The Thanatos Syndrome

and solemnity and here-we-go-again rue. He’s shaking his head, mainly at me.
    â€œWhat we got here, Doc?” he asks, not offering to shake hands.
    The two young deputies are standing at ease, hands clasped behind them, pudding-faced and bored.
    â€œSheriff Sharp, I want you to arrest Dr. Van Dorn, Mr. and Mrs. Brunette, Coach Matthews, and Mrs. Cheney for the molestation and sexual abuse of children.”
    â€œOh me.” The sheriff sighs and, nodding mournfully, catches sight of Mrs. Cheney. “Doc, we been that route.”
    â€œDo it, anyway.”
    â€œHi, Lurine,” he says to Mrs. Cheney, giving a little wave, hand at pistol level. “How you doing?”
    â€œHi, Cooter,” says Mrs. Cheney, fingering buttons, eyes still downcast.
    â€œWe have evidence, Sheriff. Vergil, did you—”
    â€œI showed him the pictures, Doc, but he wouldn’t hardly look at them because he says they are not admissible.” Vergil is taking the photographs out to show them again.
    Sheriff Sharp waves him off. “They neither here or there. Y’all know we’ve had a regular epidemic of pictures like that all over the pa-ish. It’s terrible. I hate to think of little children seeing stuff like that. But I’m here to tell you we’re cracking down. On drugs too. And minority crime.”
    â€œYou don’t understand, Sheriff,” I say patiently. “That’s not the problem here. What we’re talking about here are criminal molestation and photographic evidence.”
    â€œThe thing is, Doc,” he says, turning to face me but not looking at me, looking anywhere but at me—he can’t stand the sight of me!—“we got a problem here.” I’m the problem.
    â€œWhat’s the problem?”
    â€œDoc, as I told you, we been this route before,” he says wearily, pushing up his amber glasses and rubbing his eyes. “The same charges have been brought before against those same folks before—” He nods toward the Brunettes, a loving couple. “They were dismissed then for lack of evidence and they’ll be dismissed again—those pictures ain’t worth a dime, and now you’re also wanting to charge Dr. Van Dorn here and Coach Matthews, who won state last year in triple-A—and even this little lady”—he stretches out a hand toward Mrs. Cheney—“who has done more to he’p people than anybody you can name, people you know, children, your children, Doc, old folks, Miss Lucy’s mamma—I don’t know, Doc.” He is shaking his head in genuine sorrow. “To tell you the truth, Doc, you the only one we got a warrant for. We got a pick-up order on you from Dr. Comeaux yesterday. Now I wasn’t going to bother you, Doc, since I been knowing you and your family for a long time. But it looks like you hell-bent on—”
    â€œNow you listen here, Cooter,” says the uncle, who, I see with some dismay, is hopping from one foot to the other in a peculiar fashion, coat flapping open, “I was here so don’t tell me what I saw. These folks all crazy as hell. You know what that little lady and the Coach were—”
    â€œYou just hold it, Hugh Bob,” says the sheriff, holding out a hand but not bothering to look at the uncle. “You just watch your mouth when you talking about Lurine—Mrs. Cheney. Ever’body knows you were pestering her when she was staying out at Pantherburn with Miss Lucy’s mamma, your sister, before she died.”
    The pudding-faced, flat-topped deputy leans over to say something to the sheriff.
    â€œWeapon?” says the sheriff. “What you talking about, weapon? You got a weapon, Hugh Bob?”
    The uncle opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the deputy simply lifts the uncle’s coattails and extracts the Colt Woodsman from his jacket pocket.
    The sheriff, again overcome with sorrow, accepts the gun, sniffs the muzzle.
    â€œThis weapon has just been fired, Hugh Bob.”
    â€œIt sho has.”
    â€œWho at?”
    â€œHim.” The uncle nods at Coach, who appears lost in thought, studying his palms, which are open on his knees. The sheriff walks around him, looking him over. The other side of his head is not bleeding but is encrusted with a maroon clot.
    â€œCoach?” he says, peering down at him. He stands up, hands on hips. “What in the hell did you do to him,