Episode Notes
On Thanksgiving day something is hungry and loose in a small down and it's not content to be the centerpiece of your dinner anymore. Murderous turkey's are coming, and you pissed them off!
Turkey Shoot by David O'Hanlon
Music by Ray Mattis
http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
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Transcription:
The white sheet was a Rorschach test of ruddy blooms across the uneven surface. Sheriff Eldon Hart dabbed VapoRub on his upper lip as he entered the makeshift morgue of Rhoda Baines’ office. It was little more than a meat locker built along the back wall of Country Smiles Dentistry. The tiny township of Fiddler’s Gap rarely needed a morgue—and nestled in the Ozark Mountains, they didn’t call on a dentist much either. Still, between her dental practice and double-duty as county corner, Rhoda’s office stayed busy enough. 
Deputy Alex Hargrove was new to area. Despite eight years in law enforcement, this was his first corpse and he slathered the VapoRub on his lip into a greasy mustache. Rhoda waved him off when he offered her the jar and she chuckled softly. The sound was somewhere between melodious playfulness and a braying mule and it brought a smile to the stone face of Sheriff Hart. 
Rhoda snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and passed the box to the cops who did the same. Hart flipped on the articulated examination light. He nodded to Rhoda who pulled the sheet back like a lounge-act magician clearing a tablecloth from beneath the guests’ glasses. 
“Whoo!” Deputy Hargrove leaned away. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
 “Nope,” Hart added, simply. 
The body was largely held together by the remains of his clothing. The face consisted of a few patches of flesh too stubborn to come off. The eyes were gone, along with the lips which left the tobacco-and-blood-stained teeth grinning around a maw occupied only by the stumpy remains of the victim’s tongue. The spine was a stretch of ashen desert between ravaged muscles with the soft tissue of the throat completely absent. Hart walked along the length of the steel table as he continued his observations. 
Holes, ranging from pencil-width to fist-sized, dotted the torso and the flannel shirt was in tatters around the wounds. The connective tissue of the left arm had been torn away, leaving the appendage in the sleeve, but no longer attached to the body. The gut was hollowed like a jack-o-lantern. The shredded blue jeans held much of the same. Hart poked his finger into a hole in the man’s thigh and then examined the bare tibia below.
“Okay, so what are we looking at here?” he finally asked.
“Dead Caucasian male in his thirties. No ID, but he does have a tattoo on his forearm… the part that wasn’t ate, that is.” Rhoda used a sponge to clean the torso. “Foxy found our victim about five this morning and brought him to me. I’ve left him alone, but I did a cursory examination.”
“Hell, Foxy shakes like a tweaker in an earthquake. How’d the old fart bring…” Hargrove waved his hand at the body, “this, without it falling apart?”
“Carefully.” Rhoda shrugged. 
“Alright, but what was an old hermit doing out in the woods that early?” the deputy asked.
“Foxy hunts turkeys for family’s that can’t afford one for Thanksgiving,” Hart answered. “The Fox family’s done it since the Great Depression. Foxy doesn’t like people, but he cares about them.” He prodded another hole. “What’d you mean by the part that wasn’t ate?”
“The soft tissue was destroyed—throat, crook of the arm, belly, eyes. The intestines are missing large portions and some organs are gone in their entirety.” Rhoda took a gauge and measured a puncture wound for their benefit. “These are peck marks.”
“Well, shit. I’ll go put out the APB right away.” Hargrove clapped his hands together. “Big ass bird, red thing on his head, answers to Woody.”
Hart smirked and then cleared his throat. “Scavengers dig in through the soft spots. Could be vultures found him.”
“That was my first thought.” Rhoda rolled the man on his side and raised his shirt. More peck marks and long cuts adorned the flesh. “There’s no lividity, however.” 
“Meaning?” Hart scratched at his stubble, suddenly wishing he’d stopped to make himself presentable before coming to see Rhoda. He snapped his fingers best the gloves would allow. “Shit! He bled out.”
Rhoda bit her lip and smiled. “Precisely. He was either very recently dead or… nevermind, that’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe not,” Hargrove said, catching up with Rhoda’s line of thought. “Maybe he fell and knocked himself out cold. Might’ve been in a coma or something and they thought he was dead.”
“Perhaps.” Rhoda watched the young deputy for a moment. “Pretty good theory, regardless.”
“We need Foxy to take us where he found him.” Hart leaned in to examine the cuts. “This is a murder until we prove otherwise.”

Benoit ‘Foxy’ Foxworth III leaned on the tailgate of Chevy C100 with his pipe clenched between his teeth. The truck was four different colors and two shades of rust, putting it at odds with the palatial home beyond. The Foxworths made their money in copper mining and then reinvested in oil which ensured Foxy could live comfortably for twenty lifetimes. Still, he never liked people enough to bother impressing them, so he only kept the truck running at best.
The octogenarian sharpened the thin-bladed knife meticulously while he watched the battered Dodge Durango crunch up the gravel drive. Foxy kept the trees clear so he could welcome any guests with a warning shot should they come up uninvited. Foxy set the whetstone down and sheathed the blade before going to meet the officers.
“I ain’t kill him,” Foxy said before the window was down all the way.
“I didn’t reckon you did.” Hart put the SUV in park and turned his hands over thoughtfully. “Now if he’d been shot, that would be different.”
“Well he weren’t.” Foxy stared at the sheriff before sighing and opening the backdoor of the Durango. “If we’re going back out there, you’re taking me to get some groceries on the way back. I forgot bread.”
“I think we can manage that.”
The ride along the old highway took them by Caroline Marvell’s Dine Inn motel and eatery, which counted as the area’s fine dining. The girl was barely twenty and inherited the establishment after her parents were murdered. She didn’t know much about business, but Hart made sure she turned a profit—any petty offense would be overlooked if you went straight to the Dine Inn and tipped very generously. 
Caroline waved from the front door as she finished setting up the sandwich board advertising the annual community Thanksgiving dinner that evening. The locals started the tradition when the mines dried up in the last days of the nineteenth century and kept it alive ever since. Hart even made a trip to nearby Marshall to pick up rolls and canned cranberry sauce. It didn’t seem like much of a contribution compared to the work others put in, but no one was hungry enough to eat the Sheriff’s cooking—including him. The general store’s freezer section provided the meals he didn’t get at the diner. 
“You been to the Dine Inn yet, Alex?” Hart asked.
“It’s on my list of things to do, sir.” Hargrove stared out the window at valley just beyond the flimsy guardrail. “You really think it was birds?”
“Weird shit happens out here.” Hart slowed for the turn on the old logging road. “Foxy, we going to be able to reach this spot?”
“Mostly.” Foxy puffed the sweet, rich smoke between the officers. “Game trail is pretty clear but she’s going to be bumpy. We’ll have to go across the holler on foot though and then it’s about a mile as the crow flies.”
“Why’d you go all that way to shoot a turkey?” Hargrove asked.
“Ever hunted turkey, boy?” Foxy squinted at the deputy. 
Hargrove turned in his seat. “No. I used to hunt deer back home, but we don’t get a lot of turkeys.”
“They’re elusive,” Foxy grunted. “The valley we’re going to has natural borders that aren’t worth the effort to most hunters—human and otherwise. When I was a kid, we called the valley Turkey Shoot, because there were so many of them critters about. Then came the ‘quake of ’53. Weren’t no easy way out there after that. No one hunts Turkey Shoot no more.” 
“So, what made you take the trip, Foxy?” Hart teeth clacked together as the tire dropped into a pothole.
“Been hearing the gobblers out there for a bit. They’re getting loud like there’s too many of them, so I went to check and found a path.” Foxy scratched his chin. “When they opened the dam a few months back, it must have moved some stuff. Left a pass straight to Big Creek.”
Hart turned onto the trail. They bounced in their seats until the tires found Foxy’s ruts and settled in for a marginally smoother ride. Hargrove braced himself against the dashboard and shook his head while they banged down the path.
“This is more than bumpy.” Hargrove’s head thumped against the window. “Are we there yet?”
“’Bout another twenty minutes,” Foxy laughed.

Foxy had a great sense of time. Twenty-one minutes later, they got out of the SUV, put on their coats and grab some water bottles.
“Is that,” Hart pointed at the metallic backpack, “what I think it is?”
“Oh, damn. Umm, I forgot to tell you about that,” Hargrove said. “You sent me to Searcy County to buy their old gear last week. Remember?”
“I don’t remember a flamethrower being on the list.” Hart scowled.
“They used to burn weed crops with it and I thought it might be useful.” Hargrove shrugged. “Besides, it was only fifty-bucks.” 
“A flamethrower is never going to be useful.” Hart shut the hatch and shook his head. “Maybe next time you can find a bazooka.”
Hargrove’s smile beamed. “I think they have two over in Pulaski. Want me to call them?”
Hart pinched the br