A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  “I know, Eddie. I used to caddie here years ago, when I was in high school. Back then, there was only nine holes and—”

  “When I want a history lesson, Pig, I’ll let you know.”

  “Right, Eddie.”

  Eddie Knox cut the ignition. “You go down the lane, straight in.” He checked his sidearm, then opened the car door and got out. “I’ll loop around to the back. We’ll pen the suspect in.”

  “Right, Eddie.” Slocum checked his sidearm and the shotgun. As soon as his partner was out of sight, he made a grab for the last jelly doughnut.

  Bernice Aldershott was tiptoeing toward the shed. While the police are on the way, I’ll see if I can get a good look at the miscreant with the thingamabob. That way, if he should flee before he can be apprehended, I will be able to provide the authorities with a description.

  Highly commendable.

  Problem was, the fellow who’d been making the squeaky-creaky noise had spotted Bernice’s profile on the grassy ridge. Being too far away to hear the lady’s conversation with the police dispatcher, he didn’t know whether she had seen him and was summoning the cops or was merely calling home to nag her unfortunate spouse. Until he knew which way the wind was blowing, Crowbar Man thought it prudent to conceal himself behind the shed.

  Which was why, as Bernice Aldershott approached that small wooden structure, she was unable to spot the alleged felon. “Oh, rats—he has gotten away!”

  The lady should be so lucky.

  The closer she came, the more the miscreant with the thingamabob was convinced that…she knows I’m here. And she won’t stop snooping around until she finds me.

  What to do? How could he rid himself of this meddlesome pest?

  On occasion, even a ne’er-do-well has a great notion.

  This one also had a sense of humor.

  Oh, double rats! Bernice Aldershott had no doubt that her quarry had fled. If I hadn’t spent so much time trying to explain things to that lamebrain at 911, I’d have caught him red-handed! The civic-minded citizen stared at the shed door, which had been broken open and was hanging on a single hinge. I wonder what he intended to steal. She had no idea what sort of tools the head groundskeeper kept locked up inside. But in the moonlight, by the corner of the modest structure, Bernice spotted something on the ground. What is that? The smallish rectangular object looked like a book. But that’s silly; surely a burglar wouldn’t be taking time to read. Unless, like everyone else these days, thieves feel entitled to take regular breaks. But what would a common criminal read during a brief respite? She speculated that the bookish-looking object might be a volume of popular short stories. But the moonlight is not bright enough to read by. She cocked her head at the perplexing object. It looks like my father’s old cassette recorder. But that seemed even more unlikely than a book. It occurred to her that this might be part of the burglar’s loot that he’d left behind. Whatever it is, it will be an important clue. As the clueless citizen was stretching out her hand to apply her fingerprints to the presumed physical evidence, she heard a low, guttural growl behind her. The terrified jogger turned to encounter a horrifying apparition.

  The multitasker concealed under the black sock hat and black raincoat brandished the crowbar with his right hand, thumped his chest with the left, and stomped (alternately) with both feet.

  The woman’s mind instantly responded with a memory of the ancient King Kong black-and-white flick she’d watched on the TV just last week. It’s a gorilla!

  Reinforcing this conclusion, another throaty growl, chest thump, and foot stomp.

  Bernice was off like a gazelle. Or, if you prefer—an Aldershott fired from a cannon.

  Encouraged by the success of his ploy, the supposed gorilla (as they say in these parts) “took off” after her. But only after retrieving the smallish rectangular object, and only for a few strides. The vandal was no world-class sprinter, and had no interest in putting the grab on the jogger.

  With every raw fiber of her being, Mrs. Aldershott wanted to scream, but she was determined not to waste the breath. When being chased by a hideous, vicious ape that is armed with a whatchamacallit or thingamabob, the thing to do is to put considerable distance between the horrible beast and yourself. Having aimed her strained face toward the nearest path to the parking lot, she never looked back. By the time the jogger passed the Sand Hills flagpole, she had bested her all-time best one hundred yards by two seconds flat and was picking up speed.

  Go, Bernice!

  And go she did. A blur herself, the sprinter did not see the plump form of Officer E. C. “Piggy” Slocum until she was within a few strides of him. It was as if the dark, hunched form had materialized out of another dimension.

  It’s another damn ape!

  Hemmed in on both sides of the pathway by prickly hedges of holly, she slowed to a mere trot.

  Startled by the sudden appearance of the dark, slender figure, Slocum assumed that this was the Crowbar Burglar making a run for it. The rotund cop, who had a mouthful of jelly doughnut and a sugary-slippery handful of shotgun, attempted to shout, “Stop right there!” What came out of his mouth was, “Sogg bipe bare!” The flustered cop dropped the shotgun and fumbled for his holstered pistol.

  (This was one of those situations that can end badly.)

  Convinced that she was hotly pursued by the first gorilla, her escape blocked by a second knuckle dragger, Bernice was trapped in a nightmare. What can I do?

  What the lady needed was sage advice.

  What she got was a premonition of doom from her iPod.

  Miss Peggy Lee crooned sweetly in Bernice’s left ear: “It’s all over now…”

  “The hell it is!” Filled with fury at this infestation of the Sand Hills Country Club by hairy primates, the charter member accelerated. Within five strides, she was rolling along like the Wabash Cannonball roaring down the mountain on a full head of steam. Straight at King Kong Number Two.

  What a woman!

  Officer Slocum was bowled aside like a lone tenpin.

  Mrs. Bernice Aldershott did not stop until she was inside her house, which residence was almost a mile away.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “I wish to lie where a mother’s prayer

  And a sister’s tear will mingle there.

  Where friends can come and weep o’er me.

  O bury me not on the lone prairie.”

  June 4

  On the Evening When Professor Reed is Destined to Die

  Irene Reed, who was dining with friends, was not expected home until well after dark.

  A shadowy precursor of twilight was already thickening the atmosphere when Charlie Moon spotted Scott Parris’s black-and-white from the guest-house bedroom window. The Chevy lurched into the driveway and kicked gravel all the way to the guest house, where it skidded to a stop. In six seconds flat, the garage door was up, the squad car was inside, and the heavy door was slamming shut.

  The Ute unlatched the upstairs door.

  Samuel Reed ascended first, toting four plastic bags of groceries. In passing, he nodded respectfully to his silent bodyguard, then unloaded his burden on the kitchenette’s speckled granite countertop.

  Scott Parris followed with a mumbled “Hello, Chuck” and placed a man-size backpack and a large canvas suitcase onto the parlor couch. With the exaggerated care of one who dares not damage county property, the cop removed the contents. A pair of GCPD portable radios. A disassembled Remington deer rifle and two full boxes of 6-mm ammo. An infrared 4X SniperScope for the rifle and Japanese photomultiplier/IR binoculars that required only the faintest starlight to illuminate the darkest night. When viewed with either optical instrument, a warm-bodied creature such as a loping coyote, a lop-eared jackrabbit, or a gun-toting biped would light up like electrified ornaments on a Christmas tree.

  While Parris mounted the scope and Moon checked out the hardware, Reed prepared a light supper for his solemn companions.

  There was no conversation during the m
eal of jack-cheese omelets, grilled brown trout, and lightly seasoned wild rice.

  After the feast, Reed seated himself at his parlor desk and turned on a laptop computer.

  Moon and Parris took turns at the windows with the binoculars.

  Aside for a comical porcupine gnawing on a tasty cedar, there was nothing to see.

  Aside from the balmy whisper of a late-spring breeze, all was quiet.

  From time to time, the Ute would slip outside to circle the ten-acre property, then return to report that nothing was amiss.

  Which lack of visible threat served to create a nagging stress.

  The chief of police began to mutter under his breath.

  The stone-faced Ute uttered not a word.

  Aware of the increasing undercurrent of tension, Samuel Reed broke the silence by suggesting that the lawmen settle in and relax. “Nothing will happen before eleven o’clock. In the meantime, why don’t we pass the tedious minutes by entertaining ourselves?”

  His bodyguard-guests acquiesced to this reasonable request.

  “Good,” Reed said. “I’ll begin by telling you fellows a hilarious joke.”

  Not a great opening.

  Scott Parris barely suppressed a groan.

  Charlie Moon was already amused.

  “There were these two atoms.” The scientist was already smiling in anticipation of the upcoming mirth and merriment. “They were walking along the street and about to meet—”

  “Which street?” Parris inquired.

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is—”

  “Matters to me,” the heckler grumped. “You could at least tell us whether it’s a street in Granite Creek.”

  “Very well.” Reed strained to retain his smile. “These atoms are strolling along Seventh Street in our fair city. And before you ask for names, the individual meandering along in a northerly direction is Mr. Indium—”

  “Hah—that must be Charlie.”

  The sidetracked jokester sniffed. “These unseemly interruptions must cease, Mr. Parris.”

  “Sorry.” The cop’s silly grin belied his apology.

  “Now where was I?” Samuel Reed paused to recollect. “Ah, yes. As it happens, Mr. Indium is about to meet Miss Chlorine, who is clipping along quite briskly on a southerly course. And in point of fact, he does. But, each being distracted by one thing or another, the atoms collide and Miss Chlorine—a relative lightweight—is knocked over a hedge and into Auntie Antimony’s flower bed.”

  “Bummer,” Parris said.

  “Happily, no harm is done—Miss Chlorine lands in a patch of petunias.” The physicist paused to shake his head and sigh. “But sad to say, Mr. Indium is not so fortunate. After brushing pink petunia petals off her plaid gingham skirt, Miss Chlorine calls over the hedge to inquire after his health.”

  Reed assumed a high-pitched voice that sounded exactly like Miss Lucre: “Oh, dear—are you all right, Mr. Indium?”

  In a deeper, masculine tone (not unlike Charlie Moon’s) Mr. Indium booms, “No, I am not, young lady. Matter of fact, I have lost an electron.”

  Shrill Miss Chlorine: “Oh, gracious—are you sure?”

  “‘Yes.’ (Mr. Indium nods.) ‘I am positive.’”

  Having delivered the punch line flawlessly, the physicist was prepared for an appreciative reaction.

  Dead silence from Scott Parris. What’s so funny about that?

  The performer got a respectable chuckle from Charlie Moon, despite the fact that Mr. Indium had heard the joke before.

  Though disappointed with this insipid response, Samuel Reed was determined that the entertainment should continue. He suggested that each of his guests contribute an amusing anecdote.

  Normally the cowboy humorists would have been pleased to chip in, but witnessing the humiliating failure of a fellow comedian has a marked effect on his colleagues. Neither of the bodyguards was in the mood to tell a joke.

  Reed accepted this refusal gracefully, but insisted that the show must go on. He asked the lawmen to relate an interesting story. The chief of Granite Creek police was urged to recall some account from his lengthy experience as a sworn officer of the law, after which the Southern Ute tribal investigator would then do his best to top his friend. “There will no requirement except this—your narratives must be entertaining.” Reed added, “The stories can be true, a total fabrication, or a satisfying blend of fact and fiction.”

  This was more to their liking, and having no better notions for passing the time, Parris and Moon agreed to Reed’s conditions. But while one of them was busy spinning his yarn, the other would be keeping watch on the Reed residence from the guest-house bedroom window.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Town Cop’s Tale

  After considering any number of anecdotes that might be derived from his adventures in the Windy City, the ex-Chicago cop decided against ancient history and in favor of current events. “I bet you fellas would enjoy hearing what happened at the country club last night.”

  “Not me.” Moon smiled at his image in the bedroom window. “None of my rough cowboy friends mix with that crowd.”

  “It’s a dandy story, Charlie.” Parris pointed his chin at their host. “And Sam’s a member, so I know he’ll want to hear it.”

  The Ute’s likeness grinned back at him. “Go ahead then.”

  “Okay, here’s the short version. A Mrs. Aldershott is jogging along last night on the Sand Hills Golf Course. Lady hears something peculiar and stops to get an earful. Sounds like somebody’s breaking into the groundskeeper’s toolshed, so the conscientious citizen calls 911. Dispatcher sends Knox and Slocum, then advises the caller to stay on the line and keep clear of the supposed felon—who might be our notorious Crowbar Burglar. But she’s already hung up. And I don’t have to tell you what happens next.”

  “No, you don’t.” Prior to his appointment as a tribal investigator, Charlie Moon had put in a decade as a uniformed cop with the Southern Ute Police Department. “The citizen went to check out the alleged bad guy.”

  “You know it. And after that, it only gets better.” Parris inhaled a deep breath. “Our black-and-white shows up dark and silent. Knox and Slocum split up in hopes of cornering the mischief-maker before he can split.”

  Moon liked it. “So far, so good.”

  “According to the jogger, when she gets to the shed where she heard the sounds, somebody has pried the door open. But far as she can see, the perp has hit the road without so much as a ‘by-your-leave, ma’am.’”

  The tribal cop nodded. “More or less what you’d expect.”

  “But there’s something on the ground.”

  “Don’t tell me—a crowbar covered with incriminating fingerprints.”

  “Sorry, Charlie—no cigar.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, pard.”

  “Let me see if I can quote the lady from Knox’s written report: ‘It was a rectangular something. Dark in color. Black, probably. Or maybe navy blue. Could have been royal purple. And’…” Parris paused to smirk. “It might’ve been some kind of electronic thingy, like a cassette tape recorder. Or maybe a toolbox. Or it could’ve been a book.”

  “Piece of cake,” Moon said to the windowpane. “I got the whole thing figured.”

  “Amaze us with your awesome powers of deduction, Chucky.”

  “Alleged felon is actually the country club’s innocent night custodian. After checking all eighteen tees and fairways and sand traps for any sign of gophers or other interlopers, Joe Custodian figures he’s due a break from his labors. So he saunters over to the toolshed, sits down, and unpockets his pocket-size copy of The Complete and Unabridged Works of J.R.R. Tolkien. After reading a few thousand pages, he dozes off.”

  “Is this going somewhere, Charlie?”

  “Patience. After he drifts away into dreamland, our night custodian begins to snore. That’s what the lady jogger hears when she thinks somebody’s prying on a door. As she approaches to investigate, the countr
y-club employee wakes up, figures it’s the boss come to check those nasty rumors that he sleeps on the job. He drops his copy of J.R.R. Tolkien and makes a run for it.”

  “Then who pried the toolshed door open?”

  “Don’t expect me to explain every detail, pardner—I’ve just about shot my wad.”

  Parris glared at the Ute. “You want to hear what really happened?”

  Moon nodded. “As the thirsty hart pants in the desert.”

  “Okay. According to the jogger, about the time she spots the rectangular something on the ground, she hears another sound and turns around and finds herself face-to-face with a gorilla.”

  “Pardon me, pard—but it sounded an awful lot like you said—”

  “Yes I did. And this gorilla made grunting ooga-booga-ooga sounds like them big jungle apes make, and beat on its hairy chest and shook a crowbar at the lady.”

  Moon turned from the window to blink at his friend. “You’re kidding.”

  “Wish I was. You want to hear the rest?”

  “My ears are fairly aching for the big finish.”

  “Faced with this latter-day King Kong, the lady takes off like a rocket.”

  “Good move.”

  “At first, the jogger’s dead certain the ugly ape’s right on her heels—but after a couple hundred yards, she figures she’s putting some distance between him and her.”

  Moon turned his face to the window. “I won’t ask why she figures it was a male ape.”

  “Thank you. Now this is the good part.” Parris paused for another deep breath of stale air. “She’s going lickety-split down the pathway toward the parking lot, when all of a sudden—she encounters a second gorilla.”

  “Sorry, pard. I’m doing my best to keep from laughing out loud—but that’s an ape too much.” Seeing movement, the Ute raised the binoculars to his eyes. It was a prowler, but not of the biped persuasion. A skinny coyote was trotting across the Reeds’ backyard. The canine lifted her long, thin muzzle to sniff at something on tonight’s menu. A platter of rabbit, served rare.