[Lady Justice 10] - Lady Justice and the Book Club Murders
Page 2
Needless to say, the offal was disposed of immediately and never found its way to our Thanksgiving table.
Ox’s question brought me back to the present. “So what’s on the memory disk?”
“I’ll let you see for yourself,” he said, slipping the chip into the Captain’s computer.
Grainy images of a plant worker kicking and stomping a live turkey filled the screen. The next shot showed another worker punching live turkeys that were hanging upside down on a conveyer.
“That’s just sick --- and cruel!” Ox muttered.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Buster replied. “We try our best to make our turkey processing humane, but sometimes --- well, you can see what happens.”
“What’s happening,” the Captain said, “is that someone in the plant has recorded these unfortunate events and is putting the chips in the turkeys before they are shipped out.”
“So does this chip ruin the turkey?” I asked. “Is it still safe to eat?”
“Oh yes!” Buster replied. “The chip and the note are in a separate bag inside the giblet bag. The bird is perfectly safe.”
“So what we have,” I summarized, “is a whistle-blower that is pissed about the way that some of the turkeys are being handled and is spreading the word. I can see how the stuff on the chip could be damaging to Dyson Foods, but is an actual crime going on here?”
“Not a crime, as such --- but I’m sure that you can see the problem. Forty-five million turkeys are cooked and eaten each year at Thanksgiving and our company handles a big portion of them.”
“I can see your dilemma,” I said, “but this certainly looks like an internal problem. The guy kicking the birds and the guy taking the movies should be fired. If there is no actual crime, how do we fit into the picture?”
Then I saw the sheepish look on the Captain’s face.
“Buster has been a good friend of Kansas City for many years. Somebody has to supply all those rubber chickens for the banquets that the city throws --- no offense, Buster --- and Dyson has given the city a really sweet deal. Now they’re asking for a favor.”
My heart sank. I knew before the Captain said the words that the favor was --- us.
“It’s a pretty simple job,” the Captain said apologetically. “All you and Ox have to do is go to the plant in Monett --- you’ll be given assignments on the line as new employees --- then you’ll just watch what’s going on until you identify the person that’s putting the chips in the turkeys.”
Both men could see that neither Ox nor I were thrilled.
Buster gave us a wink, “I’ll even throw in a turkey for each of you for your Thanksgiving dinner.”
Who could pass up a deal like that?
It looked like we were going to Monett.
CHAPTER 2
Oscar looked at his friends with disgust. “I knew you couldn’t do it. You’re both pussys. No wonder you have such pathetic lives.”
“We can’t just go kill someone,” Ed replied. “Not just for kicks --- not in cold blood!”
Larry nodded his head in agreement, “We may be pathetic, but we’re not murderers.”
“I figured that you would say that, so how would you feel about a simple heist? Think about the challenge --- about committing the perfect crime. I know we could do it!”
Larry and Ed exchanged glances.
“I don’t know. It’s still risky,” Ed said shaking his head. “If we didn’t pull it off then we’re talking jail time. We’d lose our jobs, our apartments and what’s left of our lives, as pitiful as they are.”
“Here,” Oscar said, holding up a sheaf of papers, “before you say ‘no’, just take a look at this. I’ve been doing some research.”
“Here’s a list of ten factors that must be considered in planning the perfect crime,” he continued, handing a page to each of them. “I found it on the Internet and it coincides exactly with what we have learned from reading our mystery novels.”
Ed and Larry looked at the list that Oscar had given them.
It read:
1. DNA
DNA is the surest way to prove you committed a crime. It is absolutely imperative that you do not leave ANY DNA behind, and that is very difficult.
2. Relationship
Someone close to the victim commits the largest number of crimes. The police know this well and they know whom to question. Your best bet is to pick your victim randomly.
3. Proximity
This ties in to point 2 – commit the crime in another town. You don’t want to travel so far that you can be connected because you took a trip – just far enough that you are outside of the main area of interest to the police.
4. Type of Crime
Chose your crime carefully. For example, you are almost certain to get caught if you try to rob a bank. Chose a crime that can be committed in the early hours of the morning or that can be done very discretely during the daytime.
5. Evidence
Most criminals are caught because they tried to hide the crime – what they should have been doing is trying to hide any connection they have to the crime. It doesn’t matter if the police know the crime happened. If your crime involves a gun or weapon of some kind, use it and drop it and leave it at the scene, or, better yet, dispose of it where it unlikely to be found.
6. Timing
Timing is everything. The best time to commit a crime is in the very early hours of the day when most people are asleep.
7. Tools
First, you need good thick gloves. The thin ones are not good enough as they can split and it is possible to leave fingerprints if they are sufficiently thin. Do not use anything you own and do not buy brands you normally buy unless they are very generic brands. This means you need to go shopping. Shop out of town and shop in large department stores where you are less likely to be remembered. You must pay in cash and you must destroy any receipts, or shopping bags. After the crime is committed, destroy everything you bought as quickly as you can and don’t do it in an obvious way.
8. Alibi
It is wise to have an alibi – though not essential if you have followed all the other rules.
9. The Getaway
Leave the scene of the crime as quickly as possible and avoid using main thoroughfares where traffic cameras are located.
10. Aftermath
Do not watch the television and avoid the papers. The police can use these as tools to try to psych you out. Avoid these things for at least a month. Do not celebrate in any way – continue about your every day life. Do not brag about your crime to anyone. One final tip: if you do get arrested, this does not mean you have failed to commit the perfect crime. If this happens, do not speak. The police need evidence to convict you – if you have done the job right, there won’t be any. Don’t help the police with testimony. Remember, the court needs to find you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Oscar watched their eyes as they read and he could tell that they were intrigued by the challenge.
“Here’s my plan,” he said. “You know the liquor store at Independence Avenue and Montgall?”
“I do,” Larry said.
“That’s the target. We all live in Midtown, so it’s far enough away from our regular stomping grounds that there should be no connection.
“The old man that runs the place locks up at one in the morning. He takes the day’s receipts with him and makes his deposit the next morning on his way to the store. Not much traffic and hardly anyone on the street.”
“How, exactly, do you know all of that?” Ed asked.
“I’ve been watching --- planning for a while, and I know we can pull this off.”
“We?”
“Yes, we! I’ll do the dirty work. All you guys have to do is help me with the getaway and the disposal.
“At about twelve-thirty, I’ll hotwire a car and take the back streets to the alley behind the liquor store. When the old man locks up, I’ll be there with a fake gun, wearing gloves and a ski mask.
“After I have the loot, I’ll drive the back streets to the parking garage at Tenth and Grand. The two of you will be waiting for me there in your own vehicles.
“All of my clothing, including the mask, gloves and fake gun will go into a gunny sack weighted with rocks, which, you, Larry, will pitch into the Missouri River.
“I’ll abandon the stolen vehicle, which may not be discovered for days, and we’ll drive away in Ed’s car.
“No way for the old man to identify me and even if he sees the car, it will turn out to be stolen. Any DNA evidence will be at the bottom of the muddy Missouri River and we’ll get away clean --- the perfect crime!”
Oscar smiled as he watched their faces.
They were hooked!
CHAPTER 3
I really dreaded going home.
After four months on the campaign trail, Maggie and I were looking forward to some quiet time together, and now I was going to have to break the news that Ox and I were headed to south Missouri to track down a turkey tamperer, of all things.
My worst fears were realized when I pulled up in front of the apartment building that I own on Armour Boulevard.
Willie, the Professor, Dad and Jerry The Joker were all sitting on the front porch chewing the fat, and I knew that there was no way that I was getting by them without a lengthy discourse.
Dad was the first one on his feet when my soles hit the sidewalk.
“Sonny, we’ve got a surprise for you. Now that you’re back and settled in, we thought we’d throw a little welcome home party for you tomorrow night. Whaddya say?”
Naturally, they were disappointed to hear that I would be leaving bright and early the next morning, but the disappointment was soon forgotten as each one shared tidbits of information that they were sure I would need.
Dad, the retired over-the-road trucker, was first.
“Monett, eh? Just take 71 Highway straight south to I-44 East. It’s just a hop, skip and a jump from there.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
The Professor, after hearing about my upcoming turkey adventure reminded me that it was Benjamin Franklin that lobbied for the turkey to be the National Bird rather than the bald eagle.
Jerry, of course, asked if I had heard of the turkeys that were possessed by evil spirits.
When I declared that I had not, he cautioned me to beware of the poultrygeists.
After passing through the gauntlet, I opened the door and found Maggie standing at the bottom of the steps.
I could see by the look on her face that she was not a happy camper.
“You heard, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“I’m so sorry. It’s just for a couple of days --- I promise.”
“But I had such a wonderful evening planned for us.”
“Hey, I’m not leaving until in the morning. Starting right now until seven in the morning you can have your way with me.”
And she did!
At seven o’clock sharp, I heard Ox toot the horn. I gave Maggie a kiss and headed to the car.
We figured it would be about a five-hour drive to Monett, which was just a few miles north of the Arkansas state line.
We used the time to catch up on the past four months.
I told him about my adventures on the campaign trail with Ben Foster and he shared his less than satisfying experiences with his string of new partners.
The one thing that I was pleased to hear was that he and Officer Judy DeMarco were still very much an item.
In fact, while I was away, they celebrated the one-year anniversary of their first date --- a very significant milestone for Ox, who had never fancied himself a lady’s man.
The time and miles flew by and we pulled into the little country town of Monett just after twelve noon.
Although the town boasted only eight thousand residents, they were blessed with the usual fast food joints. We passed by a Micky D’s and a Taco Bell.
A bit further down the main drag, we spotted a little restaurant with a flashing neon sign that told us that Nell’s Cafe served Home Country Cookin’.
The cafe was filled with pickup trucks of assorted makes and vintages, which we figured was a good omen.
We parked and headed to the covered front porch at the front of the building.
A young boy about 12, barefoot and dressed in faded blue jeans was sitting on the front steps between two huge bloodhounds. The dogs were stretched out and their massive heads with droopy eyelids and slobbery jowls were resting on their paws.
I figured that a greeting of some sort was appropriate since we both had to walk right by the boy.
“Hey, nice dogs. Are they yours?”
The boy nodded.
“What are their names?”
“This here’s Rolex,” he said pointing to the dog on his right, “and thissun’s Timex,” he said pointing to the other one.
“Kind of unusual names,” I ventured. “Why do you call them that?”
The boy looked at me like I was an absolute moron, “Because they’re watchdogs.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to maintain my composure.
Ox was biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud.
Figuring our social banter was over, I took a step toward the closest dog.
He immediately jumped to his feet and buried his snoot in my crotch.
I just hate it when that happens.
“Timex! Sit!” the boy ordered.
The big dog withdrew his snoot and lumbered off.
I noticed that my crotch was covered with slimy goo from his dripping jowls.
We entered the restaurant and were greeted by a plump little woman in a red-checkered apron.
“Howdy strangers,” she said, and then she saw my crotch. “I’m guessing you’re either a pervert or you just met Timex. Which is it?”
I assured her that it was Timex.
She handed me a napkin.
Naturally, being strangers, all eyes in the restaurant were on us.
One by one, the local patrons turned back to their lunches.
I guess they figured that the big guy and the old man didn’t pose much of a threat.
“Here’s a menu,” the waitress said, handing us a hand-written paper enclosed in a plastic sleeve. “We’re out of most of that stuff, but today’s special is fried chicken, taters n’ gravy and green beans.”
I looked at Ox and he nodded.
“The special it is,” I said, “for both of us.”
I figured we should probably keep it simple.
After the gal had left with our order, I looked around the restaurant.
The walls were filled with all kinds of old stuff from the thirties, forties and fifties.
There were advertisements for Prince Albert in a Can and Clabber Girl Baking Powder.
Along one wall was a series of old Burma Shave signs.
The big blue tube’s ---- just like Louise ---- you get ---- a thrill ---- from every squeeze ---- Burma Shave.
The one I liked best was a sign labeled:
Things You’ll Never Hear In This Restaurant
* We don’t keep firearms in this house.
* Has anybody seen the sideburn trimmer?
* You can’t feed that to the dog.
* I’ll have grapefruit instead of biscuits and gravy.
* Deer heads detract from the decor.
* The tires on that truck are too big.
* Elvis who?
After the five-hour drive, I was in desperate need of a potty break.
The signs on the respective doors read ‘Bucks’ and ‘Does’.
The decor in the can was every bit as colorful as in the main dining room.
The sign hanging above the toilet admonished all users:
“Be like Dad
Not like Sis
Lift the lid
Before you piss!”
By the time I returned to my seat, plates of Nell’s country home cookin’ were on the table.
After we were stuffed to the gills, we decided to find a place to bunk for the next few days.
Although there was a Super 8 in town, we decided to go with the Cozy Inn. Might as well go ‘home town’ all the way.
As we were pulling out of Nell’s parking lot, Ox glanced at the gas gauge. “Better fill up in case they roll up the sidewalks early in this little burg.”
We pulled into the Kum & Go. While there are very few of these service stations in the Kansas City area, they are quite prevalent in south Missouri.
I had always thought that with all of the possible names for a franchise, somebody could have done better than Kum & Go.
Somehow the name just seemed more fitting for a brothel.
An old guy with no teeth checked us into the Cozy Inn. I was pretty sure that unlike Motel 6, probably nobody was going to leave a light on for us.
The old gentleman did, however, give us directions to the Dyson plant.
“Just go up this here road a piece until you get to the Harkins place and then hang a left --- you can’t miss it.”
Since neither of us knew the Harkins, we missed it the first time around. Our next inquiry yielded better directions.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to react to my first visit to an animal slaughterhouse.
I was no stranger to killing animals for food.
I grew up on my grandparent’s farm and at the tender age of six, I can remember my grandma saying, “Walter, go get me a hen.”
I had a stiff wire about three feet long with a crook in the end. I would chase the unlucky hen around the chicken yard until I hooked its foot with the wire.
I would drag the hen to my grandpa who would lop off its head with a hatchet. The hen was then dipped in boiling water after which we plucked the feathers.
In a few hours, the chicken would be on our dinner table along with all the fixins’.
It wasn’t a big deal --- it was just part of life on the farm.
I remember the local farmers gathering together on butchering day when the fatted hogs met their demise.