Criminal Zoo

by Sean McDaniel

  Once inside, I pulled my clothes from the dryer, got dressed, and gave the house a quick walkthrough. Everything looked pretty good, so I headed for the car. The grave would eventually be discovered after Irene’s husband reported her missing, but I almost laughed as I thought about him trying to explain his boot prints everywhere.

  I pulled out of Irene’s driveway and headed back to town. I contemplated the death process for a living baby inside a corpse. Did it suffocate? Or did it starve to death? How long would it live? I had no idea; we never discussed that in high school biology.

  On the way back to the house, I began to shake with excitement. I had chosen when Irene’s life would end. I’m pretty sure I made the same decision for her baby. Weren’t those choices a God made? And if I was making God-like choices, wasn’t I becoming more like a God, one act at a time?

  A Person Of Interest

  I will never forget the look of hatred in Sheriff Murphy’s eyes the night he knocked on my door with the news that they had found the body of young Jennifer Nelson. It was the day after I had visited Irene.

  Carla was working and I was getting ready for bed. I had no desire for company, but the sheriff didn’t ask to be invited in. He pushed me out of the way.

  “Sit down, Sam,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  “If my father had wanted—”

  “Shut up and listen! And I said sit down!”

  “Hey, you don’t have to be so rude.”

  He grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me to the couch. His grip was powerful, reminded me of my dad’s.

  “You know, you can’t just come in here and—”

  “We found Jenny today.”

  “Oh, thank God. Is she okay?” I looked up from the couch. He stood directly over me.

  The sheriff’s top lip pulled up, an animal-like snarl. I wondered if his yellowed teeth bothered him when he looked into a mirror. “No, she’s not okay. She’s not okay at all! She’s dead!”

  “Oh, no.” I shook my head. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Really?”

  “Listen, Sheriff, I don’t know what you—”

  “And now, guess what.”

  “Come on, it’s late. I really don’t care to play guessing games.”

  “We have a husband out of town that can’t get hold of his pregnant wife.” The sheriff glared at me. “Apparently she’s turned up missing.”

  “Excuse me, Sheriff, but either she’s turned up or she’s missing. She can’t be both.”

  Sheriff Murphy’s eyes narrowed. He took on the look of a tiger ready to pounce. “If you think this is a good time to be funny, you are sadly mistaken. I’m inches away from beating the shit out of you.”

  “Hey, you can’t—”

  “And if we throw in the human remains that were found not far from here, things look pretty bad. Got any ideas about what’s happening in my town?”

  Oh, so now you own the whole town?

  “My job, Sam,” the sheriff said, not waiting for a response, “is to protect the people of this community.”

  “Sheriff, I don’t—”

  “But I’m not doing a very good job of that right now, am I?” He glared at me.

  He wasn’t going to let me finish anything I said, so I didn’t bother.

  “I have a daughter. So I’m sure you can understand when I say finding the mutilated—” He stopped himself. “Finding the body of a dead girl upsets me more than you can imagine. I’m sick, absolutely sick to my stomach about this. This is my town. These people expect me to protect them.”

  “I can imagine how upset you must be.”

  “Oh, yeah? Can you, really?” He paused only a moment. “Here’s the deal, Sam. I think you’re a strange fellow. As a matter of fact, I really don’t like you much, not much at all. You leave a bad taste in my mouth, like I just chewed on a chunk of shit. My gut is telling me to lock your ass up right this second. Only I don’t have anything to go on just yet.”

  “You are being extremely rude, Sheriff. I didn’t do anything to deserve this kind of treatment.”

  “You admitted to seeing Jenny, to talking to her, the day she disappeared. You were the last person to see her alive. And you’re off on your time frame from that day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you planted the rose bush at around four, remember?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Turns out you didn’t even buy it until almost five thirty. Receipt tape from the nursery.”

  “Okay, I guess I remembered the time wrong. So sue me.”

  “What did you do between three fifteen, which would have been about the time Jenny walked home from school, and five thirty, when you bought the bush?”

  “Probably chores around the house. Is that a crime?”

  “No, but murder is. As soon as I get the lab results back… Oh yeah, did I happen to mention she had flesh underneath her fingernails? I’m going to pursue this like a starving pit bull in search of fresh meat. If the trail leads back to you in any way whatsoever, may the Lord have mercy on your soul. I will not rest until I chew you up and shit you out!”

  “How dare you threaten me!” I jumped to my feet, wanting the sheriff to know he had definitely crossed a line. “You have no idea who you’re talking to!”

  “Is that so?” The sheriff gave me an odd look. “Why don’t you tell me, then?”

  “I know things about the spirit world that you could never understand or comprehend. I’m becoming something you could never even imagine.”

  The sheriff stepped toward me, brought his face close to mine, almost touching. “Really? Well then, maybe each Sunday morning, instead of wasting my time listening to the pastor, I should be coming here for lessons.”

  “Don’t mock me.” I gave him a stern look.

  He didn’t flinch. “If I didn’t have to follow the rules of the badge that this community has entrusted me with, I would get to the bottom of this right now.” He raised his hands, like he was about to grab me. “I would take you apart, piece by stinking shitty piece, until you told me what happened the day Jenny disappeared.”

  Was he actually shaking?

  “So let me leave you with this,” he said, now poking me hard in the chest. “I believe you are a sick son of a bitch and I can’t wait to have you locked up in my jail. And when that happens, I swear to God, Samuel fucking Bradbury, no one will be able to save your hide. No one!”

  I backed away. I wasn’t scared; I just didn’t like someone touching me, invading my personal space. “‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’”

  “What?”

  “The Third Commandment. That’s the second time you broke it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, how about this one: ‘thou shalt not kill.’ You do remember that one, don’t you?”

  “The Sixth Commandment. Yes, I know it well. I know them all well. Now, get out of my house, Sheriff.”

  “A little FYI…you’re now what we call a ‘person of interest,’ Sam. But only because I don’t have enough evidence yet to make you a bona fide suspect. I will, though. Yep, I certainly will. So I’ll be back soon—real soon, my friend.”

  My friend. He spoke the words as if they were coated in vinegar. I steeled my nerves. “You are an uninvited guest in my home. Now get out.”

  He stared hard at me a moment and then moved toward the door. Just before he let himself out, he turned back. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you, so stay close.”

  After calming down, I walked through the house, deciding if there was anything I really needed to take with me when I left.

  Twisted Metal and Shards of Glass

  As I sit in the Criminal Zoo, I look back at certain times of my life, examining some of my decisions and how they led to ending up here. My dad had beaten into my head—
literally—the word “consequences.” “Samuel, good decisions end in good consequences. Bad decisions end in bad consequences. Which kind do you think you should make?”

  One decision I still question was, did I awaken that morning so many years ago with any intentions of hurting my father? I mean really hurting him.

  My dad had a doctor’s appointment in Midland. He suffered from an enlarged prostate and it was playing hell on his ability to take a piss. Just another excuse for him to act like an asshole. He had asked me to drive him because he couldn’t find his glasses. Without them, he couldn’t see worth a damn, or so he said. If it had been me who lost my glasses, and if I wasn’t almost twenty-three years old, he would’ve busted my ass.

  I told him I had other plans. I really didn’t, but I had no desire to spend time alone with him, time spent being told how worthless I was. He wasn’t having any of my bullshit and he did the whole guilt trip thing until I finally agreed. So I drove him to Midland, but I wasn’t happy about it.

  I sat in the waiting room at the doctor’s office while he disappeared with the nurse. I wondered if she stayed in the examining room while the doctor stuck his finger up my dad’s ass. I hoped she did, and I hoped she laughed, because my father had a thing about people laughing at him. It enraged him. I hoped the doctor stuck his finger so far up my dad’s ass that it came out his mouth. And I hoped my dad squealed like a stuck pig, the nurse laughing the whole time.

  After about twenty minutes, my dad returned to the waiting room. I examined his eyes to see if he had the look of a man who had just been ass-banged while a grown woman laughed. If it happened, he wasn’t giving me anything.

  “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

  “How’d it go?” I held hope that it had been traumatizing.

  “I visited a damned ass doctor! How do you think it went?”

  Maybe the trip was worthwhile after all.

  Dad had to pick up a prescription from the hospital pharmacy and then we headed back to Clemensville. He had complained the entire trip to Midland, whether about my driving, the state of the government, or his inability to take a “Goddamned piss.” I couldn’t stand to listen to it all the way home, so out of desire to shut him up—as opposed to having meaningful conversation—I brought up my new goal.

  “I’m going to make a movie.”

  I regretted it immediately after the words hit the air.

  “You’re going to make a movie?” His words dripped with acid.

  “Yeah,” I defended. “I’m going to make a movie.”

  “About what? What could you possibly make a movie about?”

  Having an abusive asshole for a father. “My childhood.”

  He stared at me, his nose wrinkled. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not kidding. What’s the problem with me making a movie?”

  “What the hell do you know about making movies? What, you think you just go out there and make a movie? You think just anyone can do it?” He laughed. “You making a movie? That’s funny as hell!”

  I gripped the steering wheel hard. How could I have been so stupid? “People make movies all the time. They had to start somewhere.”

  “Uh-huh,” he grunted. “So your movie is going to be about mowing lawns? A real edge-of-your-seat film!”

  “No, my movie is not about me as a landscaper. It’s about me growing up in Clemensville.”

  “Riveting!” He laughed.

  Why did I even bring this up? What was I thinking?

  “Hey, I’ve got a great idea for you! You could make a movie about the time you killed your cousin.”

  My head whipped around, my eyes no longer on the road. “That wasn’t my fault. Jeremy should’ve been paying attention.”

  “Yeah, he just fell off that ol’ haystack all by himself, right?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. And I sure as hell wasn’t the one who left a pitchfork on the ground, either.”

  “That’s the damnedest thing of it, Samuel. No one else seems to recollect leaving that pitchfork there.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean I did it.”

  “Of course not. I’m sure that pitchfork just up and walked itself to the haystack.”

  “I didn’t do it!” I returned my eyes to the road and said nothing. I suddenly had no desire to talk to my father. Ever again.

  “Make a movie…” my dad mumbled. “You couldn’t make a movie if your life depended on it.”

  “You know what, Dad, whether you believe in me or not doesn’t matter. I know I can get my movie discovered by Hollywood, and then I’d finally get the hell out of this stupid little town. And when I do, I’m never coming back. So you can just sit in your dumpy old house and wish you hadn’t been such a jerk to me all these years.”

  My dad slapped me hard across the face. “I don’t care how old you are, you will not talk to me that way! Do you understand?”

  I stared straight ahead, gritting my teeth so hard my jaw muscles cramped.

  “Boy, I asked you a question.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him staring at me. He repeated the question, inserting a pause between each word. “Do…you…understand?”

  “I understand.” Tears welled in my eyes like I was nine again. No. I would not cry in front of my dad as an adult.

  We drove in silence for quite a while before he asked, “So, what’s your hard-on with Clemensville?”

  Was he kidding? Clemensville offered only stagnation, living life day to day as a plumber, a store clerk, a county employee, or a struggling landscaper. It offered life without dreams, no hope of a future filled with adventure. I envisioned being a famous moviemaker and being interviewed on a talk show, maybe even The Tonight Show. I would accept all the praise for my work with a big fat smile. I would tell funny stories, laugh with the audience, and talk about my upcoming film due for release. And when asked about my childhood and where I came from, I would reply, “You know, I live only in the present. As far as I’m concerned, I’m from Hollywood, always have been and always will be.”

  “You can daydream all you want.” My dad’s words pulled me from my Tonight Show appearance. “But truth is, you mow people’s lawns. I did that, too. When I was ten.”

  The busiest intersection in town was at the north end, where Broadway intersected 349th. Broadway ran east and west, connecting Clemensville to farms and ranches outside of town. The intersection was an indicator of just how small our little corner of the world was. It was one of the few with actual traffic lights; all others were controlled by stop signs. If you were traveling north or south, you met a flashing yellow light. If you were traveling east or west, a flashing red light.

  I noticed the farm truck rumbling down the road long before it got to the intersection. It moved toward us, coming from my right, at a speed obviously exceeding the limit. My dad wasn’t paying attention. And even if he had been, he couldn’t see without his glasses. He had moved on to the next topic: how the Dallas Cowboys had become a bunch of lazy bums and how the entire NFL was headed down the drain. A subject I had no interest in.

  I kept an eye on the truck, its speed staying steady as it hurtled in our direction. My foot almost lifted off the gas pedal. But instead of slowing down, I sped up.

  “You know,” my dad said, “it’s bullshit the price they charge for game tickets nowadays. It’s because of how much they pay all those Goddamned, spoiled millionaire babies on the field. It makes it impossible for a regular guy to go to a game. If I were a team owner, I would get all the other owners together and we would agree on a set amount to pay the players.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I would pay only so much for a lineman. Those fat asses don’t deserve much. And don’t even get me started on what I think a punter or placekicker should make. I would pay just so much for a running back. Of course the quart
erback gets paid the most, but not the ridiculous amounts they’re getting paid now. Not even half of that. Maybe a fourth of it. If every team did it, it’s not like the players could walk off.”

  I watched the truck. It bounced toward the intersection. I looked to my dad. He was shaking his head, mouth turned in a frown. I gauged my speed. I sped up a little more, not exceeding the speed limit by too much.

  “Spoiled babies,” my dad grumbled, looking straight ahead. “And what’s up with all the celebrating in the end zone? What happened to guys like Walter Payton, the guys who would quietly kick your ass by scoring three or four touchdowns on you and then simply hand the ball over to the ref? I shouldn’t even watch anymore.”

  The truck wasn’t slowing down. My hands began to tremble.

  My dad turned to me. “I suppose you’d just go out there and make a movie so you’d have enough money to pay those babies, huh?”

  I looked past him, at the truck barreling towards us.

  “Maybe I’ll become a golf fan,” he said, and then laughed. “Now there’s some real athletes! Plaid short pants and all. Dressed just like clowns.”

  The intersection was maybe a hundred and fifty yards in front of us. I looked straight ahead, but out of the corner of my eye I could see the truck. It hadn’t slowed any. Our light flashed yellow. Its light flashed red.

  My dad finally noticed I had accelerated. “Hey there, Dale Earnhardt, aren’t you going a little fast?”

  One hundred yards.

  “If you get a ticket, I’m not paying for it. You can use your lawn mowing money.” He laughed.

  Fifty yards.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “I got it covered.”

  “Samuel, you couldn’t cover the cost of a candy bar.”

  Twenty-five yards.

  I looked at my dad, smiled, and then squeezed my eyes shut.

  “What the hell are you doing? Jesus Christ, Sam—”