Sycamores on the river cast long shadows in the burnt auburn hue, and golden shafts punched holes through plump clouds that looked ripe to carry wetness for days. Woodpeckers knocked and pecked as spring water rose and swooshed through gullies and creeks, climbing their walls and swelling the ditches in low-country places, as the limbs grew plump with leaves and branches fought branches when the cool river kicked up wind. Deputy Sheriff Dale Everett Banks stood beside the mobile home with a shotgun in his hands. He watched the windows for movement and listened for the sounds an old trailer makes when someone inside walks in a manner in which not to be detected. “You in there, Jerry Dean? This is the Gasconade County Sheriff’s Department.” Jerry Dean Skaggs was a convict on parole, for shooting a bald eagle, and a shit bum to all who knew him. He was violent, had a burly appetite for amphetamines, and was known to have a mean drunk-on come evening.
