TROUBLE
by Just_Fn_Crazy
Two chubby young women jogged in the park, chasing the two trimmer women they hoped to find themselves being at the end of the path one day. It was a gorgeous morning. With no clouds the sun lit up the blue sky and it looked as it never had before. But all was not as it should be that morning in the park, for as the women rounded a turn one of them spotted what looked like someone in trouble near a rocky outcropping by the point.
Closer inspection revealed that it was the body of a young woman, lying fully clothed face down in the water. Our joggers were visibly shaken and after an emotional period of screaming, tears, and much sympathy for the girl in the water, one of them decided to run to the phone in one of the dorms of the nearby college and call the police.
In no time it seemed there were police cars and reporters all over the park. But behind the yellow tape put up to protect the scene there was not much optimism that the girl’s demise would be solved quickly. At first it was thought she had committed suicide. There were no signs of a struggle and no one had reported anything unusual the night before. But the autopsy provided an unusual clue. The water in the lungs of the young women contained chlorine, and had she drowned in the lake there would have been no chlorine. It stood to reason then that the girl had been drowned somewhere other than the lake and her body dumped to make it look like a suicide.
The investigation then moved from that of a suicide to that of a murder. The problem was there were no clues. The only tracks on the beach were those of the women who had found the victim, and even the autopsy provided no more clues other than the usual vital statistics of the victim which were: height 5'1 ½”, weight 115 pounds, long blond hair, fair complexion with a mole above her right knee, near perfect teeth and long unpainted fingernails. It was not much to go on but the police tried to no avail.
They checked the airport, the bus station and the cab company. No one fitting that description had come into town that anyone could remember, and a girl like the victim was sure to attract some attention. Her photo was put on the front page of the paper, but no one came forth to claim the body or to even say they had seen her in town in the recent past. No abandoned cars were sighted in the area and everything about the girl in the water at the park was mysterious.
The police were stumped. Their investigation had gone nowhere fast and promised no new leads in the future. It was time for more unconventional measures. The police chief, Al Rumstead, checked the periodicals of the Crime Gazette for the names of possible psychics who might help. It was a long shot, but what else did he have to work with, the mystery girl murder, as it became known, was not the sort of thing that confronts a small town law officer that often.
In the back of the Crime Gazette he spotted an ad for a private investigation firm called Ethereal Detection, Inc. He had never heard of it but decided to give them a call. The call was routine except the secretary wanted to know the names of psychiatrists and psychologists in the area familiar with schizophrenia, a much misunderstood mental disorder that affected only about one percent of nation’s population. Though Chief Rumstead thought it unusual he provided the information. Then he mentioned that a group of local businessmen had put up a reward of $5000 to anyone who could furnish information leading to the arrest and conviction of the perpetrator anyway. They had done so to quash rumors that Berryville was no longer a safe place to live. The secretary explained that all of EDI’s operatives were out of the office but that she would have one of them call back upon their return. That call, by the way, never took place. And troubles were only beginning for the middle sized town of Berryville. The following is my account of the events that followed surrounding the mystery girl murder.
Although it seems unimportant the very next day a stranger got off the Greyhound bus at the Berryville station. That in itself is not much to worry about but the stranger was not your average run of the mill stranger. He had long scraggly hair, a unkempt beard, and dirty blue jeans with holes in the usual places that showed they had been worn by the same man for quite some time. But other than the fact he had dentures missing a front tooth he rather resembled the sort of person found in or near the skid row section of much larger cities. Needless to say perhaps, it was not long until the stranger found himself incarcerated for the night in the local jail.
“What you put me in here for?” he asked the jailer the next morning.
“Disturbing the peace.”
“Whose peace? I haven’t had any peace since these damned voices started talking to me years ago. It couldn’t have been my peace.”
“Don’t you remember? We found you wandering aimlessly in a back alley after a call reported a man fitting your description ranting and raving outside his liquor store. What made you so sore? Can’t you even afford a bottle of cheap wine?”
“Wine? Oh, you have me all wrong. I haven’t had a drink in thirteen years. You sure it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity?”
The jailer laughed, unlocked the cell and brought him to the office to give him back his belongings; a fingernail file and a billfold with very little money in it. He was about to have him sign for his belongings when the man suddenly jumped forward, caught him just behind the right ear with a well trained blow, and let him fall to the floor. It was over just that quick. The jailer was out cold and the man was free to ransack the files at the station. Minutes later the jailer awoke to find the man standing over him, calm as before the incident.
“What the hell did you want to go and do that for?” the jailer asked somewhat more than just put out at the man.
“I wanted to see the files, and I figured you wouldn’t let me. Sorry about that. Are you okay?”
“Okay?” he asked surprised to find his gun was still in the holster. “It’s against the law to attack an officer during the performance of his duty.”
“I know. But you will be kind enough to lock me up for a few days to make your point. Won’t you?”
“Is that all you want? A warm place to stay for a while? Well Mister ordinarily I might overlook a punch to the side of the head--”
“You forget I snooped in the files.”
“But since you’re such a willing customer, I think I might just lock you up and file charges.”
“Thank you,” the man said, holding his arms out as if he expected to be handcuffed.
“Awe Hell. You ain’t nothing but some nut. You’d be out of here by nightfall anyway.”
“Nightfall? Why so soon?”
“I’d have to let the county shrink know what you did. We have a policy to report any unusual behavior of our prisoners to Emmy Lou. And she’d come look at you. And I know she’d say you were crazy. And out that door you would walk. Free as a bird, and a jailbird no longer. So go on get! I ain’t going to waste my time on you.”
“You sure officer? I’m more than glad to stay for a week or two.”
“You heard me. Go on get!”
“Okay. If that’s your decision, I will. But don’t hold your breath until I’m back. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a jail with a lazy jailer.”
The jailer didn’t say anything. He just watched as the man walked out of the office and onto the street. And yet, he couldn’t help feeling he had been duped as he began the task of straightening up the files and wondered just exactly who or what the man who had done all this was.
“This mystery girl, did they check to see if she had sexual intercourse shortly before she died?” a voice said as he bent down to pick up a folder.
“Yes of course they did,” the jailer said before he looked to see who had asked him the question.
His eyes could not be believed. It was the man who had just left.
“Just wondering,” he said and left only to return one more time.
“Bye. Have a nice day!” he said the second time, but ran away when the jailer charged the door where he stood.
“Who the Hell is that guy?” the jailer said as he watched him cross the street through the window.
Weeks went by and there was nothing but trouble concerning the stranger. Once they received a call that a man was climbing a tree in what turned out to be an old widow’s yard, apparently for the purposes of watching her take a bath. When the patrol car found him, he admitted he had climbed the tree, but not that he had any interest in watching the old woman take her nightly bath. He claimed it just looked like a good tree to climb and it had been a while since he had climbed one, and that he thought that was as good a time as any to climb it. Another time a caller said there was some man chasing dogs through his neighborhood and that it was causing such a commotion he couldn’t sleep. When the man was questioned about the incident he explained that the dogs we bothering the best garbage cans in town. The officer felt sorry for the man, brought him to Elsie’s Diner, bought him supper and left with the impression he would behave himself in the future. Not more than ten minutes later Elsie herself called and said that the man had stolen an entire pie and left on foot. An all night search failed to locate the man, who was by that time nicknamed Trouble for his antics. Other incidents were reported, none of them serious, and the number of them higher than I care to mention. But one thing was for certain. The stranger, for all his short comings, was definitely a problem.
One night the phone at the police station rang again.
“It’s Trouble again!” shouted the desk sergeant.
“What’s he done this time?” a patrolman asked.
“He’s got himself beat up. The ambulance is taking him to the hospital. You better go see what it’s all about. He might want to press charges.”
“That would sure be different. Trouble pressing charges against somebody else. Is there anyone left in town who hasn’t wanted to press charges against him for one thing or another?”
“I doubt it. But you better go. It may be serious.”
When the officer found Trouble he was sitting up in a hospital room looking much the worse for wear; he had a black eye, a swollen lip and one of his arms were bandaged.
“What happened?” the officer asked him.
“I was just standing in front of Emmy Lou Patterson’s house cussing the voices for screaming I was going to go to Hell if I didn’t think anything but pure thoughts about the pretty lady when two big demons came out of nowhere and started pounding on me.”
“Demons? What makes you think they were demons? Emmy Lou has two brothers that do seem rather large when they’re irritated.”
“No. These were demons. They were mad as Hell because I’m making progress.”
“You’re making progress? If you’re trying to get elected the worst troublemaker in town, then you are. But what other kind of progress could you possibly be making.”
“The mystery girl. I’m close to solving the case.”
“Sure you are, Buddy. That one’s got even the psychics puzzled.”
“No really! I’m not what I seem. Oh, I know I’m a little crazy sometimes and all that, but in reality I am the best operative we have.”
“Operative? What are you saying? That you’re some kind of a PI or something?”
“Ever heard of Ethereal Detection, Incorporated?”
“I think I heard the chief say something about it a few months ago.”
“Well, I’m Willie Hindersnicher, the best operative EDI has.”
“Sure you are! Where did you hear about EDI? Oh, I forgot. You ransacked the files that day. You know something, Willie, if that’s your name? Hank is never going to forgive you and the way you’re going you are going to wind up back in his jail for quite a stretch.”
“Hank? The jailer? He’s a nice fellow. Sorry I had to hit him.”
“Yeah. Well, do you want to press charges against these “demons”? I promise you I would go all the way to Hell and back to get them for you, if you do.”
“You don’t know what you are saying.”
“Maybe not. But I doubt that you do either. See you, Trouble.”
“Bye,” Trouble said as the officer left.
Once back at the station the officer recorded what Trouble had said in his notes, that is all but the last name Trouble used. He couldn’t remember quite what it was.
“What did Trouble want?” the desk sergeant finally asked.
“He says he’s close to solving the mystery girl case.”
The desk sergeant said nothing but looked at the officer and arched his eyebrows.
“His name’s not Trouble. It’s Willie Hinder something or other. He’s from that PI outfit the chief told us about. Ethereal something or other.”
“Could be. You know?”
“Him! A PI? No way.”
“I saw on TV the other day where there was this guy--”
“That’s Hollywood. This is real life.”
“Wouldn’t it be something if he wound up solving the case?”
“Yeah. Right. That would be something alright,” and remembering the rest of Willie’s last name he wrote it down in his notes. H-I-N-D-E-R-S-N-I-T-C-H-E-R he misspelled it. Closed his book and went to get a cup of coffee and a donut from the kitchen.
The next time anybody heard anything about Trouble it was just a rumor. But rumor had it that he was working out to Bart Anderson’s farm. Bart wasn’t much of a farmer, but he was suspected of changing serial numbers on a number of stolen cars in the area. Nothing was ever proven in a court of law, but again rumor had it that Bart was just the sort of fellow you needed if something wasn’t quite legal and there wasn’t much chance he could get caught. And the good part about Bart was that he never asked questions.
Then one day the rumor became fact. Bart called the police station and asked if somebody could come get Trouble who he called Willie. Not only had Willie been working for Bart, he had also taken it upon himself to Save Bart’s livestock, including his hogs.
“. . . I wish there was something you could do. He’s driving me crazy. He’s out in the barn right now preaching the Gospel to my mare. He’s a real loony tunes sort of guy. And quite frankly, I’m afraid of him. Will you come? A guy like that should be put away somewheres. You know what I mean? I felt sorry for him, but now I just want him out of here and off of my place.”
“Did you ask him to leave?”
“No. I don’t dare. I’m afraid he’ll cut my throat when I’m asleep or something. You should see the weird things he does!”
“Okay, Bart. I’ll have a car come out and pick him up. But what do you want us to do with him? Has he got any money?”
“Yeah. He makes me pay him everyday. He must have close to $2000.”
“Okay. Just take it easy Bart. Somebody will be out in a half-hour.”
What happened next I got from the court records later. According to Trouble, I mean Willie, he overheard Bart on the phone to the police, and he knew he didn’t have much time. So he burst through the front door of the farm house, put a pitchfork to Bart’s throat and demanded to know whether anybody had brought him a car to change numbers on, on or about the time of the death of the mystery girl. The problem is that even though Bart told him Larry Jenkins had brought in a car, the defense attorney demanded that it be tossed out on account of it was obtained under duress. The court reporter only included it to show the jury they could not hold it against Mr. Jenkins.
When the officers arrived at the Anderson farm they found Willie out by the hog pen singing Rock of Ages to his flock, literally. He went with the officers and didn’t offer any resistance. They took him to the Berryville Hotel where he stayed at least one night, maybe two, but not very long.
He bought a boat and a tent and took to staying out to the State Park on the other side of the lake. And all was quiet for quite some time. I even heard he was seeing Emmy Lou Patterson professionally. She’s that psychiatrist from Brimsom, a town some fifty or so miles away. Sometimes he even went with her to Brimsom to spend the day at some sort of facility they have for the mentally ill over there in the county seat.
Then one night just before Founder’s Day, September 11, he walked into Elsie’s Diner and confronted Larry Jenkins to his face. I was there too, so this part of the story I know is true.
He stood outside a while, talking to himself. Then he burst through the front door and yelled, “I know you killed her! And you’re going to jail for life you--”
Now Larry is a big man, famous for his temper.
“You talking to me Spook?” Larry said.
“You damned right I am.” Willie said.
“And just who am I supposed to have killed, little man?”
“The mystery girl. I can’t prove it, but the voices told me. I’ll get the proof. I will. Just wait and see.”
Larry looked shaken, which surprised me. He looked at Willie a while and then went back and sat down.
“You just go ahead and do that very thing,” he said at last. “Then maybe these nice people can take you serious for a change. As it is you’re nothing but a damned spook.”
“We’ll see who’s the spook,” Willie said as he turned and left.
The next time I saw Willie he was talking to the chief. It seems he wanted to know if he bought a car and brought it in, would the boys in the lab in Brimsom go over it and tell him what they found. The chief thought he had really lost it and called Emmy Lou all the way to Brimsom just to chat about the man the chief still called Trouble.
Then one time I saw Willie driving a white Camaro. Where he got the money for such a nice car I never could have guessed, but it was all over town that it was the mystery girl’s car. Rumor had it that Willie had bought it from a guy in Minneapolis. How he could have traced it that far I don’t know, unless he had some powerful connections, and that I doubt.
Hank told me the next part. I know you can trust Hank. He’s been jailer for more years than I care to remember. One heck of a nice fellow that Hank.
He came into the jail late one night and told Hank that he wanted to bounce a theory off him. Hank had kind of taken to Willie by then and said he’d listen. Well, Willie’s theory goes something like this: The mystery girl rented a car in Brimsom. She was driving to the State Park near Berryville when she developed car trouble. Larry Jenkins stopped by to give her a hand. Now Larry is a town hero in a way. He was the only quarterback to take the team to the state finals when he was a kid in high school. The girl took a liking to Larry and tried to make a move on him. He took her to his lake cabin. But as few people know, Larry is gay. When the girl found out she insulted him something terrible. Larry is not only a hot head, he’s sensitive. But sometimes his anger just burns inside like a smoldering powder keg. He doesn’t seem to react and then all at once it comes out, and when it does all Hell breaks loose. Well, that’s what happened that night. Larry went to smoldering right up to the point where he went into his bathroom where the girl was freshening up and then he pushed her down, ran the water and held her under it until she was dead. Then to dispose of the body took her in his boat in the middle of the night to the other side of the lake. . .he lives out by the State Park. . .and dumped her in City Park where the two chubby women found her the next morning. He then took her car, which only needed carburetor adjustments, to Bart who filed the serial number off for him. He then sold her car to a car lot in Minneapolis all the way down the state. The car lot sold it to a fellow who reported the serial number was gone. Willie bought it at a police auction and drove it back to rattle Larry Jenkins’ cage. But it didn’t work.
Pretty good theory I think. Except that I can’t see the girl trusting Larry all that much. After all he was a stranger to her and all. Hank thought it was a pretty good theory too. But Hank turned out to be a glory hound. He took the theory to the chief as if it was his own. The chief took it to the DA as if it was his own. And the DA presented it in court as if it was his own. Why Willie ever testified as if he knew nothing of what was going on I don’t know. But in the end the jury decided Larry was not guilty and he walked. Of course now the whole town knows Larry is gay and that Willie was trouble enough for any town on purpose. It’s true he is schizophrenic and that he has a strange way of letting a town come to think he is harmless and crazy while he digs out the facts, but when you get to know him, he’s really
not such a bad guy after all.
Better luck next time Willie.
THE END
View User's Journal
GOD IS GRACIOUS--FORGIVE ME?
 |
