I was hiding the evidence of my crimes as fast as I discovered them, but it seemed like a losing battle. My garage was full, I’d dug as many holes in my yard as I dared – my gardener was threatening to learn English and quit - and I was renting storage areas all over the city and packing them full of corpses, stolen money, kidnap victims, drug paraphernalia, and bogus tax returns.
Then one day I went too far. That was the day the cops found Amelia Earhart in the trunk of my car. And that’s when all hell broke loose.
Even though it was a little the worse for wear, it was definitely Amelia Earhart’s body. It was wearing a vintage leather flying helmet, one hand held the keys to a 1932 Lockheed Electra, and tags on the body said “If Found Return To Current U.S. Government” and “This End Up”, which for some reason was on both ends.
This didn’t look good for me. I would have to answer a lot of tough, searching questions about this one. This wasn’t just any body. This body was important. This body’s face was on postage stamps. Of course, it wasn’t all bad. Thanks to the publicity I would be getting for my monstrous crime, I’d probably get some new clients out of this. People who wanted me to find their pilots, for example. But I still didn’t like the looks of it.
The police chief decided it was time to make his move. There was no point in delaying my arrest any longer. I would never be more guilty-looking than this. No one ever would. If he couldn’t get a conviction against me now, with the mountains of evidence he already had, plus this spectacular new Earhart thing, he wasn’t the chief of police he thought he was.
Ed and Fred were in the crowd of onlookers as I was resisting arrest. When I spotted them I called out: “Hey, if you still want to help me why don’t you kill some of these cops?”
One of the cops frowned. “That’s enough of that now.”
CHAPTER SIX
I’ve never had much luck in courtrooms. I’m always guilty, is one problem. The deck is pretty stacked against us guilty guys right from the start. It’s like they don’t want to give us a fair trial. Everyone else has an even shot of beating the rap, but not us, oh no. We get railroaded. And all because we are guilty, and everybody can prove it. I saw there was an extra large amount of evidence against me this time – even I said “Jesus!” when I saw it all - so I wasn’t very confident going into this one.
The lawyer the court assigned to represent me in this case didn’t inspire much confidence either. Henry Loser, his name was. Talk about a bad omen! I asked him if it was pronounced “Loo-zay” or something French like that, but he said no, it was “Loser”. He said it was an Old English name, from back in the days when they gave you a surname based on what you did. I asked him if he wanted to discuss the case with me, maybe get my side of it, but he just said “What’s the point?” and I said “You got that right”. We didn’t talk much after that.
My trial was a bit of a three ring circus right from the start. Not only was I there, (I heard some jurors mutter “Here comes trouble” when I arrived), but the courtroom was filled to capacity with conspiracy buffs, fans of unsolved crimes, aviation experts, and other assorted nuts. Some of the more enthusiastic spectators came to the trial dressed up to look like Amelia Earhart. A few were dressed up to look like me. Adding an ominous note to the proceedings was a small group of grim looking men in unfashionable black suits watching the trial from the rear of the courtroom and occasionally talking in low voices into 1979 vintage cell phones. I didn’t like the look of them. Of course, I didn’t like any of this.
When it was time for the trial to begin, the judge cleared his throat and addressed me: “So, Mr. Burly, according to the statement you gave the police, a couple of…” He looked at a transcript of my statement. “…little pricks named Ed and Fred put the body of Amelia Earhart in your car?”
“That is correct, Your Honor,” I replied. “Fred Cramer and Ed Brannigan. B-r-a-double n…”
“And you had nothing to do with it?”
“Nothing at all, Your Honor. I am completely innocent.”
I felt unseen fingers pull the sides of my mouth out into a huge uncomfortable smile. The judge seemed to back up a little in his chair, then stared at me for a moment before resuming.
“And where are these…” He looked at the transcript again. “…little pricks? Why aren’t they in the courtroom?”
“They are, Your Honor,” I said. “Right behind me, with their fingers in my mouth.”
He stared at me again. “I see no one behind you.”
“No, sir, they cannot be seen.”
“Why not?”
“Ectoplasm.”
“What?”
“They are ghosts, Your Honor.”
This threw the courtroom into an uproar. Everyone began talking at once. As the excitement grew, one of the spectators who was dressed as Amelia Earhart began running around the room with his arms stretched out as if he was flying. Most of the ones who were dressed like me hid their faces in their hands.
While the judge tried to restore order, I looked around for Ed and Fred. They were still invisible, but I could sense they were nearby because one of their fingers was still in my mouth. Then two voices started whispering in my ear.
“Hi, Burly,” said Fred.
“We thought it over and decided we haven’t been fair to you,” said Ed. “You didn’t try to get us killed. If you had, you would have screwed it up. We would have won the lottery or something instead.”
“That’s right,” I agreed.
“Or been elected Pope,” said Fred.
“Sure.”
“We’d both be lottery-winning Popes by now.”
“Well that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“So we’re sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused you. Really sorry,” said Ed. “Fred here can’t sleep.”
“I tossed and turned all night,” said Fred. “I’m gripped with remorse. Want to see?”
“No.”
“We’ll make it up to you though,” promised Ed. “Don’t worry, we’ll help you beat this rap.”
“Good. It’s about time somebody started helping me around here. All these courtroom jerks are…”
I suddenly noticed that all the furor in the courtroom had subsided and everyone was staring at me. I guess it must have looked kind of crazy, me talking to the air like that, and making plans with it, and giving it high fives.
It looked even crazier moments later when my hair started combing itself, dust started being patted off my jacket, and invisible hands started brushing my teeth. I looked a lot more presentable that way, I guess, but, like I said, it looked crazy too.
“Ghosts, eh?” said the judge, doing his best, for the dignity of the court, to ignore the fact that some unseen force was ironing my shirt, and my head was trying on different hats by itself.
I spit out some toothpaste. “Yes, Your Honor, ghosts.”
The judge leafed through my statement again. “Where did these ‘ghosts’ say they got the body of Miss Earhart?”
There was some hurried whispering in my ear.
“Uh… they found it on the grounds of the Imperial Palace in Tokyo, Your Honor,” I said, “behind a really old bush.”
There was a rumble of excitement from the spectators in the courtroom. The dark-suited men in the back of the room stiffened. The judge banged his gavel until the courtroom was silent again.
“And… um… did these ghosts tell you how they knew the body was there?”
There was more hurried whispering in my ear.
“Er… as I understand it, they play tennis with the ghost of Miss Earhart every Tuesday. She told them where her body was hidden during one of these games. And, I don’t know if it’s important or not, but according to them they beat her pants off regularly.”
“It’s not important.”
“The jury will disregard the part about Miss Earhart’s pants,” I announced.
“I will instruct the jury, Mr. Burly.”
I shrugged. �
��Fine.”
I noticed that the spectators in the courtroom were beginning to look at me with narrowing eyes. As much as they wanted to believe anything anybody ever said to them - the screwier the better as far as they were concerned – apparently my story wasn’t quite ringing true to them. Only the men in the black suits in the back of the courtroom seemed to be taking me seriously now. They were taking notes, making phone calls and eyeing me coldly.
“If what you say is true,” said the judge, dryly, “this appears to solve a very old mystery.”
“Solving mysteries is my business, Your Honor,” I said, swaggering a little, giving a small wave to the jury, and winking at the cops.
At this point, there was more excited whispering in my ear. I listened for a moment, then addressed the judge.
“Your Honor, I can also solve the Judge Crater disappearance mystery at this time, if the court pleases.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He’s also in the trunk of my car. Farther back than the other corpse. Behind the spare tire.”
This created an even bigger sensation in the courtroom. The trial was recessed for an hour while my impounded car was checked out by the police again. They tore the whole thing apart, right down to the axles, then they opened the trunk. The body of Judge Crater was found exactly where Ed and Fred said it would be. It was right there behind the spare tire, right under Ambrose Bierce. The afternoon papers screamed the headline: “More Bodies Found In Death Trunk!”
I was hoping that solving all these age-old mysteries would help me out in my trial, make the law see me in a more favorable light. Like some kind of an Indiana Jones type character. Instead, I just seemed like a nut who had a graveyard in his car.
My trial continued throughout the rest of the afternoon, but I won’t bore you with all the details. It was just a lot of irrefutable evidence being brought out against me, and the prosecutor making a monkey out of me on the stand, and the judge asking my lawyer if he wanted to object to anything, and my lawyer replying “Why bother?” and “Leave me alone”. And all of it was punctuated with strange looking actions on my part: my pants pressing themselves, my eyebrows being plucked by an unseen hand until I looked like a movie star, key evidence mysteriously floating into my inside coat pocket and having to be retrieved by the bailiff, the jury members being prodded in the ribs by unseen elbows when I accidentally got off a good crack, and so on.
At the conclusion of the trial, the jury only got halfway up out of their seats before they had finished their deliberations and started sitting back down again. They wouldn’t look at me, which I took as a good sign.
The foreman stood up. “We find the defendant, Frank Burly, innocent…”
There was an explosion of stunned cursing behind me. “This is bullshit!” the voice howled.
“What did you say, Mr. Burly?” asked the judge.
“Nothing, Your Honor.”
“Did you say something was bullshit?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then may we proceed?”
“Please.”
The judge nodded to the jury foreman, who resumed reading the verdict.
“We find the defendant, Frank Burly, innocent by reason of insanity.”
“You see,” I told the cop who had arrested me, “I told you I was innocent.”
As I was being led out of the courtroom in a straightjacket, I looked back and saw Ed and Fred, now fully materialized, shaking hands with the horrified jury foreman, and beaming over at me. It suddenly occurred to me that they hadn’t been here to help me at all! They had just shown up to make sure my trial went badly. And I had fallen for it.
When they began fading away, the last thing that disappeared were their two malicious smiles, which hung there in the air for a few moments after they were gone. I don’t know what made me madder, ruining my life or plagiarizing Alice in Wonderland like that. Ruining my life, I guess.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The asylum they put me in had been originally called the Central City Loony Bin, but in the 1970’s the name was changed to J.J.Nutball’s Gibber Palace, a trendy name designed to get more young people into the place. The advertising man who came up with the name said that it was “Now”, and would increase traffic and generate added revenue “Soon”, but it never did. A few more young people did go insane, but some of the older nuts were turned off by the name change and got better. Financially, it ended up being pretty much a wash.
Recently the name had been changed back, but, in a nod to political correctness, it was now called the Central City Special Bin. Inmates were treated as if they were normal fully functioning members of society, who just needed a special bin to live in. There was nothing “wrong” with them. They were the same as everybody else. This modern way of looking at the problem meant the staff didn’t have to treat their patients, or cure them, or even watch them particularly. Just chuck them in their Special Place, and slam and lock their Special Door. Made things a lot easier for the staff. Pretty smart, I thought.
When I was checked into the place, they took away my street clothes and gave me a pair of special coveralls to wear. These had no sharp zippers that might pinch my skin, or any buttons that I could accidentally choke on - no way to get them off at all. And they were a bright orange color, so I would be in a good orangey mood whenever I looked down at what I was wearing, and would be less likely to do something “special”. Despite all these precautions, I noticed they let me keep my belt.
“Aren’t you going to take away my belt so I won’t hang myself?” I asked.
“Usually we do,” said a member of the staff, “but we’re a little overcrowded right now. So it’s either build another wing or let the inmates keep their belts. If you lose yours, you can get another one from the Belt Lady.”
“You might want a second belt anyway,” chimed in another staffer. “One to hang yourself with, the other to keep your pants up while you hang.”
That seemed like a good idea. I picked out a couple of good strong looking belts. I wasn’t planning on hanging myself, but if I did, I wanted to make sure I hung there with dignity.
I was ushered into a large room filled with inmates who were dressed exactly like myself - though a few wore old faded baseball caps that said “I’m Nuts For The Gibber Palace”.
No one took any notice of me when I came in. They didn’t seem to be taking any notice of anything. They were just sitting and staring at nothing, as if the world around them had ceased to exist. I asked the nurse if I could have whatever drug they were having. I could use a rest like that. She said it had already been sprinkled on the candy bar I was eating, and the finger I was picking my nose with. I said good.
Once the door to the outside world had slammed shut behind me, and I was alone with the other special people like myself, I relaxed for the first time in months, maybe years. Now, finally, the pressure was off. The world can’t expect much of you if you’re locked away in a loony bin. Life is unfair, but it’s not that unfair. No one can expect you to be a success anymore, or keep up with the current trends, or even keep your pants up. You don’t have to pay your taxes, plan for the future, or explain why you just yelled “SMEM!” so loud. You’re set. It’s like being royalty. I felt like King George III.
I picked out a nice comfortable looking chair, turned it so it was pointed away from the real world, then sat down and began my staring. There was a humorous sign on the wall near me that said “You Don’t Have To Be Crazy To Be Here, But It Helps”. It was funny because it was true, like… I dunno… I was going to say the Lincoln Assassination, but I guess that’s not a good example. The Lincoln Assassination is true, but it’s not funny enough. I’ll think of a better example later. Anyway, you know what I’m driving at.
I was still laughing at how true the sign was when Ed and Fred showed up to gloat. They really gave me the horselaugh, letting me know that this is what happens to people who cause them trouble. People who cause them trouble get it in the neck. They get
theirs. Their ass is grass. And so on.
They were quite enjoying themselves, but they didn’t end up staying long. After awhile, they began to feel uncomfortable there. They didn’t like being in a place where everybody could see them all the time, even when they were invisible. They weren’t used to eyes following them wherever they went. So finally they cut their gloating short, and left. We all watched them go, then I went back to my staring. I was getting a little behind in that.
After awhile, I started taking an interest in things, despite myself. The other people in the room began to fascinate me. Special was the right word for them.
They didn’t think of themselves as people with mental problems. They thought they were a lot more interesting than that. Some thought they could fly, some thought they could walk up the walls, some thought they could transform their bodies to appear to be something else, like extension ladders, or race cars, or – if a nurse was coming – mental patients. They all thought they could do something amazing. What was fascinating about them was that, as near as I could tell, they really could do those things. I asked the nurse if these delusions were why they were committed to the asylum, pointing out that the delusions seemed very real to me. Three patients were walking on the ceiling right now. And one of them who claimed to be the rightful King of Spain was, in fact, wearing what looked like a very valuable crown. And there were Spaniards outside his window waiting for him to tell them what to do.
“Oh, no, they can do everything they say,” she said. “They’re crazy, not liars.”
I was getting confused. “But… if they can do those things…”
She interrupted me: “Sounds like someone needs more ‘Head On A Pole’.”
“Yes, please.”
Dead Men Scare Me Stupid Page 4
