Justice for Dick & Maynard
by J.D. Clapp
On the late summer morning they dragged the river for Maynard Wilson’s body, Mary Jo Combs put rat poison in her husband, Dick’s, eggs. She knew he took his eggs scrambled, seasoned heavy on the salt and Tabasco; he wouldn’t notice.
Before he finished looking at the sports section of the Jackson Gazette, his vision blurred. His throat began to close, and his breathing became labored. He panicked, tried to stand, and crashed onto the pink Formica table before hitting the checkerboard tiled floor amid a pile of broken dishes, eggs, coffee, and toast crusts.
Mary Jo poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, walked to the icebox, added cream, then pulled up a chair next to Dick. She lit a Viceroy.
“Take your time, you sinful son of a bitch,” she said.
He stared at her, his left eye dilated, pupil fixed, the other streaming tears. His face contorted, and blue veins popped through his moist red skin. When her cigarette was to the butt, she bent over and snuffed it on her husband’s fixed eyeball. Then she lit another and watched her husband convulse below.
A clock hung crookedly on the yellow kitchen wall. Fifty-three minutes of suffering on earth; eternity of suffering in hell. Mary Jo kicked the body once to make sure, then gathered her things and drove herself to the Sheriff’s station.
After hearing her story in his cluttered office, Sheriff Miller dispatched a deputy to document the crime scene and the town’s only ambulance and firetruck just in case Mrs. Combs was having some psychotic episode. Ten minutes later, his men radioed back; Mr. Combs was indeed very dead.
“Why did you kill him?” Sheriff Miller asked.
Mary Jo glared at him, a slight snarl forming on her lips.
When Sheriff Miller locked her in the holding cell, she asked for her bible.
That afternoon, deputies snagged Maynard Wilson’s naked corpse just upstream of the covered bridge that crossed County Road 11. His pecker had been hacked clean off. The deputy in charge hurled his lunch onto the shore. After he called their find in, he sent the divers back into the river to look for a knife and the rest of Maynard.
Shortly thereafter, the local paper caught wind of the gruesome find and a reporter, the young woman who Sheriff Miller found a bit too liberal, showed up at his office. She stood at his desk and waited for him to acknowledge her. Finally, he motioned her to take a chair. He sipped his coffee and pushed his wide brim hat back on his head.
She pressed him for updates on who killed Maynard and why.
“Mr. Wilson was a known moonshiner. This murder was likely a turf war. We know of a new crew trying to bring ‘shine in from West Virginia,” Sheriff Miller told her.
“Is it possible the Klan was involved?” Miss Simpson said.
Sheriff Miller looked at the ten-point whitetail mount on the wall above the filing cabinet. Jesus, I can’t wait for deer season.
“We don’t have Klan in Jackson. This is Ohio, not Mississippi. We are confident this was related to Mr. Wilson’s illegal liquor operation, not his race.”
As she started to question that assessment, Miller raised his hand.
“Look, that’s all I’m gonna say now. This is an active investigation.”
“What about the Combs murder?” she said, not moving from her seat.
He stood up and motioned for her to follow him. In the hallway leading out of his office, he said, “It’s a domestic matter under investigation,” and went back and shut the door.
As he sat behind his desk, he shook his head, studied his deer, and pondered whether the killings were somehow related, whether race was indeed the motive. We only have three black residents in town. Shit, old Smitty and those boys are Klan sympathizers. But they drink Maynard’s shine and are nice enough to him.
“I’m going to search the Comb’s place,” he told his desk clerk, as he walked out to his cruiser.
In the bedroom of the small farmhouse, as if left for him on purpose, he found a box of letters set on the quilt atop the neatly made bed. Sheriff Miller sat and read. As he made his way through the letters, he sighed heavily. He looked at the crucifix hanging above the bed, then at the large copy of da Vinci’s Last Supper hung on the fading gold brocade wallpaper above the dresser. He shook his head.
“He had him one of those Polaroid cameras,” he said aloud, after opening one envelope.
The sheriff carefully put everything in evidence bags, then continued searching. Later that afternoon, in a small box sitting on the workbench in the Comb’s garage, he found what he needed.
Two weeks later, Mary Jo Combs stood before a judge in Athens, Ohio and pled guilty to the premeditated murders of Maynard Wilson and Dick Combs. The motive was clear; the evidence unequivocal—one hunting knife, Mary Jo’s fingerprints on the scales, and Maynard’s blood on the blade; one crowbar with the same blood evidence and fingerprints; one half-box of rat poison; one shoebox containing nine love letters from Maynard Wilson to Dick Combs; one envelope containing seven explicit nude photos of Maynard Wilson; and one mason jar containing moonshine and the severed tool of Maynard Wilson.
The judge asked if Mary Jo would like to make a statement before he sentenced her.
“Your honor, that man was a sinful son of a bitch. He got what was comin’ to him.”
The judge frowned at Mrs. Combs before he sentenced her to a term of life without parole in the Ohio State Reformatory for Women.
Sheriff Miller filled all the evidence in storage. Having no legal assets, Maynard was laid to rest in Jackson’s Potter’s Field. Dick’s unclaimed ashes sat in Sheriff Miller’s evidence room. He was glad it was over.
A week after the sentencing, the reporter sat across from Sheriff Miller pad and pen in hand. She had asked him the same question three times: Were Dick and Maynard having an affair? Sheriff Miller refused to answer, noting the case was closed; the records were sealed. He suggested she go talk to Mary Jo up at the women’s prison if she wanted to know more about her motives and methods.
“Can you at least tell me if you found letters Dick and Maynard wrote to each other?”
The sheriff shook his head. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Dickel and two glasses. He poured her a drink without asking and slid it across the table. She raised an eyebrow, put down her pad, and picked up the drink.
Sheriff Miller wrapped his knuckles on the desk and raised his glass to her.
JD Clapp lives in San Diego,CA. His work his recent work has appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, Punk Noir, and Bristol Noir. He was a 2023 Pushcart nominee for nonfiction. @jdclappwrites, www.jdclappwrites.com
JD, this is fantastic!