Bubba and the Missing Woman

by Bevill, C. L.

  I guess I ain’t Clarice Starling, Bubba thought dejectedly.

  When the guards said their time was up, Nancy said brightly, “Well, it’s been educational, Bubba. Best of luck with your missing girl.”

  Bubba glowered. It had been a stupid idea. Nancy wouldn’t have helped him because she was angry with him. He’d gotten in the middle of her murder scheme and ruined everything.

  I had lots of help and I don’t see her blaming all the other folks, dammit.

  “I reckon I’ll see you at the trial,” Bubba said.

  Nancy smiled as one of the officers detached the handcuffs from the chair and then re-attached them to her wrists. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll plead for a deal. Tell the police where all the bodies are buried.” She glanced at the sharp look of one of the correction officers. “Metaphorically speaking of course.”

  The correctional officers led her out of the room, and Nancy called over her shoulder, “Toodle-oo.”

  Bubba waited for another guard to escort him back through the halls to the visitor’s center. He was searched again and his identification re-verified. Bubba looked down at the guard checking his driver’s license for the umpteenth time and said, “What, do you think I switched places with one of the prisoners?”

  The guard’s lips twitched, and he assessed Bubba’s not inconsiderable height. “There are some big girls in here.”

  Bubba signed out with the officer in the visitor center, and he gestured at The PSS as he went out the door. But then he paused and went back to speak to the correctional officer at the desk. This was the same man who’d said Bubba was on the list.

  “Yes,” the officer said curiously as he gazed up at Bubba’s immense frame.

  “You said I was on Nancy’s list,” Bubba said slowly. “You mean the governor’s office added it today?”

  The officer consulted a clipboard. “No, the governor’s office did call today about you. That’s the reason you got let in on a weekday. We only do special visits on weekdays. Attorneys. Paralegals. Social workers and the like. Not usually any family or friends. And it’s not like you’re her lawyer.”

  “I was on her list before today?”

  The officer looked at the clipboard again. “From the day she walked into Myrtlewood.”

  “Who else is on the list?”

  “Her lawyer, lawyer’s assistant, a researcher, a minister, her uncle, and her brother.” The officer shrugged. “Cons put down anyone who might visit on account they get bored quickly. A visitor breaks up their routine. It gets to be a big deal.”

  “Why me?”

  The officer shrugged again. “You tell me.”

  Bubba thanked him and returned to where The PSS was lurking by the door. They got to the truck and let Precious out to mark a patch of nearby grass with her special essence. When they were all loaded up, Bubba said, “David, why would Nancy put me on her visitor’s list?”

  The PSS absently scratched Precious’s head. Precious didn’t seem to know the difference between a normal person and a mentally ill person, so she took the scratches with full favor.

  But what’s normal?

  “Nancy’s mental status attempts to employ various angles for revenge,” The PSS said in a very psychotherapeutic manner.

  Bubba looked over to see if David Beathard, psychotherapist, had returned.

  Then The PSS said, “just like many a vicious, sociopathic serial villain.”

  Guess not.

  “You spent lots of time with her,” Bubba said.

  “She was my social worker,” The PSS said simply. “Not that a superhero really needs a social worker.”

  Bubba turned toward Dallas instead of Pegram County. “Guess we’re going on a road trip.”

  “Goody,” The PSS said. “I like road trips. Exceptin’ we might want to stop and get some Dramamine.” He looked around to see if anyone was listening. “My alter ego gets car sick,” he whispered so no criminal scoundrels could immorally obtain such valuable information about a superhero’s weaknesses.

  “Yep,” Bubba said. “That sounds about right.”

  •

  Upon reaching Dallas without fanfare from the temperamental Chevy truck, Bubba checked into the same hotel. He got The PSS a room next to his, and he even stopped at a Walmart to get a change of clothing for David. It wasn’t easy finding purple clothing in the men’s section. Finally, a clerk suggested that they get some larger women’s wear that was in the right colors. They found an XXL purple t-shirt and some tall purple jeans that were only a little big on The PSS. Bubba didn’t want to see what purple underwear The PSS had selected from the women’s lingerie section.

  “They have special little sequins that give my loins tremendous capabilities,” The PSS told Bubba despite the fact that he really didn’t want to know.

  Resisting the urge to plug his ears and say repeatedly, “I’m not listening,” Bubba broke out one of his few credit cards and paid for everything.

  Lord, please don’t let The PSS tell me what kind of superpowers his loins have.

  Finally, Bubba had a free moment and called Kiki Rutkowski back.

  “Dude,” she said. “The bubba who’s a real Bubba.”

  “Kiki,” Bubba said. “I’m right sorry I didn’t call you back earlier. I got a bit busier than a one-eyed cat watching three mouse holes.”

  “And let’s come back to that later,” Kiki said, enthused.

  “About stalkers?”

  “Boy, you don’t like to stop and smell the flowers,” she said chirpily, not sounding upset in the least. “Well, the prof told me some stuff. Guy thought I was talking about me and wanted me to see the campus police. Haha. He doesn’t know I carry mace and brass knuckles in my tote. Let some guy try to stalk Kiki. He’d be one sorry SOB in the hospital.”

  Bubba sighed.

  “Oh, sorry, Bubba. I get carried away. Stalkers. Stalkers. Stalkers. What did the prof tell me? I jotted down notes on my iPad. He said they don’t take no for an answer. Let’s see. They’re OCD by nature.”

  “OCD?”

  “Obsessive compulsive disorder. They fixate on someone or something and don’t let go. Even though this guy was in prison, he was still thinking about Willy. Maybe he even manages to get more information about her. When he gets out, he’s still thinking about her. Although sometimes they do move onto different targets, especially since the initial one might be out of their range of control.”

  “Okay. He’s still writing her letters, so he found her address somehow.” Bubba cogitated. “Maybe he conned it out of her family.”

  “They usually have above-average intelligence, which isn’t a good thing for the police or the victims.”

  “So Le Beau’s smart.” Bubba didn’t care for that. It meant that Le Beau was capable of saying the things that Guillermo Sanchez wanted to hear and making the parole officer think that Le Beau was attempting to straighten out his life.

  “They don’t usually have any other personal relationships besides the one they’re trying to force on their victims,” Kiki said.

  “No close friends.”

  “They typically have low self-esteem,” Kiki went on. “Because of the low self-esteem, they have a need to make up for it with a false relationship with their victim.”

  “Don’t feel good about himself,” Bubba restated.

  “And they can become violent,” Kiki finished reluctantly, “especially when they’re thwarted.”

  Bubba really didn’t like that. It fit with the scenario, however. Le Beau got out of prison. He played a role for a while until he found Willodean Gray, again. Then he pounced.

  Figuring out how to use this information was going to be the difficult part for Bubba.

  Bubba and The PSS ate at a local diner where The PSS gave superhero advice to several interested men who appeared a half step above homeless. Plainly, the diner saw its fair share of oddballs and no one called the police to intervene. Interestingly enough, the men seemed to view the superhero persona as D
avid’s “gig” and were properly impressed with his thoroughness.

  Later that night, Bubba even managed to get a decent night’s rest on the brick-like mattress. He only woke up once, having been dreaming about Willodean crying out for help and no one answering her.

  The next morning Bubba took The PSS to the construction office where Howell Le Beau was employed. He didn’t pretend to be a police officer or anything other than what he was. He didn’t even attempt to get The PSS to wait in the truck with the dog.

  The secretary at the construction office wouldn’t tell Bubba anything about Howell Le Beau. She kept a wary eye on the two of them and offered up a simple reason for her noncompliance.

  “We’ve gotten calls from the police already,” she said dryly. The name plate on the dingy-gray metal desk said she was Edith Hanson.

  Edith looked Bubba up and down with the practiced ease of someone who was used to sizing up numerous people who might be trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Then she looked The PSS up and down. “And you don’t look like police officers to me.”

  Bubba wasn’t up to clever manipulations, not that he ever relied on them. That was more his mother’s shtick. Instead, he went with the down-and-dirty truth. “There’s a woman missing. She’s kind, clever, and beautiful. She doesn’t back down from a fight, and she helps folks out who need a hand. Maybe this Le Beau’s got something to do with it. Maybe he ain’t. But he needs to be found.”

  “Le Beau hasn’t come back to work,” Edith said with a frown.

  Bubba wasn’t certain, but possibly Edith had been impressed with his descriptive detail of the lovely Willodean Gray’s character.

  “What do you know about Le Beau?” The PSS asked politely. “Every little nuance counts, you know, when profiling a personality.”

  “You know this woman personally?” Edith said to Bubba, trying to not look at The PSS. It was difficult to avoid his larger-than-life purple presence.

  “Yes, I know her.”

  “What will you do to Le Beau if you find him?”

  “I’d ask him a few questions about Willodean Gray and where she might be located,” Bubba answered sincerely. It occurred to him that Edith was being rather protective of Howell Le Beau’s civil rights. The secretary of a small construction company probably dealt with many, if not all of the employees. She knew Le Beau. Squeezing Edith Hanson for information was better than speaking to other construction workers who were employed alongside Le Beau.

  “Hurt him?”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Bubba also said sincerely.

  The PSS was staring intently at Edith’s forehead. She reached up and nervously brushed a set of bangs out of the way.

  “He’s freaking me out,” Edith said.

  “Uh, David, you’re freaking her out,” Bubba said to The PSS.

  “I sense that she knows more that’s she letting on,” The PSS stated without looking away from Edith.

  Edith leaned back as if the action would put The PSS out of mental telepathic range. “What’s he doing?”

  “I have the power to scan men’s minds,” The PSS said earnestly. “Also women’s.” Then he added enigmatically, “Especially women’s.”

  Edith shot a look at Bubba. “Is he kidding?”

  Bubba shrugged. “Don’t reckon so. The Purple Singapore Sling is pretty much dead serious.” So’s David Beathard for that matter. Probably David’s other personas, too.

  “The Purple Singapore Sling?” Edith repeated nervously. “Isn’t that some kind of alcoholic drink?”

  “And a superhero,” The PSS declared, focusing his gaze on her forehead even more intently.

  “If I was looking for Howell,” Edith said quickly, leaning back further in her chair, attempting to get as far away from The PSS as she could, “I would check his church. He’s very Christian. Spoke about it a lot.”

  Bubba glanced at The PSS. David wasn’t altogether useless. Ain’t that something?

  “What church is that?”

  “The First Unity Fellowship of Garland,” she said hastily. “It’s off I-30 to the east.”

  The PSS straightened up. “Thank you, madam, for your gracious assistance toward the cause of justice and fortitude.”

  Edith uneasily rubbed her forehead. “Yeah, don’t tell Howell I told you.”

  •

  It wasn’t difficult to find the First Unity Fellowship of Garland. It was a very large, very modern eyesore planted just off the freeway. It also had three billboards that proclaimed its presence. The billboards were almost larger than the church and that wasn’t saying that the church was small because it wasn’t.

  “Do you think that Edith told Investigator Park about the church?” Bubba asked The PSS.

  “Who’s Investigator Park?” The PSS asked Bubba.

  “Probably not,” Bubba surmised. “Guess she didn’t want to get involved with something like that. Lots of them fellas that work that site looked like they was rehabilitated members of society. Ifin she works with them regularly like, then she wouldn’t want to be seen as a stool pigeon.”

  “The criminal justice system is geared to restore and reeducate those offenders who genuinely desire a second chance,” The PSS said chidingly.

  “Some of ‘em, I reckon,” Bubba acknowledged.

  They parked in the large lot of the church and stared at the building. A huge central building dominated the area with two wings stretching out to either side. People wandered in and out occasionally, as though on schedule. It was just enough activity to indicate services were not being performed. After all, it was a Thursday and the middle of the day.

  Bubba let Precious out to take care of dogly business in the form of sniffing and marking all of the recently planted trees in the parking medians. She rooted happily and gleefully spread the canine cologne.

  The PSS pointed out the security cameras in the lot watching them.

  “It’s possible that they don’t appreciate that a canine has eliminatory needs,” The PSS ventured, “specifically on their property.”

  Or they caught sight of a masked purple man in the parking lot and aren’t happy about that.

  “Maybe this is a job for your alter ego,” Bubba suggested. “Go undercover and all.”

  The PSS crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m beginning to suspect that you lack faith in my ability to contribute capably in this investigation.”

  “You did real good with Edith back at the construction company’s office,” Bubba said genuinely.

  The PSS smirked. “I did, didn’t I? What she was really thinking was that she wanted chocolates and needed to have her legs waxed.” He gave a brief shudder as if gazing into the intricacies of the female persuasion was unsettling.

  Bubba blinked. Maybe The PSS could help out with the church. After all, ifin they were Christian like they would understand man comes in all varieties.

  A security guard met them in front before they could go inside. He was almost as tall as Bubba but lacked Bubba’s width in the chest. The lack of breadth didn’t stop the man from planting himself squarely in their paths.

  “What’s your business here?” the guard asked coldly. He stared more at The PSS than at Bubba, and Bubba figured out that he was correct. All kinds of folks got nervous around a man in a mask when it wasn’t even close to Halloween.

  “We’re looking for some help,” Bubba said honestly. It was probable that the Dallas PD had already come calling on the church about Howell Le Beau, and Bubba wanted to get a foot in the door before they said they couldn’t help.

  The guard gazed frankly at The PSS. “Yeah, I guess you do at that.”

  “I am The Purple Singapore Sling,” The PSS announced boldly. He put his hands akimbo and expanded his chest accordingly. “I require assistance with an investigation into a life and death matter. As a fellow law enforcer you could be integral in aiding us and bringing a young woman back into the loving bosom of her desperate family.”

  “I could?” the
guard said. He appeared engrossed.

  “You could,” Bubba agreed.

  The guard thought about it. “You need the wing around back. It’s marked as Entrance C. They’ll hook you up.”

  “Much obliged,” Bubba said.

  The PSS gave the guard a sincere nod. “Your gracious support will be noted in the public annals for record.”

  “Yeah, you betcha,” the guard said doubtfully. He pointed in the direction they needed to go.

  Bubba and The PSS found Entrance C. It was a wing of the larger church building and a tidy little sign on the side of the door proclaimed it as “First Unity Fellowship Mental Health Outreach.” Sighing, Bubba rang the bell anyway.

  A young woman met them at the door. “Security called about your special needs,” she said. She smiled at them. She was bright and cheerful and informed them she was a social worker and ready to help with anyone who had mental health issues. She particularly directed her benign gaze upon the man dressed entirely in purple. Moreover, she informed them the church’s mental health outreach was determined on a case-by-case basis and had a sliding scale in order to facilitate assistance to every socio-economic level.

  All of this information was imparted as she escorted them into a waiting room.

  “We’ll need to fill out some paperwork,” she said and introduced herself as Neely Smith.

  Thirty minutes later, Bubba had convinced Neely Smith that David Beathard wasn’t an immediate threat to himself or anyone else.

  “No death threats?” she asked.

  “He thinks he’s different people,” Bubba said sotto voce.

  Bubba and the social worker sat in the small waiting area as they discussed The PSS. Meanwhile, The PSS was attempting to rescue a potted plant from a darkened corner. “This calamitous shrub needs more sunlight,” he proclaimed.

  “I wish I was a supermodel sometimes,” Neely said wistfully, “But I’m only five foot one. So if you’re not here about him- ” she waved at The PSS “ -then why are you here?”