a gnarled stump at the water’s edge.

One of the men, Wayne, then paddled the canoe over to the corpse.

Once they had reached the body, arguing broke out, as each deputy felt that his idea for hauling the corpse was the best.

“For God’s sake, stop with the damn bickering,” moaned the lieutenant from atop the embankment. “Y’all are acting like a bunch of nincompoops.”

Apparently, the trio decided to go with Wiley’s idea to float the body alongside the canoe. Wiley snapped off branches of the tree to get better access to the corpse. Terrified to touch the bloating body, he grabbed an old wet towel from inside the canoe and used that to grip the arm of Al Sutter. He then started to tug on the body.

“It’s stuck!” he cried out.

“Well then, un-stick it, moron,” groaned Carson, using the oars to keep the boat steady.

Dean shook his head, doing his best not to laugh. It almost seemed like he was witnessing a scene from the Three Stooges.

“Watch it! Don’t tip the canoe over!” barked Wayne.

“Shit!” grumbled Wiley, struggling with the corpse. After several long seconds, the body came free.

“Show some respect, Wiley, and flip the body over.”

The deputy glanced up at the lieutenant standing on top of the embankment. “Are you serious? Can’t we wait until we bring him ashore?”

“Are you questioning my authority?” queried the lieutenant, a tinge of warning to his tone.

“No, sir,” he answered dejectedly. Wiley then reached for the far side of Al Sutter’s body. He stretched out the old towel on the man’s rotting flesh before gripping his side. In one swift motion, he heaved the body over, causing a domino effect that Dean found rather comical.

A turtle had been eating at the man’s flesh and went flying toward Wiley when he flipped the body. Wiley, in turn, let out a blood-curdling shriek as he jumped back, away from the turtle. The sudden shift of weight caused the canoe to capsize, sending all three deputies into the water.

The freed corpse then began to float with the current.

“God damn it!” shouted the lieutenant, tossing his hat to the ground. “If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.” He then slid down the slope and waded into the water. “You assholes! That water ain’t even deep.” He reached out and grabbed Al Sutter’s foot, pulling the body to the shore.

The corpse was then wrapped in a sheet of canvas. It took eight men, including Dean, to get the body up the embankment.

Once on flat ground, the covering was pulled back so that the Sheriff and Dean could more closely inspect the body. Just like all the other victims, Al Sutter’s genitals had been removed. One could not tell whether or not the flesh had been cut, as turtles had been eating away at that part of the man’s body.

But something caught Dean’s eye. He looked at one of the paramedics. “You gotta another pair of those?” he asked, motioning to the man’s latex gloves.

The man reached into his pocket. “Only got one,” he answered, offering Dean the one glove.

“Thanks,” he said, wrestling the glove onto his hand.

“You see something?” asked the Sheriff, who stood beside Dean.

“I think so,” answered the elder Winchester, squatting beside the corpse. Lifting the man’s hand, he took a closer look at his fingernails. “You see that? Looks like something’s under his nails.”

Both the Sheriff and paramedic leaned in closer. “Yeah, looks kinda green,” observed Sheriff Kyle.

“Probably just some algae or something,” remarked the paramedic. “River’s full of stuff like that.”

“Maybe,” answered Dean. His eyes darted to the pen protruding from the Sheriff’s shirt pocket. “Can I borrow that for a sec?” he asked, eyeing the pen.

“This?” replied Sheriff, his fingers on the device.

The hunter nodded.

“Sure thing,” answered the Sheriff, handing him the pen.

Dean then slid the pen under the man’s finger nails, digging out the green-colored flake. “Hmm. Looks like some sort of fish scale.”

“There ain’t no fish in these waters that have scales like that,” remarked Sheriff Kyle.

Dean let the man’s hand fall back down, as he continued to scrutinize the scaly looking thing at the end of the pen. “No, that definitely looks like some type of scale, Sheriff.”

The paramedic picked up Al Sutter’s hand that Dean had dropped. “He’s got it under all four of his fingernails. Maybe the medical examiner will know what it is.”

Dean wanted to keep a sample for himself. He pulled out a little Ziploc baggie from the interior pocket of his jacket, flicking the green scale inside.

“There you go, Sheriff,” said Dean, offering him back his pen.

The Sheriff cringed. “Oh, no. You keep it.”

Dean was happy to have his first clue, although it pretty much put the kibosh on his whole succubus theory. He still wanted to take some EMF readings, but he couldn’t with so many people around.

Standing back up, the elder Winchester said, “Yeah, well, ah, I’m gonna check out the area upriver. See if I can, uh, find anything.” He scratched at one of the many mosquito bites on his neck.

“Er, um, I’d come with you,” said the Sheriff hesitantly, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief, “but I need to speak with the medical examiner… If you’d like, some of my deputies could tag along.”

Dean’s eyes shifted to the three drenched men that he called Larry, Curly and Moe in his mind. “That’s a generous offer, Sheriff Kyle, but I’d prefer to go on my own.” He looked back at the man and gave him a smile.

Sheriff Kyle gave a quick nod of his head. He couldn’t blame Agent Gillan one bit, especially after the agent had witnessed the ineptness of his deputies. “Well, if you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Absolutely.” Dean then turned and headed north, following the course of the Washita River. Chuckling to himself over the whole debacle with the deputies, he now had a better understanding of why these people couldn’t solve these crimes. And it had nothing to do with the supernatural element to the case, only the incompetence of the people involved. Yep, these people needed him and Sammy. If they didn’t find the monster responsible for these killings, then the entire noodling population would end up dead.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean growled, slapping another mosquito dead on his neck. “I know I’m sweet, but this is getting ridiculous.”

Despite the infestation of mosquitoes, Dean continued to plod on. Part of the conversation he had overheard between the Sheriff and that Ledbetter guy mentioned that Al Sutter had a small fishing camp a couple of miles upriver. From what Dean recalled, the victim went there when he needed to get away from the wife for a bit.

Probably an overbearing bitch, he thought.

Nevertheless, Dean thought he’d check the place out, even though the deputies had gone there after Sutter’s disappearance. Chances were there was some type of clue there that the Barney Fife’s of Garvin County might have overlooked.

Perspiring like crazy, Dean pulled off his jacket, and threw it over his shoulder. He’d give anything to feel a cool breeze against his damp skin, or better yet, to drink an ice-cold brewski.

The elder Winchester had come across a couple of homes during his hike, but they were much too nice to qualify as a fishing camp. The third place he stumbled upon had to be the place. It was an old, run-down seventies model RV with a faded red and white striped awning on the back. Two green plastic chairs sat on either side of a rock circle fire pit.

“Looks like a fishing camp to me,” mumbled Dean as he headed toward the camper. He was surprised to find the place unlocked. The hunter slung his jacket over the metal hand rail of the steps before entering the RV. The padlock that he assumed normally secured the place, sat on the counter just inside the door.

“You’re my kind of Christian, Al,” chuckled Dean, as he picked up the latest issue of Playboy that lay beside the padlock. He flipped through the pages, stopping at the centerfold. “Ooh, Miss June - you’re definitely a hottie.” The hunter’s attention was diverted from his mission, as he continued to ogle the nakedness of the Playboy Centerfold. Feeling his blood pressure rise (among others things!), Dean forced himself to close the magazine. He then resumed his search of the place, looking for any possible clues.

Checking out the mini-fridge, he nearly cried tears of joy when he saw three cold Pabsts on the otherwise empty shelf. “Not my first choice, but it’s cold.” He popped the tab on the can. “Here’s to you, Al.” Dean then took a long swig, downing nearly half the can.

Belching, he decided to investigate outside, which felt much cooler than inside the RV. With his beer in hand, the hunter strolled toward the river where a set of wooden steps led to a floating dock below. He descended the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he looked up and down the dark, murky river. An old log slowly drifted by, but other than that, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

He stood there, taking a minute to enjoy the rest of his cheap beer. Dean then noticed something twinkle in the river, beside the dock. He shifted his head, but lost sight of it. Trying to move his head back to its original position, he spotted what looked like a glimmer of silver in the sunlight.

He dropped to his knees, uttering, “Please, don’t be a body. Please don’t be a body.” He reached his hand into the warm water, his fingers wrapping around something hard and thin. The silver ring was attached to something else. He started to pull it up. It appeared that the silver thing he saw was actually a ferrule of a fishing pole. The line was still intact and had some slack in it. But there was something on the other end of the pole that seemed to weigh it down.

Dean repeated, “Please don’t be a body. Please don’t be a body,” as he heaved the pole up, hand over hand.

It appeared that something had gotten caught around the reel of the fishing pole. It looked to be clothing of some sort. He placed the pole on the dock, and then began to untangle the soaking wet garments. Dean’s first guess had been wrong. The clothes had deliberately been wrapped around the pole. The first item he untangled was a red flannel shirt with the arms cut off.

“How stylish,” he mumbled, tossing it to the side.

The hunter could feel something hard in the pocket of the denim shorts he was unwinding from the pole. When he got the shorts free, he reached in the pocket and pulled out a wallet. Water dripped from the brown leather as he flipped it open. Immediately, he saw a driver’s license.

“Alvin Robert Sutter,” he read aloud. He rifled through the contents of the wallet. Everything appeared to be there including cash and credit cards. Dean was flummoxed. Why was the man’s clothing, including his wallet, hidden in river? No serpent-like creature was capable of doing something like this? Could it be that the deputy in the Sheriff’s office was right, that they were dealing with some sick, Jack the Ripper wannabe?

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked out across the river with a puzzled expression on his face.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he queried softly to himself.

The elder Winchester got back on his feet, and headed toward the camper with the wallet in hand. He slipped the wallet into his jacket pocket before securing the RV.

Before he left, he checked the area with his EMF counter. Nothing abnormal showed up. Puzzled, Dean then set out for the trek back to the Impala, trying to piece together the clues he had collected, as he went along. He was eager to talk with Sammy, to see if he had had any luck with that Truluck kid.

As soon as Dean got back into town, he drove to the nearest drug store and picked up a can of Off and some Benadryl spray. By the time he climbed back in the Impala, he had doused the many mosquito bites on his face and neck with the topical analgesic. He then headed back to the motel, eager to get out of his sweat-drenched suit and take a nice, cool shower.

By the time he finished dressing, Sam had still not returned. He called his brother, and ended up leaving a message. With his stomach grumbling, Dean took off to get a bite to eat.



Author’s Note: In no way am I implying that the Sheriff’s Department of Garvin County is made up of a bunch of bumbling incompetents. The characters in this story are a work of fiction and are not based on any real people. I mean no disrespect to the noble and courageous men (and women) of the Garvin County Sheriff’s Department.