Unlikely Justice

Detective Superintendent Ian Cudney lowered his bulky frame into his deck chair and slipped his can of cold Molson Canadian into a foam cozy. He sighed as he propped his pale, bare legs on a stool and gazed with satisfaction at his freshly mowed back lawn. His wife, Lois, slid back the screen door and poked her head out. “Ian, take it easy on that beer or you’ll be asleep before the second inning. Judy called and they’ll be here in about half an hour.”

Cudney stood 6’4” in his black dress socks and tipped the scales at an easy 250. He shuffled stooped over and, more than anything, resembled a bear shambling through the offices of the London police force. Behind his back they called him Columbo for his gentle style of interrogation, although he could be a scary bastard when the situation warranted.

“Alright,” he growled. Judy, their only daughter, was visiting for a Sunday barbecue. She and her husband, Craig, would bring along their two children, Ian and Lois’ only grandchildren.  Conner, the oldest at eight, planned to watch the Blue Jays game on TV with grandpa.

Ian took a satisfying pull on his beer when the phone rang inside. ‘Uh oh,’ thought Cudney. Sure enough, moments later Lois stepped on the porch and handed him the phone and said with a frown, “It’s the duty officer. Tell them to send someone else.”

Ian grabbed the phone. “This is Cudney!” he shouted.

“No need to scream, Ian. We have a perfectly good connection,” replied Assistant Chief Halstrom.

“Oh, sorry, Chief. Didn’t know it was you. What’s up?”

“I know it’s Sunday and all, Ian, but they just discovered a body over in Springbank Park and I want you on this case.”

“Can’t someone else handle it? I can get Traci on it. I know she’s home this weekend.”

“Get her out there, too. This is a clear homicide and it’s one of your favorite pedophiles. The newsies are going to be all over it and it’s going to be political.”

“All right, Boss. I’ll get a hold of Traci and beat feet out there. Springbank Park…. That’s off Commissioners Road, right?”

“Yeah. Call me on my mobile when you get a look and don’t let anyone make a statement to the press.”

“Got it.” He was about to dial Traci’s number when he noticed Lois standing there with her hands on her hips and a big frown on her face. “Got a murder and it looks to be sensitive. The Chief insist I’m on it. I gotta go.”

Lois shrugged with resignation, “Well, at least change out of those ridiculous shorts. If anyone gets a picture of you in those, it will be on the front page of every paper in Ontario.” Cudney glanced down at his blue, pink and white checked Bermuda shorts and replied, “I don’t know. I think these are quite becoming.”

“Yeah, and the black socks with the white runners are a nice touch.”

Detective Traci Whitequill slept peacefully with the hot afternoon sun sneaking through a
gap in the drawn curtains and doing battle with her aging air conditioner. Her shining black hair spilled over her pillow and her slender arm draped over the broad bare chest of her equally relaxed “friend” Pete Gerard.

Traci’s phone began to vibrate and ring like an old alarm clock on the coffee table in the adjacent living room. She groaned and threw back the sheet and headed for the phone. Pete rose on one elbow and admired her naked ass as she strode across the carpet. She glared at the screen and then answered the phone with a crisp, “Whitequill.”

“Yeah, Traci, this is Ian.”

“Hey, Ian.”

“Murder over at Springbank Park. It’s gonna be a big deal with the newsies and Chief insists it’s you and me, girl.”

“I’m without wheels, Ian. My car’s in the shop for a few days.”

“Have Gerard give you a ride. He’s there, right?”

After an awkward pause, “Ah, yeah,” she admitted.

“OK, soon as you can make it.”

She set the phone on the table and looked up at Pete who stared at her with a smile. “Up and at ‘em cowboy. I need a ride.”

Pete smiled at her. “You got a great ass, Whitequill. Are you sure you’re an Oneida? Looks like an Irish ass to me.” She stooped and grabbed her running shoe and flung it at his head. He ducked and it sailed harmlessly overhead.

“Get your hairy butt out of bed and get dressed. I got a murder to solve and I need a ride.” Pete swung his legs to the floor and grabbed his jeans.

Pete glanced over at Traci while they maneuvered their way through the downtown London traffic. He could not get used to her stunning beauty or that she would be interested in him, a beat up spec ops vet twelve years her senior. The blood of her First Nations ancestry gave her an exotic look that only enhanced her beauty.

Feeling his gaze she turned and said, “It’s not an Irishman who can take credit for my ass; my great-grandma married a Frenchman.”

“Ah.” Pete replied. “I should have known by the way you wiggle that thing that it was French. That and the small boobs. Still Celt, though.” Traci glared at him and then gave him a sharp punch to the shoulder.

He slalomed his five year old F-150 up the narrow park lane until stopped by a uniformed London cop. The officer peered in the window and spotted Traci in the passenger seat.

“Hey Traci. Ian said you were coming.” He pointed, “You can park over there. Follow that hiking trail until you see a yellow tape tied to a branch. Take a right. The body’s back in the bush about 20 meters.”

Pete followed Traci down the trail despite her assurances that Ian would be pissed. He said, “I was rudely awakened from a nap and conscripted to drive out here, at least I should see what all this is about.”

Traci called out to Ian when they started into the brush off the trail. She wanted to make sure not to trample evidence at the crime scene, but Ian assured them that the people that found the body had already made a mess of it. As they carefully approached the crime scene, Ian looked up and frowned at Pete. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Ian was willing to cut Pete some slack for he was a genuine hero in the military as a member of the JTF2, the Canadian equivalent of the US Delta or Navy SEALs. Also, he had taken out a disturbed young man who was committing mass murder, shooting up Christmas shoppers at a crowded mall last year.  Pete’s role in killing the shooter was not widely known.

Pete just shrugged and looked down at the body. It was pretty clear that the victim had been bashed in the back of the head. A large pool of blood had gathered on the leaves and was now attracting a swarm of blue bottle flies. The victim lay on his back and his trousers and undershorts were pulled down exposing his wrinkled genitals. He had a pair of high powered binoculars hung around his neck.

Traci peered through the trees and brush and found herself looking at a school with the playing fields between the woods and the school. Ian followed her gaze and remarked, “Middle school. I’m guessing he was spying on 11 and 12 year olds and masturbating while he did it.”

“Spanking the ol’ monkey. Looks like he’s been here before,” offered Pete as he pointed to several wads of discarded tissues in the nearby bushes.

Traci wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Who is this asshole and how did anyone find this body tucked back here in the bushes?”

“We received an anonymous tip is what I was told on my way over here. His name is Joseph Rafferty, age 46. He has multiple pedophile convictions. Been in and out of prison numerous times and was released three months ago.”

Traci stared at Ian. “You know this guy?”

“I put him away five years ago for molesting at least seven minors between the ages of five and eleven, although there were probably more.”

“Well,” Pete observed, “Looks like somebody decided to fix his problem for good.” Ian gave him a sharp look and Pete responded, “Hey, don’t look at me. I’ve got an airtight alibi.”

With little more Traci could do at the scene, she and Pete headed back to Pete’s truck leaving Ian to deal with the media. As they approached the parking lot they could see that the TV people had been kept well back but a few of the print media folks had slipped through. A skinny bottle blond with a skin tight outfit, unnaturally white teeth and a poised notepad stepped forward blocking their way. Aggressive, and clearly looking for a career move up from the weekly “Londoner”. Noticing Traci’s badge she tried to engage her with questions and received a terse, “No comment” for her efforts.

Spotting Pete in his casual clothes she slid in front of him, thrust out her augmented chest and insisted, “Who are you?” Pete ignored her and brushed past. The reporter hurried after him and stepped into his path again, repeating the question. Exasperated, Pete responded, “P.W. Reese.” Traci glared at him in alarm.

“And, what do you do for the London Police, Mr. Reese?”

“I’m Detective Whitequill’s chauffeur.”

The reporter hurried along beside them as Traci tried to tow Pete to the F-150. “And why, Mr. Reese, does a detective require a chauffeur?”

Traci was now officially panicked as Pete casually responded, “It’s part of the First Nations Assistance Programme.”

In the truck at last Traci was furious. “You asshole! What are you doing?!”

“Ah, don’t worry. I was just pulling her chain. No editor would be stupid enough to publish that bilge.” Pete, as it turned out, was mistaken about that.

Ian sat at his desk with a newspaper open in front of him, beet red and furious. He growled, took a deep breath and rubbed the stubble on his chin. Traci sat on a chair in front of him with her hands in her lap like a school girl caught cheating on an exam. Ian’s cursing and raging had run its course with an impressive string of expletives. Finally he said, “The editor of the ‘Londoner” was madder than a scalded bobcat. I’m not sure if he was more pissed at us or his dumb reporter for publishing that phony story without his approval. Every print journalist and TV anchor in town has phoned me wondering about the mythical ‘First Nations Assistance Programme’. God, that poor reporter is going to be writing for her college newspaper again.” Cudney chuckled and then, trying to stifle a laugh, broke into a hearty belly laugh. They laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks. Ian choked, “Tell that damn Gerard to keep his big mouth shut! Jesus, Pee Wee Reese!” He burst into laughter again. “Shortstop for the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1940s!”

After they calmed down, Cudney observed, “It seems pretty likely that whoever bashed Rafferty is a friend or relative of one of his many victims. First thing Monday get that researcher, Mary, working on compiling a list. You and the new guy, Acting Detective Kelly, can start interviewing them and see if we can come up with some suspects…somebody with enough hatred for the guy to be willing to bash his head in.”

“That could be most of the parents of the victims,” observed Traci.

“True, but they would also have to be capable of following him out there and actually committing the act. By tomorrow we should have the autopsy report and anything the crime scene people come up with. When we get an idea of the time of death I can go over to the school and see what was happening at the school that turned Mr. Rafferty on.”

Pete sat at a table in the Tim Horton’s across from the police building sipping an iced tea and reading the sports section of the Sunday paper. When Traci emerged from the station, he dropped some cash on the table and joined her at his pickup. “All done for the day?”

“Yeah.  Not much more can be done until we get the coroner’s report and compile a list of all Rafferty’s victims.”

“Good. I need a shower and something to eat.”

Ian hung up the phone as Traci walked into his office at 10:00 the next morning. She dropped a sheaf of paper on his desk and said, “Did you know that 435 sexual offenders live in and around London, Ontario?”

“Is this all of them?” he asked, thumbing through the list.

“No. This is just the ones convicted of local pedophile offenses and free and living in the community. I just used the Ontario Sex Offender Registry since the public can’t see the private info on the RCMP’s national registry.”

“I remember the battle back in 2000 over Christopher’s Law. Six years of legal bullshit…. All the way up to the Supreme Court to get the right for the public to see the registry.”

“Yeah, we studied that in criminal justice class. Lots of heated debate. Seems like the privacy folks who opposed it have a point; we have a dead pedophile on our hands. Anyway,” she continued, “Mary found seventeen released S/Os living locally. The families who were victims of the S/Os are on the second set of sheets. Mary cross referenced the names with the DL and tax database for the current addresses and phone numbers.”

“Good work. Tell Mary I appreciate it.” Ian rumbled. “I just got off the phone with the principal of the school. He’s emailing me a schedule of who is using the playing fields during the weekends.”

“Ah, I forgot to mention that the preliminary time of death has been set at 1:00 pm.” Ian turned to his computer to check his email. “Yep, here it is. 12:30 to 2:00, junior girls field hockey. Bunch of little girls running around in short skirts. Enough to keep Rafferty’s attention while somebody snuck up behind him with a baseball bat.”

“Ah jeez, Ian. I hate this case already and we just started.”

“That’s why you’re getting the big bucks, Traci. Now get Kelly off his ass and start interviewing the families. I want alibis for Sunday and you guys make a judgement as to the ability and motivation to do it. Rank them zero to five. Zero is no chance in Hell. Five is guilty as sin.”

“Got it, boss.” She turned and marched out.

Cudney shook his head. He had been against making Traci a detective because he thought she was hired because of her looks or was a minority hire. She had slowly brought him around though. She was smart, hard working, and had unusual insight into human nature for someone so young. He could not understand, however, what the Hell she was doing with that nut, Pete Gerard.

He had a thought and grabbed the phone. When answered, he asked, “Mary, is there any way to know who might have accessed the OSOR? I mean, is there any record of that?”

“Hmmm. I don’t know about that, Ian, but I do know a guy over at Ontario Corrections in their computer section. He probably knows.”

“Call him. Get back to me.” He dropped the phone in the cradle.

Traci and Kelly organized the list of families by geography to avoid running back and forth across the city. John Kelly had made Acting Detective only three months previously. He was slender and stood just under 6 feet tall. Dark haired and quite handsome, the rumor that had followed him from the uniformed force was that he was hung like a donkey. Traci felt certain that he was gay. Heterosexual men behaved in a certain way around Traci. John Kelly was polite and displayed friendly humor around her, but was decidedly uninterested in her charms.

The first five people they interviewed so far all seemed to have good alibis for Sunday afternoon.  A minimal amount of follow-up would prove them out. Mary had thoughtfully included a short description of the crime and while individually tragic and traumatic for the victims, did not seem sufficient for a brutal murder in retribution. Traci had rated them all a “one”.

The next family on the list, the Kalcowskis, looked more serious. Ten year old Linsey Kalcowski had been grabbed off the street and thrown into a van. She had been vaginally and anally raped before being dumped at a suburban mall. Although Joseph Rafferty was the prime suspect, they did not have enough evidence to convict him. Linsey had been too traumatized to identify Rafferty, and there was no forensic evidence to link him to the crime.

Mary had added a hand written note at the bottom of the Kalcowski’s info sheet: “I added this family because two years after this incident, Linsey hung herself in her closet. Her father found her and has been known to have threatened Rafferty.

With Traci in the passenger seat, John Kelly pulled his battered unmarked police cruiser to the curb in front of a forty year old clapboard home in sad need of a paint job. The lawn showed the same neglect with weeds and brown patches. They climbed the steps and Kelly rang the bell. They saw the curtains move on the front window but nobody answered the door. He opened the screen and pounded on the scared inner door. “Open up, police!” he shouted.

The door opened to the security chain and a ruddy face peeked out. “Let’s see some ID.” She demanded. After examining the ID she unhooked the chain and swung it open.

Traci stepped forward and asked, “Mrs. Kalcowski, my name is Detective Traci Whitequill and this is John Kelly.  We’re from the London Police.  We’d like to speak with you. Can we come in?”

She backed away from the door and the two officers entered the drab and littered living room. A sagging chesterfield fronted an aging television and the scared coffee table held a pile of magazines, an overflowing ashtray and a half empty bottle of red wine. She motioned toward the couch and some wine slopped over the glass that she held in her hand. “Have a seat.”

“No, thanks.” Traci responded. “We just have a few questions.”

“OK.” Mrs. Carol Kalcowski was a tall woman and what would be referred to as ‘big boned’. Heavy, but not exactly obese. If anything, she reminded Traci of an aging Russian shot putter. She wore a shapeless, wrinkled dress and her shoulder-length dark hair, striped with grey, hung in greasy strands.

“Is your husband at home, Mrs. Kalcowski?” Kelly asked.

“Ha. He hasn’t been home in a couple of years.”

“Can you tell us where he lives now?”

“Sometimes he sleeps at The Mission. Sometimes on the street.”

“What’s the best place to find him?” Traci asked.

“Well, any of the bars around The Mission. His favorite is Gorky’s. You can probably find him there.” She glanced at the clock. “Too late though. He’s likely drunk by now.”

Traci glanced up from her notebook and asked, “Mrs. Kalcowski, can you tell us where you were yesterday around one o’clock?”

With eyes shifting from Traci to Kelly and back she responded, “Right here, watching Oprah.”

“All right, Mrs. Kalcowski. Thanks for your help.”

As they settled into the unmarked car, John exhaled and said, “Wow! That woman really needs a shower.”

As John started the car and pulled from the curb, Traci said, “Let’s take a ride down to Gorky’s and see if we can run into Mr. K.”

A dozen or so patrons hunkered over their pints at the bar and three gray haired men in their 60’s sat at a table playing dice. Conversations died out as the customers became aware of the neatly dressed and handsome young couple as they strolled in and approached the bar. The frowsy bleach blond bartender sauntered down and stuck out her ample bosom when she spotted the stunning Traci. “Help you?” she asked.

Traci flashed her ID and said, “We’re looking for a Mr. Stanley Kalcowski. We understand he hangs out here from time to time.”

“Stanley? Sure. He’s down there.” She nodded toward the end of the bar.

Traci strolled up to Stanley and stuck her ID in Stanley’s face and introduced herself. He turned with blood shot eyes and stared with confusion, back and forth between Traci and her ID. “What?” he slurred.

“Mr.Kalcowski, we’d like to ask you a few questions.” He wavered on the bar stool and nodded.

“Can you tell us where you were yesterday at one o’clock?”

“Hmmm. Yesterday….” He licked his cracked lips and scratched his week old scraggy beard. “Can’t say I remember.”

“Have you got a car, Sir?”

“Car?” he snorted. “I don’t even have a license anymore.” A bit of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth and disappeared into his beard. He swayed on his stool and closed his eyes, threatening to fall over. Traci gave him a gentle shake and Stan’s eyes popped open. Further questioning seemed pointless so the detectives returned to John’s car and decided to call it a day. They agreed to continue to interview the people on the list in the morning.

Traci opened her apartment door and was greeted by the tantalizing spicy aroma of Pete’s spaghetti sauce as it bubbled quietly on the stove. Pete emerged from the kitchen as Traci kicked off her heels and he handed her a glass of red wine. “Pasta night tonight, Sweetbuns. This fine chianti is the best $15 bottle they had.”

“Sweetbuns?”

“Simply a term of endearment. How’d it go today?”

She slumped in a chair and sighed, “Not great. We thought we had a solid possibility with a guy whose daughter committed suicide after being molested by Rafferty. But he’s such a hopeless alcoholic that he’s lucky to be able to button his fly let alone plan and commit a murder.”

“Well, it’s only day one. Go hop in the shower. I’ll start the noodles.”

After lunch the next day, Traci and John trooped into Ian’s office and dropped into chairs opposite his desk. “Well?” Cudney asked.

“Nothing.” Traci responded. “We interviewed all seventeen families and see no reason to bring any of them in for further questioning. Kinda at a dead end. The forensics guys come up with anything?”

Cudney responded, “Sorta. They determined that Rafferty’s skull was fractured by a round object about the size of a baseball bat.”

“Geez, there’s a breakthrough.” Traci muttered.

“They also confirmed the presence of semen on his hands.”

“Well, at least there is some justice in the world.”

“I’ll just pretend I did not hear that politically incorrect comment, Whitequill.”

“What comment, Ian? Here we have a dead scum and no murder weapon and no suspects.  What’s your next suggestion for this investigation?”

“Keep digging and get the Hell out of here.” Kelly scurried and Traci strolled to the door before turning.

“You know Ian, we are not going to figure this out until our culprit strikes again. This is not a one-off murder.” Ian waved her off in dismissal.

Paul, aka Pablo Zimmer, slowly maneuvered his three year old Lincoln Navigator through
the downtown traffic of London, Ontario. He was feeling quite full of himself. As a drug dealer and part time pimp, he had the best of his world… cheap cocaine and lots of young pussy. This life was way more profitable and fun than his previous job as a teacher at a native school in northern Saskatchewan. His proclivities had cost him eight years in prison for molesting his students and he had no interest in returning to that brutal prison environment. He loved the current situation where he had respect on the street, money in his pockets, and his young customers would do anything he wanted to get his drugs.

He pulled into a parking garage and parked on the second floor. He lit a cigarette and strolled to the elevator. His customers knew that the fourth floor was his “store” and he was hoping that some of his 12 year old buyers would be short of cash. When he was horny, like tonight, Pablo was willing to trade for some sweet young pussy.

Zimmer stood about 5’6” and although skinny, he slouched and affected the arrogant walk of a Detroit hip-hop star. With a dyed black mop of slicked back hair and carefully cultivated soul patch, he closely resembled a bad-ass villain out of a Mexican soap opera. The elevator arrived and Pablo nodded to the other passenger in the car before turning and pushing the button for the fourth floor. As he did so, he felt a hand on his chin and a knife slashing across his throat. With blood spraying everywhere, Pablo Zimmer crumpled to the floor of the elevator.

He jerked, spasmed and desperately gasped for air through his severed windpipe as he quickly bled out. The passenger calmly stepped over him when the doors opened on four.

Pete and Traci sat watching a banal romantic comedy on Netflix when Ian called. “We got another one.” Ian intoned. “Body in an elevator in a parking garage on Dundas and Clark. Throat cut.”

“Shit, Ian, I am still without wheels.” Traci responded.

“Get a ride with the trained killer and get your butt over here.”

Pete had paused the movie. He may have given in on the selection but he was not relinquishing the remote. He looked at Traci questioningly. She said, “Let’s go Lover. I need wheels.”

Pete shut off the TV and got up. “Lover?” he thought. That’s a promotion from “Hairy Ass”. Progress.

Pete swung the pickup to a halt outside the perimeter set up by the police at the parking garage , Traci hopped out and sprinted toward the structure. Pete could not talk his way
through the police cordon so he leaned against the hood of the F-150, lit a small H. Upmann and waited. When Traci came out she looked pale and grim. “God Pete, what a mess. I have never seen so much blood! His throat was cut so deep that his windpipe was cut completely through. Whoever did this is strong.”

“Are you done here?” Pete asked.

“Yes. Until tomorrow.”

“OK, let’s go home. I’ll fix you a one of my wicked cocktails and after a hot bath, you’ll be fine.”

“Great, but don’t waste your time thinking romance tonight big guy. Not gonna happen.”

Traci sat in Ian’s office discussing ideas on how to proceed with the investigation when John Kelly knocked and stepped in. “Here’s the report from the Forensics Section. Afraid it doesn’t give us much to go on. Big knife; probably a common home kitchen knife.”

“No DNA?” asked Ian.

“Nope. Forensics thinks the killer surely wore gloves.”

“You guys have all read this turkey’s bio…. Not a nice man. But we can’t have vigilantes running around offing people, no matter how deserving.”  Ian tossed the report on his desk without looking at it and grumped at Kelly. “Check with Mary and see if she’s come up with any cross matches on victims of this turkey.”

The killer removed the big knife from the heavy plastic bag and carefully washed it with dish detergent and a brush. It then went in the dish washer for a final treatment to insure all of Zimmer’s DNA was washed away.

The clothes worn during the knifing presented a more difficult problem. Zimmer, with his wind pipe and jugulars severed, had sprayed blood all over the place in a fine mist and the killer’s clothes would certainly have been contaminated by it. Sending them to the cleaners did not look like a safe practical option and that meant the only solution left was to destroy them. Using gloves, the killer divided the clothing into three bags and taped them shut. They would be deposited in three dumpsters at different locations around London. The killer then drained the vodka, the ice cubes clinking against the glass, and headed for the shower for a thorough scrubbing.

The Tasmanian Devil inside the killer’s skull had awakened and was beginning to feed. The blinding, throbbing pain returned with a vengeance, bringing with it the certainty that the skull would explode. With shaking hands, the killer shook out two of the OxyContin tablets and gulped them down with a fresh glass of vodka. The doctor had cautioned against mixing the drugs and alcohol, but the killer said out loud with a rueful laugh, “What’s it gonna do— kill me?”

The statistics on the next sexual predator to be executed lay on the kitchen counter. As the drugs and vodka started to kick in and put the Devil back to sleep, the killer was once again able to concentrate on the file of Robert Boddington. He represented the worst of the first three sexual offenders the killer had chosen for elimination. He had been convicted of raping a developmentally disabled 33 year old woman with the mental age of 11. Although he was suspected in the rape of several other women, the prosecution had focused on the one case with overwhelming forensic evidence. Boddington got 12 years and served 6, the average in Canada.  He had been out of jail for nine months now, and the killer’s surveillance revealed that Boddington had been stalking women; he clearly planned to return to his life of rape. The killer planned to put an end to it.

Robert Boddington answered the knock on his door and swung it open just enough to peer out. He got hit directly in the face from a distance of two feet with a shot of bear spray designed to stop a charging 1000-pound grizzly. He staggered back into the room and fell to the floor writhing and screaming.

The killer stepped inside, quickly closed the door and swung the sock containing a nice, fresh Idaho potato. Robert awoke with a throbbing headache and blinded, burning eyes. His mouth was duct taped and realized he had been trussed bent over his kitchenette table with all four limbs tied to a separate table leg. He sensed he no longer wore clothes and his buttocks and genitals were exposed. The killer quietly described the process by which he would die, and Robert’s screams were muffled behind the tape and he struggled against his bindings to no effect. As the gruesome and painful process began, Boddington cried burning tears out of his damaged eyes and implored to the god he had forsaken decades before for forgiveness and mercy.

Traci and John Kelly arrived at the halfway house, nodded at the patrolmen stationed outside, and stepped under the crime scene tape. Boddington’s room was on the first floor and a uniformed cop stood guarding the door. “Were you the first one on the scene?” asked Traci.

“Yes.” The officer replied. “The manager let me in.”

“Touch anything?”

“Nope. Took one look and backed out. It’s a nasty one.”

“Good move. Thanks.”

Traci followed Kelly into the room and Kelly muttered, “Christ! Any more of these and I’m going back to traffic patrol.”

They slowly approached the body, being careful not to step in the blood that had pooled around the table. As they got close, they could see that the victim had been brutally sodomized with an enormous dildo. “Well, I guess we can see what killed him.” Offered Traci. Kelly shuddered as he realized that the bloody mass of tissue that lay in the middle of Boddington’s back was what remained of his genitals.

Ian studied the autopsy report on Robert Boddington. He paraphrased to Traci and Kelly, “He died from loss of blood and probably shock. Apparently he had been bear sprayed and then clubbed with something. He had a big bruise on the side of his face.”

“We interviewed all the other residents of the halfway house and nobody saw or heard anything.”

Offered Kelly. “No one saw any strangers entering or leaving the place.”

“Once again there’s damn little to go on despite the fact that we all believe it’s the same killer for all three victims.” Traci said.

Ian grumped, “We better figure this out soon. I’m getting heat from above and eaten alive in the press. The human rights people are screaming their heads off and the law and order folks are cheering. We gotta catch this guy and put a stop to this. Get out of here and find him!”

Traci strolled into Mary’s cubicle and dropped into the chair next to her desk. She sighed and asked, “Anything new, Mary? Anything to tie the Rafferty murder with Mr. Zimmer?”

“Not that I can find,” replied Mary. “As you know, Rafferty is home grown scum and committed his crimes in Ontario, but Zimmer was convicted for his molestations at the Big Island Lake Cree Nation school in northern Saskatchewan. No connection that I can figure out.”

“Alright. Thanks. Just thought I’d check. We’re kind of out of leads.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Ian had asked if there was any way we could find out who might have accessed the Ontario Sex Offender Registry? Well, my computer nerd friend tells me there is no way to find out who but they can determine where in the provence the inquiries came from. He says the latest hits have come from the London Public Library, Central branch downtown. He has the dates and times of the hits too.”

Mulling that over, Traci thanked Mary and headed back to her own office.

That night over dinner of burgers and beer as she explained it to Pete he asked, “Gee, I wonder if they have security video in the computer area of the library?”

Traci halted a french fry half-way to her mouth and stared at Pete. “You know Gerard, every once in a while you come up with something that makes me doubt that you are the dumb Army grunt you claim to be.”

Her car was still in the shop awaiting parts, and her patience was wearing thin with the repair guys there, so the next morning, Pete drove her downtown to the public library, central location. Pete wandered off to the military history section while Traci met with the head librarian who had confirmed over the phone they did indeed have security videos.

“I’ve set up a TV where you can watch the security tapes of the dates you requested,” said the prim Ms. Donaldson. “You will have to fast forward through the tape to find the times you were looking for, however.”

“Not a problem. Thanks, Ms. Donaldson.” Traci dropped into the chair and cued up the first tape, running fast until about a half hour before the first recorded hit on the database. The camera was positioned above and behind the people at the computers, presumably to determine if any of the users were accessing porn sites. Also, the view was of the back of their heads. Traci would only get a look at their faces when they got up to leave. There were eight computers, four monitors arranged in two rows. All four in the front row were occupied by young men, presumably college students. In the row nearest the camera two were in use by older gentlemen, one by a young girl who appeared to be of high school age and the final seat held a gray haired, neatly dressed older woman. In all, they seemed an unlikely group to yield a multiple murderer.

A couple of the male students left and were replaced by other young males. Finally, five minutes after the time the data base had been accessed according to Mary’s friend, the gray haired lady picked up her notes and her purse and rose and faced the camera directly. Something about her looked familiar to Traci. Her hair and makeup had been skillfully done, her dress neat and expensive, if a little out of style, and she wore nice jewelry. Traci rewound and watched the woman rising and facing the camera several times before it dawned on her…. It was Carol Kalcowski! She looked nothing like she had when Traci and Kelly had interviewed her at her home. She ejected the tape and went looking for Ms. Donaldson to get permission to take the tape as evidence.

She found Pete lounging in a comfortable chair deeply engrossed in a book called Ghost Soldiers. “Off your butt, big boy. I’ve got an arrest to make.”

“Who?”

“Carol Kalcowski.”

“Really? I thought you said she was a sloppy drunk?”

“I think that was an act to get herself crossed off the list of suspects. She just showed up on the security tape at the precise time someone accessed the sex offender database.”

“That doesn’t prove she’s a murder.”

“Nope. But it does give us a reason to bring her in for some more extensive questioning and to get a search warrant for her house.”

Once in the truck with Pete headed for Kalcowski’s house, Traci pulled out her cell phone and called Ian. “Ian, I’m just leaving the downtown branch of the public library and headed to Carol Kalcowski’s house.”

“Why?” Asked Cudney. “I thought you crossed her off your list?”

“Yeah, but I just put her back on. The Ontario Sexual Predators Registry was accessed at the downtown London Library and I just saw Kalcowski on the security tape at the exact time it was accessed from the library. I’m going out there to arrest her and bring her in for questioning. Get a search warrant in the works for her house and car.”

“Good work, Whitequill. I’m sending Kelly out there to back you up. Don’t do anything until he gets there and keep your “chauffeur” as far away as possible.”

“OK, boss. See you shortly.”

Traci instructed Pete to stop a couple of houses down from Kalcowski’s. She insisted Gerard remain by the truck and strolled up the sidewalk while Pete waited for her to head up the steps before slipping out and gliding up into the adjacent neighbor’s yard.

As Traci reached the stoop Pete saw a figure speed past a side window. It appeared that Carol was making a break for the back door. He reacted instinctively and sprinted as best his damaged knees would take him to head her off at the back door. He skidded to a stop just as she burst through the back door. He put up his hands and shouted “Whoa!” She snarled and came at him with the butcher knife flashing in the slanting afternoon sunlight.

She slashed left and back right at his eyes. He stepped back as the blade whistled past and when she recoiled for another series of swipes he used his training and instinctively stepped forward, blocked her knife hand and clipped her with a chopping left hook to the jaw.

Lights out. Her brain suddenly short circuited, Carol Kalcowski slumped to the turf like a lifeless scarecrow. Pete shook the knife from her hand and let it lay on the parched lawn as Traci burst through the back door.

“Geez, Gerard! Can’t you ever follow instructions?”

“Well, I stepped out of the truck to have a smoke and I saw you going up the steps….. not following instructions, by the way. Then I saw somebody sprinting for the back door through the side window. I knew you wanted to arrest this woman and I figured you probably did not want to chase her through the neighborhood in those high heels which, by the way, do wonders for your calves and ass, so I thought I’d slow her down to help you out. I did not expect her to try to slice my face up with a butcher knife so I gave her a little love tap.”

Traci looked at the comatose Kalcowski sprawled on the lawn. “Love tap? She’d better wake up.”

“Oh, she will, but if I were you, I’d cuff her before she does. She seems the angry sort.”

“Ian is not going to like this.”

“So lie to him. Tell him you socked her, or Kelly did. By the way, here comes John now.”

Pete pulled out a cheroot, examined its firmness, chewed off the tip and sniffed it before carefully putting flame to the end. Puffing, he then strolled casually back toward the truck.

—————————–

© Richard Draper, August 2015

“Dedicated to my cousin Ken who passed away recently.  He was one of my small group of fans.  We were kids together up on Beech Hill on rocky, poor dairy farms that looked over into Pennsylvania from southern New York State.  RIP Ken.”

Leave a Comment

Filed under Short Stories

The Next President

Back when Obama won the nomination for the Democrats and then the election, I predicted that Hillary would be the next President. When Obama was re-elected despite a horrible record and a strong credible candidate in Romney, I became more convinced that until the country truly fell apart, no Republican would become president.

Here’s my reasoning on the matter…..

1). The Electoral College Map. The east and west coasts of the US are solidly Democrat, as a result, primarily, of the big city populations and their liberal inclinations. The Democrats have also enjoyed growing support in the mid-west states of Minnesota, Wisconsin and Michigan. So, before the first vote is cast for president, the Democrat candidate enjoys a very likely 237 electoral votes of the 270 needed to become president.
The GOP candidate needs to run the table on all the other states to win.

2). Free Stuff. The Democrats are the party of free stuff. Millions of Americans are addicted to handouts from the Federal Government. Under Obama’s economy, the number of Americans on welfare, supplemental income and/or food stamps has grown to a record 35%. Democrats perpetuate the myth that the GOP is the party of the rich and that they will take away your welfare, food stamps, etc. if you vote the Republican into the White House. Well then, you may ask, “How come the majority of the governorships and both houses of Congress are controlled by the Republicans?” Simple answer…. A lot more dependent people vote in the presidential election than do in the other elections. Also, the Dems make a serious get out the vote effort in presidential elections, not to mention fraud.

3). Voting Blocks. The Blacks vote about 95% for the Democrat candidate. Hispanics about 60-65%, and gays some 70+% pulled the lever for Democrats. According to “MS” magazine, there are some 8 million more women voters than men, and they vote 55% for the Democrat candidate. We could likely expect this percentage to go up for Hillary.

4). Special Interest Voters. I guess you could call these voting blocks too but I think there’s a distinction between the groups in the blocks and these who are more single-issue voters. The biggest of these are the unions. Overall union membership has declined over recent years as industry has migrated to right-to-work states or out of the country altogether. The only growth has been in the public sector unions, and who do they vote for? Certainly not the Republicans that threaten to cut government spending! The teachers unions give big bucks to the Democrats with the understanding that they will fight any effort to restrict their monopoly on education or to hold them accountable for their crappy performance.
The environmentalists (the save the planet crowd) have completely bought into the global warming fraud and believe that the Democrat candidate will keep the money flowing to combat this non-problem. Same with the trial lawyers who donate big bucks to the Democrats and vote solidly for them to guarantee that the litigation gravy train keeps rolling along.
Finally, you have the philosophical liberal/progressive/socialists. They want things moving further left but will vote for the Democrat as the lesser of two evils. The far more conservative Republicans will usually waste their vote by voting for a far right third party candidate who has no chance in Hell of winning. And, of course, you have the youth vote. They have gone through years of indoctrination by the liberal/socialist democrats who teach in public schools and universities. These kids don’t remember the inept Jimmy Carter and the mess he made nor do they know how Ronald Reagan straightened it out.
More than likely their votes will go for Hillary because their friends are voting that way.

5). The Media and Hollywood. It is an undisputed fact that the media leans left and they give favorable coverage to the Democrats. Often they simply ignore stories that are unflattering to the Democrats. Once the Republicans select a candidate, you can be assured that the late night comedians and Hollywood celebs will be ridiculing him and ignoring the scandals that follow the Clintons like a foul odor.

Hillary Clinton is a nasty, conniving, dishonest woman who has never actually accomplished anything meaningful in her privileged life. The email scandal plus the use of her office to enrich herself would be more than sufficient to sink anyone else.
And that whole Benghazi mess? For anyone else, it would be the end in politics. But, she and Bill are royalty in the Democrat Party and they will line up and vote for her no matter what. As for the country, I am not certain that the US can survive eight more years with an anti-war, anti-business socialist in the White House.

2 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

To Frack or Not to Frack?

I used to subscribe to the theory that you need to move every five or six years just so you can keep ahead of the crap that accumulates in your garage. A good weeding out is essential from time to time. Nothing like a purging garage sale to lighten up.

I feel the same way about clearing off the mess on your desk every once in awhile just to see what’s buried there. I did this the other day and found this piece among the flotsam and jetsam that has washed up on my desk over the past few months.

Since I have not posted anything in quite some time I thought it might shock my few readers to actually find something new on the blog. I have been fitfully working on a short story and my version of the “History of the Early Years of VeriFone” but it may take some time before they’re ready.

This was a letter in response to an old friend who is a passionate believer in global warming and vocal opponent of hydraulic fracturing, the modern method of extracting natural gas that has revolutionized the oil and gas business.

***

I’m glad you sent along your “remarks” (more a rant or screed actually) since it will save me the trouble of offering you a bunch of articles or papers with evidence different from your own that you will ignore. This subject is highly personal and emotional to you and that pretty much rules out any rational discussion of the issue. I will, however, offer a couple of thoughts for your consideration.

First, it’s not too often we get naturally occurring experiments opposite each other so that we can compare results and come to some conclusions based on facts and not opinion. It’s social and political science devoid of political spin. This has nothing to do with fracking (we’ll get to that a bit later) but you made some traditional slurs on business, “greedy corporations”, nasty oil companies, etc. This is, of course, the rhetoric of the far left, firm believers in socialism who are absolutely convinced that if only the government ran everything, all would be just peachy.

So let’s talk about North and South Korea. The people of these two countries are genetically and culturally identical, yet after 50+ years or so of communist rule in the North and free market capitalism in the South the results could not be more dramatic. South Korea is a booming prosperous economy and North Korea is in the dark ages. After decades of starvation the average size of the N. Koreans is substantially smaller than their cousins to the south. Only 23% of N. Korean homes have electricity!

<b>North</b> <b>Korean</b> <b>Homes</b>

What about East and West Germany? It’s another naturally controlled experiment between two genetically and culturally identical populations with a similar outcome as Korea. They had to build a heavily defended wall to keep their people inside the miserable East while the West prospered.

The same results can be found but on a less dramatic scale in the comparison of countries around the world: The more socialistic, the lower economic growth and prosperity for its citizens. Even the US states are experiencing this kind of competition and performance. (Why have Buffalo and Detroit, just to name two, lost more than half their populations since we got out of high school.) (See “The Buffaloization of American” on this blog.)

Which brings us to New York and Pennsylvania. I would think that you would agree that the people who live above the Marcellus Shale, that straddles counties on both sides of the NY/PA border, are pretty much the same economically, culturally and even genetically. Yet the differences in income, unemployment, tax revenues and prosperity since PA opened up drilling for natural gas and permitted fracking are substantial. I know you do not give a shit about these facts so I won’t bother to innumerate them, but should you, by some chance, be curious how much money NY is leaving on the table, check out the Manhattan Institute study of 2013.

Beyond economics, fracking has been around for decades and if you really look at the facts, the environmental impact is nominal or non-existent. All the hysteria surrounding it is just political bullshit and I had hoped you would do a bit more critical thinking before embracing that disinformation with such passion.

I will leave you with this final thought, then consider the matter closed. The article I sent you enumerated the benefit to the poorer consumer of natural gas price reductions brought on by hydraulic fracturing. Prior to the boom the price was $10/MMBTU dropping to under $3.00 for a time, and now has settled in at about $3.50/ MMBTU. This is a great benefit to poorer folks who spend a disproportionate percentage of their incomes on heating. This, of course, will be more important as the climate cools and the winters are longer and colder. Dismissing fracking out of hand shows a shocking disregard for poor families. Furthermore, the low cost of natural gas permits substitution for coal in electrical generation. Coal, of course, is the evil incarnate for global warming true believers like yourself.

It seems the residents of New York want to enjoy the fruits of low gas prices without allowing any drilling. If you are faithful to your beliefs that fracking is terrible policy, you should demand that the NY state government tax natural gas up to the pre-fracking price of $10/MMBTU. That would be a true test to see just how worried New York residents are about the environmental threat of fracking.

I will anxiously await your passionate letter to Gov. Cumo insisting he raise the tax on natural gas.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Patty Cake – Patty Cake

patty cake

The Obama Administration’s handling of two current serious threats reminds me of this innocent childhood game. The Ebola catastrophe in West Africa has now arrived in North America despite the government’s insistence that it would not. The second dangerous situation, but one that has dropped from the front pages of the newspaper, is the advance of ISIS in Iraq and Syria.

The Obama Team’s handling of both of these crisis events is weak and ineffective. Quite frankly, one can only call it half-assed. Often they seem frozen by their own previous positions and statements. In Iraq, for example, Obama promised to end the war there and get the US out. He pulled out the troops without leaving a residual force behind. Yeah, I know, you liberals out there will argue that al-Maliki would not allow it but everyone knows that’s just a weak excuse. Obama wanted out and did not push the Iraqis very hard. The upshot is that the ISIS barbarians routed the Iraqi army; captured most of the weapons left behind by the US and have pretty much taken control. All that blood and treasure expended in the Iraq war effort has been squandered.

Obama had some tough talk about battling ISIS but his actions are anything but. Start with the name of the operation…. “Inherent Resolve”.

Really? That sounds like a treatment for constipation not a military operation.

BHO announced from the start and has repeated it endlessly, “No boots on the ground”. (I am so sick of that phrase!). Instead the US and its partners are engaged in a half-hearted and ineffective bombing campaign.

As Messrs. Gunzinger and Stillion point out in a recent piece in the WSJ called “The Unserious Air War Against ISIS”, the bombing campaign pales in comparison to previous wars. The 43-day bombing campaign of Desert Storm in 1991 saw 1,100 sorties per day flown against Iraqi forces. The bombing of Serbia in 1998 saw 412 sorties and the 75-day campaign in Afghanistan in 2001 involved 86 per day. In the current battle with ISIS we are seeing a pitiful 7 per day. Seven.

The only people willing to engage ISIS on the ground (which everyone admits is the only way to defeat ISIS) are the Kurds. So you would think that the Obama geniuses would give them some weapons to help them do the job. Nope. Why? Unclear.

ISIS has 50,000 Kurdish, Christian and Turkman civilians trapped in the town of Kobani located right on the border with Turkey. Turkey is a member of NATO and has received billions of dollars in financial aid and military equipment from the US. Twenty-one billion in 2011 alone with some $14 billion in military equipment. Over the years they have received these military weapons and used them to kill Kurds a fact that annoyed the US. The Turks have been in a decades long battle with the PKK (Kurdish Workers Party) and are happy to now let the ISIS barbarians wipe out the Kurds for them. They sit on their US furnished tanks and artillery and observe the battle without lifting a finger. Further, they will not allow transfer of weapons through Turkey. Turkey is no real ally of the US.

A president with gonads larger than a couple of immature lima beans would have summoned President Erdogan to the White House and said, “No help, no more money. And, don’t count on membership in NATO for much longer.”

Kurdish officials predict that if the city falls 5000 innocent civilians will be slaughtered in 24 hours. ISIS wipes out Christians and “non-believers” and that is anyone that does not subscribe to their twisted version of religion. These guys are truly barbarians and have proven it time and again.

Graphic picture

This is not “workplace violence” Mr. President. This is a reigniting of the flames of Holy War that has simmered between the Christians and Muslims since the 11th century. It’s going to get a lot worse unless western civilization steps up and squashes it now. Obama has basically given up on stopping Iran from getting a nuclear weapon. Imagine ISIS with one of those toys to play with.

I seriously doubt that these Crispy Christians incinerated by Nigerian Muslims would agree that Islam is the religion of peace. The war on Christians and Jews is intensifying world-wide.

On the Ebola crisis the Administration simply looks inept and untruthful. They act as if the citizens are children and can’t be trusted with real facts. For example, they keep assuring us that Ebola cannot be transmitted except my exposure to bodily fluids from someone who is infected. Yet, two nurses got it while wearing protective gear. And, upon closer questioning they admit that yes, droplets of moisture from a sneeze or cough could transmit the virus from a distance of three feet.

We must not forget that Ebola is a virus and viruses mutate like crazy. As I explained in my blog piece “La Grippe Espagnole” (basically a review of John Berry’s book on the Spanish flu) the pandemic of 1918-19 was not really deadly when it originated in Kansas. But, when it went overseas with the troops in WWI it mutated and when it came back it was deadly. There can be no argument that the longer this Ebola outbreak goes on the more likelihood that the virus will mutate and, in fact, may have already done so.

That’s why it’s so mystifying that Obama refuses to restrict travel to the US from the “hot zone” countries of West Africa. Two-dozen countries have already done it and two international airlines have cancelled all flights to those countries. The US continues to allow up to 150 people from these Ebola riddled countries to come to the US each day. Each day. Look at the problems and number of potentially exposed people one guy with the disease has caused. Does anyone seriously believe that of the roughly 1000 people from West Africa arriving each week that some with the disease are not going to slip through the temperature screening?

The arguments for not canceling all commercial flights and passengers from these Ebola hot zones are laughable. They say it won’t work but they have the tools and while it may not prevent a few to slip through, it’s certainly better than doing nothing.

A lesson from the Spanish flu might be instructive. As the epidemic swept across the continent from both coasts the only communities that were spared were those who blocked the roads and with armed guards refused to allow anyone through from the outside.

The reason the Obama Administration will not implement a ban is the same reason they were unable to profile young Arab men in their screening process for commercial air travel. They are philosophically opposed to any form of profiling and deathly afraid of being accused of discrimination.

I think a lot of this patty cake stuff is inspired by the upcoming election. Obama does not want to offend his anti-war base but wants to appear to be doing something in Iraq. The same thinking prevails with his tepid response to the Ebola threat. A travel ban would perhaps offend those Democrats who might see it as discrimination and profiling.

Despite Democrat fears of losing the Senate because Obama is such an ineffective and untruthful President, I have a feeling that the Dems will hold the Senate. A lot of people don’t vote and if you watch the student on the street interviews by Jessie Waters and before him Jay Leno, you become convinced that these young voters are completely ignorant about world and national issues.

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Instructor Blais

Blais

Nearly 200 fresh-faced sailors and junior officers showed up on 28 December 1964 in Little Creek, VA for Class 33E of UDTR. Some seriously scary Instructors greeted us. There was towering Chief John Bakelaar, a regal and imperious Chief Bernie Waddell, and the impressively athletic Instructor Newell. But, the one who became most feared (at least by me) was Chief Tom Blais.

He was a soft-spoken sphinx of a man who meted out punishment like he was doing you a favor and his disappointment with you simply saddened him. Since I was the lowest ranking of the 22 officers that showed up for Class 33E, I had no officer duties and given the ratty greens and surveyed foul weather jackets we wore allowed me to blend in with the troops in the back of the pack for a while.

One day Instructor Blais discovered my existence and expressed some serious doubts about my suitability as an officer in the Teams. He promised, “Mr. Draper, I am going to make you my special project.” And, of course, he did. Then and every time there was a lull he would seek me out for extra attention.

One afternoon after we had completed our “preconditioning run” 50 minutes or so up and down the sand dunes, led by Instructor Fraley (whose running shoes seemed to leave no foot prints on Mount Suribachi) we were waiting on the beach for the trucks to take us back to the training area. The Instructors, hating a dull moment, had us in the leaning rest position in loose formation while we waited. Instructor Blais was wandering through the bodies looking for me and in a sing-song voice saying, “Mr. Draper, where are you?” It just struck me as funny and as I tried to hide my laughter, Chief Bakelaar spotted me and said, “Ah, Mr. Draper, laughing in the face of adversity.” Of course, Chief Blaiscame over and messed with me something serious until the trucks arrived.

Perhaps the most vivid memory my classmates and I have of Chief Blais occurred on the 4th day of Hell Week. The evolution that day was the “Laskin Boat Trip”, an innocuous sounding day of paddling and a welcome respite for our sore legs from the previous night’s 18 mile run. The simple objective: paddle from Laskin Road down Lynnhaven Inlet to the bay and then up the coast to the base. It turned out to be a day of misery. We fought a 35-knot head wind in our aerodynamically challenged IBLs (the L is for Large, ten man boats). At times, unable to make any head way against the wind we had to get out and carry the boats. It was so cold the water in our water bottles froze and our pants and boots were caked with ice. By then enough officers had quit so I had my own boat but it was the smurfs and there were only 7 of us. We trailed far behind the other boats when we finally came into view of the bridge. There, lined up on the beach in front of a small bar called the Duck Inn, were all the other boats. Naturally, we pulled in there too. The bar was crammed with our entire class ordering hamburgers, hot chocolate and coffee. I had just wrapped my frozen fingers around a hot cup of coffee when the door to the bar swung open and there silhouetted in the fading light stood Instructor Blais.

It was like Clint Eastwood in one of his cowboy flicks, standing there before shooting up the place. It went dead quiet. In a soft voice, he ordered everyone outside where he individually chewed out each boat officer before he told us to paddle across the wind-torn waves to the other side of Lynnhaven Inlet. After a suitable number of boat push-ups, he led us without breaking stride while we struggled in the soft sand carrying the boats the four miles down the beach to the base. While he was feared by the trainees he was also highly respected and we mourn his passing. He was a man among men. RIP

This article was published in the fall 2014 issue of “The Blast”, the Journal of Naval Special Warfare.  

5 Comments

Filed under Navy SEALs

Political Correctness or Ego Inflation?

Late last fall I happened to be driving in Bellingham and listening to a local radio station. The announcer was giving the results of the state high school football playoffs. I paid attention because our grand daughter goes to one of the local high schools.
The sports guy reported that the Lummi “Blackhawks” had been defeated by their arch rival, the Neah Bay “Red Devils”. Whoa! I knew that these schools were tribal or Indian schools…. or, if you must, Native American schools. One has to assume that the students themselves chose these mascot names for their sports teams, or, at the very least were not troubled by them.
About this time the press and some professional sports blabbers were dissecting Dan Snyder, the billionaire owner of the Washington Redskins football team, over the name “Redskins”. The team has had that name since 1932 when the team was founded as the “Boston Redskins”.
At the time I wondered why they were picking on the Redskins. After all, there are thousands of sports teams, both college and professional, that have Indian related names. Just to name a few: Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves, Kansas City Chiefs, Chicago Blackhawks, Golden State Warriors, and Florida State Seminoles.
These names presumably were selected because they suggested the fighting spirit and determination of the Indians, not as an ethnic slur. Anyone who has watched baseball over the years must have seen tens of thousands of Atlanta fans all chanting and doing the tomahawk chop to urge their Braves on to victory. That is hardly a sign of disrespect.
If you’ve ever watched college football you surely have seen the Florida State mascot (Osceola) dressed in full Indian garb charging down the field astride Renegade, a magnificent Appaloosa, and planting his feathered lance in the middle of the field. More than a decade ago the NCAA went on the warpath against Indian mascots for college teams. Some were forced to change by PC faculty and school administrations. Florida State was able to resist partly because the Seminole tribe had no problem with the mascot.
That fact and, as the example of the mascot names for the two Bellingham tribal schools suggests, most Indians have no problem with these names. The natives that do complain are not really offended. They just want to see if they can push somebody’s buttons and they are aided and abetted by the politically correctness industry.
Remember the centuries long effort to correctly address American slaves and their descendants. In the early days they were referred to as “colored” because it was considered offensive to call them “negroes”. Then
It was determined it was fine to call them “negroes”. In the activism of the early ’60 the left decided that the proper term now was “Black”. OK, fine. But, just when everyone got accustomed to the “Black” term, the PC crowd led by grievance whores Jessie Jackson and Al Sharpton announced, “Nope, now we’ve decided they must be referred to as “African Americans.” Some Blacks do not like this term as their families immigrated not from Africa but from the Caribbean or Europe.
How many generations removed from the homeland constitutes the statute of limitations on claiming a place as your ethnic appellation? And, what percentage of your genetic make-up must you have to be considered “African American”?
In the case of President Obama who claims African heritage, he is clearly 50% white from his mother but his father is largely Arab, supposedly with an African Black in his past. Some put Obama’s actual percentage of African blood at 6% and his Arab blood at 44%. Whatever the true percentage, the least part of him is African Black. No matter. He claimed to be African American and they claimed him, voting about 95 percent for ‘one of their own’.
A lot of this obsession with this stuff is a result of people with too much time on their hands. My Parisian friend would characterize it with a phrase that translates roughly as attempting to fornicate with flies. I think it stems from a burning desire to feel morally superior to others. In other words, just inflating your ego but believing you are protecting the feelings of others.
Very noble indeed.

Leave a Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Reluctant Hero – A Short Story

Detective Ian Cudney first heard of the mass murder at the Willow Tree Mall as he drove his unmarked police cruiser slowly through downtown London, Ontario traffic.
His radio crackled, “All units, respond to multiple shots fired at 1476 Willow Tree Circle. Unknown number of assailants. Automatic weapons fire reported.”
“Oh shit!” He muttered and grabbed his Fireball portable emergency light and slapped it on the roof. He thrust the plug into the cigarette lighter, flipped on his siren and slowed. As the traffic responded, Ian cranked the wheel, slid into a U-turn and accelerated in the opposite direction. He guessed he was fifteen minutes out with no hang-ups.
The vast mall parking lot was already clustered with police cruisers, Emergency Response Team vans, ambulances and fire trucks by the time he skidded off the access ramp and into the parking lot. He eased up to the perimeter being set up by some uniformed officers and parked. He tucked his badge holder into the breast pocket of his sport coat, grabbed his portable radio and headed for the nearest officer.
The Constable recognized him as he approached. Everyone on the force knew Ian, a twenty-five year veteran, often called Columbo behind his back because of his somewhat frumpy and shuffling manner. He looked nothing like Peter Falk, however, for he was tall and heavy with bushy grey hair and eyebrows. But, like Columbo, he displayed great patience coupled with meticulous attention to detail and keen intelligence. His success as an interrogator rested on his knack of being the genial and gentle bear or, when necessary, a large imposing bastard.
“What’s the situation, Constable?” Ian asked.
“Good news and bad,” he replied. “The good news is that the asshole is down. The bad is that he shot a lot of people before he went down.”
Looking grim Ian responded, “Who’s the ERT leader and what frequency are they on?”
“John Chu is in charge and they’re on Channel 9.”
Cudney nodded his thanks and lumbered toward the mall entrance that was now crowded with Emergency Medical Teams rushing in with stretchers and bags of equipment. He keyed the radio and called, “John, this is Detective Cudney. What’s your location?”
“Hey Ian, this is Chu. We’re about 50 metres down the first corridor on your right. Everything is secure. It’s a god awful mess, but the shooter is down.”
Cudney hustled down the corridor trying not to count the bodies while noting the wounded being treated by EMTs, ER team guys and some Christmas shoppers. Some of the employees and shoppers were peeking out of shops where the metal shutters had been activated. Others had been opened or perhaps never closed, and officers were herding dazed shoppers away from the crime scene toward the far end of the corridor.
He spotted John in full battle gear standing over a black clad body in the middle of the corridor. John was short, perhaps 5’5”, but extremely muscular and fit. “Hey, John, quite a mess, eh?”
“I swear to God, Ian, I will never understand why guys do this shit. This is where it ended.”
Cudney stared at the body, dressed all in black with a black ski mask covering his face. He lay in an awkward pose like he had been sitting and then knocked over backwards. Blood pooled wetly on the terrazzo floor behind his head. A Bushmaster .223 assault rifle lay just beyond his outstretched hand. Ian raised his gaze to the shop directly behind them where an EMT worked frantically over a prone woman. “How many so far?”
“Not sure of the final count, obviously…. But maybe 10 dead with many more wounded.”
“Who shot this asshole? Your guys?”
“Nope. He was dead when we got here. No one should have a firearm in this place. It’s a gun-free zone. There’s a mall cop here but he’s not armed. Haven’t found him yet.”
“Yeah. Well, it looks like two guys had a gun; this asshole and whoever shot him. Any ideas on how this went down?”
“Well, I’m waiting for the Forensic ID Section, but it looks to me like whoever shot him hit him first in the hip just below his body armor. He went down back there. You can see the blood…and he dropped the rifle. From those blood smears on the terrazzo, I’d guess he crawled toward the rifle and when he turned on the shooter, he shot him in the head. Looks like a handgun. Not enough damage for a hunting rifle.”
“Where was the shooter then?”
“Not sure. Up there, maybe,” John replied, pointing to the second floor.
“What? A guy shooting from up there with a handgun? A head shot? You gotta be kidding!”
“Got any other ideas?”
“I’m going up there for a look around.” Ian slowly ascended the stairs like a weary bear and ambled back toward the likely spot where the shooter must have stood. He glanced over the railing and spotted the crime scene crew hustling toward Chu and the fallen gunman. As he searched among the potted plants and trash receptacles he caught the gleam of light off the brass of a spent cartridge. Without moving it, he determined it was a 9 mm.
He peered over the rail and shouted down to Chu, “John, we got spent brass up here. Get somebody up here to preserve this area and send the Forensic Team up here when they’re done down there.” John turned from the CSI crew, waved and shouted at one of his men who came running over.
The young ERT cop jogged up to Ian, who expected him to snap to attention and salute, he seemed so military in bearing. Ian instructed him to protect the scene and not let anyone touch anything. The young officer glanced over the railing at the sprawled shooter, turned back to Ian and said, “Wow. That’s a long way and an awkward angle for a head-shot. Could you have made that shot, Sir?”
“Mind your manners, Son.”
Cudney turned and spotted a well-dressed, middle-aged woman standing in the lady’s lingerie shop behind him. As he started walking toward the shop to see if she might have seen anything, his partner, Traci, bounced up the stairs and hurried over to him. Ian glared at her and rumbled, “About time.”
“Hey, Boss, cut me some slack. This is my day off and I was in the tub when I got the call.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I talked to John downstairs briefly and he said somebody capped the bad guy from up here?”
“That’s the way it looks. I spotted some 9 mm brass over there by that planter. I was just about to talk to that women in there and see what she knows.”
Traci nodded and they walked into the shop both holding their badges in front of them. “Hi, I’m Detective Cudney and this is Detective Whitequill. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” the woman replied, shifting her gaze to Traci and recognizing her First Nations features and stunning beauty with raised eyebrows. They ignored it and Ian went on.
“Can you tell us what you saw?”
“Well, I didn’t see much, but…I heard shooting on the first floor. I thought it was fireworks or a prank of some kind. But then as it got closer and I heard the whistling sound like you hear in the movies with bullets bouncing off stuff.”
“Ricochets.”
“Yeah, like that. So, I ducked down behind the checkout counter and crawled in that cubby hole there,” she said, pointing to the space.
“Then what happened?”
“Then I heard two really close shots and I really got scared. But, then it got totally quiet and I heard someone walk in the shop. I was afraid to move. I heard some metallic noises over there by that table and then the guy walked out.”
“How do you know it was a guy?” Asked Traci.
“You know, men walk different. He had a limp.”
Traci nodded and walked over to a table marked with a ‘Clearance’ sign and littered with a pile of colorful bras and panties. “Hey, Ian! Check this out.” Cudney strolled over and discovered a handgun with the action open perched on top of a black camisole like a strawberry on a chocolate cake.
“Smith and Wesson Model 5946,” Traci murmured. “Standard police issue.”
“Yep, empty too. Clip’s gone.”
“So, somebody shot the gunman from over there, walked in here, emptied his handgun, left it and walked out? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah, and where’s the guy that owns it?”
On cue Ian’s radio screeched, “Ian, this is John.”
Ian keyed his hand held and answered, “Yeah, John. Go ahead.”
“We found the mall cop. He’s dead. On your floor, back toward the main entrance, near the top of the stairs. I’m headed that way now.”
“OK, see you there.” He turned to Traci. “Bag this pistol, get her contact info and then head down there.” And then to the clerk, “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”
Cudney lumbered back toward the entrance hall and spotted a group clustered around a body lying in a pool of blood. John stood off to the side with his hands on his hips. Ian pulled up next to him breathing heavily and stared down at the body. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “It’s Barney Kaminski.”
“Exactly.” John replied. “Looks like our shooter hit him in the legs and vest knocking him down and then finished him off with shots to the head.”
“Same shooter as the guy laying down there on the first floor?”
“Sure looks like it. There’s .223 brass all over up here. Two dead in there, too.” John swung his head toward the shop behind them. Ian followed his gaze and noticed two bodies sprawled on the floor of the shop and a young woman hunched over sobbing near the entrance. “His firearm is missing,” said John, as he pointed to an empty holster. “He was not supposed to be armed but then Barney always did have trouble following the rules.”
“Hmmm? We found a Smith 5946 in a pile of ladies underwear back there.” Ian replied nodding his head in the direction of where the shooter lay. Chu frowned and stared at Ian.
“If that’s Barney’s side-arm…” He didn’t finish. “Shit. I’m glad I’m just the SWAT guy on this one and you can do that detective crap, Ian.” Traci hustled up and Ian grabbed her arm and guided her toward the shop.
Traci glanced over her shoulder at the body behind them. “That the mall cop?”
“Yep. Barney Kaminski. Poor sap thought he had a cushy job. Let’s go talk to that young lady over there and see if she saw anything.”
As they approached flashing their credentials, the girl stood up and wiped her eyes with a tissue. She was about 18 and painfully thin with her blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She was dressed in what Ian thought of as the ‘teen/hooker style’ skin-tight top, too-short skirt, and high heels. “You work here, Miss?” asked Ian. She nodded and swiped at more tears streaking her makeup. “Did you see what happened?” She shook her head no.
“Maybe you can tell us what you know.” Traci interrupted. “First, what is your name?”
“My name is Lucy Martin.”
“Where were you when the shooting here happened?”
“I was, like, hiding back in the stock room.”
“How come the other girls didn’t hide?” asked Traci bobbing her head toward the two bodies now covered with sheets.
“I don’t know. The man, like, tried to get them to hide too but…”
“What man?” Ian insisted.
“My customer. He had just, like, picked out an outfit for his daughter for Christmas when the shooting started. He kinda pushed me toward the stock room and I heard him telling Heide and her customer to, like, run but they, you know, never came with me.” She started to sniff again as she thought of her friend and Traci put her arm around her shoulder.
“Take your time, Lucy. What happened after you hid in the stock room?”
“The shooting started in the shop and I could hear, like, screams and then they stopped. I could hear more shooting but it got further and further away and then it, like, stopped altogether. After a while, I, like, snuck out of the stock room and saw Heide and the other girl on the floor and had to, like, get out, ya know. All that blood!”
“What about the man…your customer?”
Lucy looked puzzled, “Gee, I don’t know. He was, like, gone.”
“Can you describe this man, Lucy? How tall was he?”
“He was, like, taller than me.” Lucy gestured with her hand over her head.
“How tall are you with those heels on?’ Ian asked.
“I’m, like, 5’6.”
“White guy?” Traci asked.
Lucy stared at Traci fearing she could make offense before responding, “You are, like, totally pretty.”
“Thanks, Lucy, but help us out here. White guy?”
“Yeah, just, like, an average older guy. Not, like, fat or anything; in fact he looked like he totally worked out, ya know?”
“Older guy?” Traci asked. “How old would you say?”
“Not, like, real old…..’bout the same age as my Dad.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s, like, 40…. Yeah, he’ll be 41 in July.”
“What was he wearing?” Ian jumped in.
“A leather jacket, brown, I think. A baseball cap from one of the American teams, ya know. And jeans.”
“Which team?”
“Um, I can’t remember. But I remember wondering if he was, like, an American but, he totally didn’t talk like one.”
“OK. Moustache? Beard? Long hair? Tattoos?”
“Not that I can remember. Just, like, an average guy. Nice guy though and he, like, totally saved my life.” With that she started to sob and Traci put her arm around her shoulder and waited patiently.
“It’s all over now, Lucy. Let’s find your purse so I can get your driver’s license and write down your info in case we need to talk again.” She led Lucy away toward the checkout counter leaving Ian stroking his chin deep in thought.
When Traci returned Ian said, “I don’t think the mall corridors have closed circuit TV recording, but see if they have it in this shop. Maybe we can get a look at this customer of Lucy’s. I have a feeling he figures in this somehow.” As they headed back to the corridor Cudney looked at Traci and said, “That poor cop was carrying a side-arm and it’s missing.” Traci stopped in her tracks and stared at Ian with a mystified look on her face.
“Maybe the ballistics test will clear this up but something seriously does not add up here.”
Cudney and Traci worked their way up and down the corridors trying to find any witnesses who might have any information but once the shooting started, panic set in and people were running in every direction. They headed back to the office and hoped the video surveillance system of the shops would provide something useful.

Ian had his feet up on his desk wishing he still could smoke in his office as he pondered the contradictions of the mall shootings. His boss, the Deputy Chief of Police, Graham Brantwell, swept into the room followed by a cloud of after shave. He dressed and carried himself like an ambassador and, in fact, harbored dreams of a glorious career in politics. He viewed his time in the police department as a stepping-stone to bigger and better things. Tall and handsome with long wavy hair, he never missed an opportunity to get in front of the TV cameras or get his name in the newspaper. This shooting would get national wall-to-wall coverage and Graham drooled at the chance to become a household name. “The Chief has given me the responsibility of conducting the press briefings on this and I’ve scheduled one for 4:00. This incident is a perfect example of what’s going to happen more and more often now that the god damn Conservative government got rid of the gun registry. I expect to emphasise exactly that point in the press briefing. Anyway, Cudney, what have you got for me?” Graham asked.
Ian gave him a bemused expression and slowly swung his feet off his desk and rolled his chair up to his desk. He detested the man and his backstabbing, tyrannical methods. He pushed a sheet of paper forward towards the Deputy Chief. “Here’s the butchers bill. Seven killed, 14 wounded, four critically. Plus the shooter, of course.”
“What about the shooter?”
Ian opened a slim file on the corner of his desk and pulled out a sheet and handed it to Graham. “Brandon Norton, aged 21. We are still investigating, but it appears he’s the typical troubled youth, in and out of mental institutions and a series of minor run-ins with the authorities: drugs, fights, petty crime, and a rocky relationship with his family.”
“How about his parents?”
“His folks are divorced. The dad works up in the oil patch and Mum works as a waitress. She and Brandon had a falling out weeks ago and she claims not to have seen him since.”
“Has the Dad been contacted?”
“Yeah. He’s flying down from Ft. McMurray tonight.”
“What about the mall cop? I understand he was one of ours and retired.”
“Barney Kaminski medically retired after about 15 years. He was a bit of a loose cannon out on the street and was pulled in to ride a desk. Had some personal issues with alcohol and a divorce and was given a medical about four years ago. ”
“Well, I guess he’s the hero of the entire incident. I’ll be sure to build him up in my statement to the press.”
“Possibly. You will have to finesse the issue of why he was carrying a sidearm, I guess.”
Traci slid into the doorway and stopped abruptly when she spotted the Deputy Chief. “Oops, sorry, Sir.” She muttered.
Brantwell looked up with annoyance. “We’re having a meeting here, Whitequill.”
“Oh, lighten up Graham.” Ian interrupted. “This is not the Premier’s office.” Then turning to Traci he said, “Whataya got, Traci?”
She waved a sheet of paper and said, “Thought you might like to see the preliminary ballistics report.”
Ian beckoned her in and took the sheet from her while Graham glared at her. She smiled sweetly, understanding that his animosity toward her stemmed from her rebuffing his advances, telling him ‘to go home to his wife.’ Graham turned back to Ian as he said, “Well, that’s what we figured. The extractor markings on the shell casings we found on the upper deck match those from Barney’s handgun.”
“The slug that hit the shooter in the hip is still in the body and if it’s not too beat up, the ballistics guys should be able to make a positive ID that it’s a slug from Barney’s weapon.” Traci replied.
“How’s it going on reviewing the recordings from the shops?” Ian asked.
“Mary is working on sorting through them isolating the time of the shootings so we can review them without watching the whole recording. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to look at them.” She turned and headed out the door.
“Well, that settles it then. Barney is a national hero. He saved numerous lives and died in the effort. They’ll put his statue in the courthouse.”
“Not so fast, Graham,” Ian cautioned.
Graham ignored him and lost himself in the fantasy of seeing his face on every TV screen and newspaper front page in Canada. He turned and headed for the door. “I’ve got to go prepare my statement.”
“Hold it, Graham!” Ian said loudly. “There’s a problem here.”
Graham stopped and turned. “What problem?”
“Couple of problems, actually. First off, Barney was a lousy pistol shot. He couldn’t hit the broadside of a…..” Ian stopped himself from saying it. “I doubt that Barney improved as a shooter after retiring four years ago and whoever made those shots is a solid expert and knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Maybe Barney got lucky.”
“I doubt it. But there’s a bigger problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Barney’s 9 mm was in a pile of ladies’ undies near where the shots that took out the shooter were fired and that was about 50 meters from where Barney lay dead.”
“I don’t get it.” Graham looked puzzled.
“For Barney to have made those shots he would have had to rise from where he was shot–in the head–walk 50 metres down the corridor, kill the shooter, hide his side-arm, walk back down the corridor and die. He’d have to do all that without bleeding on the floor.”
“So you’re saying some shopper picked up Barney’s handgun and killed the shooter?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Ian replied.
“That’s murder.” Graham mused.
“Well….. Yeah, technically.”
“Not technically, actually. You kill someone in Canada with a firearm and that’s murder two. You find out who did this and I want him charged with murder. You got me, Ian?”
“Yeah, I got it, but I wouldn’t tell this to the press this afternoon. Not until we sort this all out.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I’ll tell them we’re still investigating and that quick action by the police saved lives.”
“Yes, I’d leave out the murder idea. Emotions are a little raw right now and we need to be sure of what we’re talking about before we open that can of worms.”
Graham marched out hurried down the corridor. Seconds later Traci poked her head in the door again. “We’ve got the videos cued up if you have time to take a look.”
“Anything good?”
“Yep, I think we’ve found our mystery shopper anyway.”
Ian hauled himself to his feet and he joined Traci heading down the hall to the video room. Ian nodded to Mary as they entered. “What have you got for me, Mary?”
“First, here’s the video from Michelle’s, the shop where Lucy Martin works. It’s the one close to where Barney was killed.” Mary started the video and they could see the man described by Lucy ducking behind a rack of long dresses as a man in black carrying a rifle enters the shop. The silent black and white video did not soften the horror of the execution of the two women.
“Christ,” muttered Ian.
The man in the video slipped from behind the dresses after the shooter exited, checked the pulse of the two downed girls and then limped out of the shop.
“With that baseball cap pulled down, you can’t really see his face.” Traci said. “Detroit Tigers cap, if that helps.”
“If he made a purchase in the shop with his credit card there will be a record and we should have his name and address within an hour.” Replied Ian.
“I’ll get right on it,” answered Traci.
Mary interjected, “There another video of the lingerie shop where the handgun was found. Looks like the same guy but still no good look at his face. As the lady said, he’s got a limp.”

Ian and Traci drove through the near suburbs of London looking for the apartment complex on Huron Avenue. “You sure this is the guy?” Asked Ian.
“Well, he used his credit card in Michelle’s about the time of the shootings.” Traci answered.
“But you could find out nothing about the guy?”
“Not much. His name is Peter Gerard and it’s almost like he’s off the grid. Nothing on Google, Facebook or Twiter. Not listed in the phone book. He’s got a driver’s license and a cell phone account but no email address. I could find no social insurance number or any employment record. He’s got a couple of credit cards with BMO and a checquing account. That’s it.”
“So, what’s he do for a living? Sell drugs?”
“I have no idea but I think we better be careful with this guy until we find out what’s going on.”
They found the apartment building and circled around to the back parking lot just as a few snowflakes started to fall gently out of a depressingly gray sky. They walked up to the 2nd floor and found the apartment halfway down the corridor. Standing on each side of the door, Ian rapped firmly.
They heard someone move to the door and say, “Who’s there?”
“Police. Please open the door.”
The door opened to the safety chain and a man said, “Show me some ID.” Ian and Traci pushed their ID wallets to the opening and after a moment the man unhooked the chain and swung the door open. They entered and gazed around the small apartment. It was sparsely furnished but neat and clean. A small flat screen TV flickered in the corner where a hockey game was in progress. A two-foot artificial Christmas tree sat on a table by the window with coloured lights blinking a sad rhythm.
“Mr. Gerard, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What about?” He replied.
“Mind if we have a seat?” Asked Ian. Gerard nodded and motioned toward a tired-looking couch. He remained standing.
Traci noted that he was of medium height, solidly built and in good shape, pretty much as Lucy had described him. He was in his early 40s with short and slightly graying hair.
“Mr. Gerard,” Ian began. “Were you shopping at Willow Tree Mall yesterday?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Can you describe what happened?”
“I was in a shop picking out a gift for my daughter and some guy in black came in and shot up the place. I hid and then ran out after he left. He shot two of the girls in the place and I could see they were dead so I hauled ass away from the shooting.”
“Did you see Officer Kaminski lying in the corridor when you went out?
“Yes, of course, but I could see the holes in his head and guessed him to be beyond any help from me.”
“OK, Mr. Gerard, what did you do then?”
“I worked my way back to the entrance and got the Hell out of there.”
“You didn’t grab Officer Kaminski’s gun and run down and shoot the bad guy?” Traci asked.
“What? Why would I do a stupid thing like that?”
“Somebody did.” Ian interjected. “Somebody killed that guy and in Canada that’s murder.”
“How do you support yourself Mr. Gerard?” Traci asked quickly. “What kind of work do you do?”
Pete looked at her for a long beat and then said, “I’m on disability. I was injured and am no longer able to work.”
“Where did you work?”
“I was in the Army…. A supply sergeant and was injured in a vehicle accident. I was medically discharged.”
“You don’t look like a supply clerk.” Traci said, doubtfully.
“You don’t look like a cop. You look like a model.” Pete responded. Traci blushed in spite of herself.
“Look Gerard, if you don’t want to give us straight answers we can continue this conversation down at the station.” Ian replied angrily.
“What’s the point? I don’t have anything to add and nothing more to say.”
“We’ll just see about that Mr. Gerard.”
Pete said nothing on the drive down to the station and said nothing for the next four hours despite the various officers who took turns trying to get him to talk. He simply sat there and stared at them. Finally, as Traci came in to take her turn, Pete spoke at last. “I have to take a piss.” He said.
“Well Mr. Gerard, if you answer our questions perhaps we can then take a short break.”
“Bullshit. If you don’t unlock these handcuffs and let me go to the washroom I am going to piss my pants right here. Make sure you don’t delete the video you’re making of this interview. My lawyer will want it for the lawsuit. Last I heard, torture is not permitted in Canada.”
Ian entered the room, reluctantly removed the cuffs and led Pete from the interview room. As Gerard relieved himself with Ian standing behind him Pete said, “Look Chief, I’m done here. I gotta pick up my daughter after swim practice so I need a ride back to my car now.”
“You’re not going anywhere. We have credible evidence that you are involved in this thing and we want a statement from you.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Cudney. If you have evidence, charge me. Otherwise, I’m out of here. If you don’t give me a ride home I’ll take a cab.” Gerard walked out of the bathroom and headed down the hall to the elevators. Ian spotted Traci and motioned her over.
“Give him a ride home. He likes you. Maybe he’ll say something on the way.”
Ian sat brooding in his office when Constable Kelly poked his head in the door. “Good news Chief. Your idea paid off. We found the magazine from Barney’s pistol in the one of the trash baskets on the second floor. The techs are trying to pull some prints off it as we speak.”
“Excellent, Kelly! Let’s hope it’s not wiped as clean as the handgun.” Kelly nods and hurries out.
His phone buzzed and he heard the insistent voice of Graham as he answered. “What’s the progress, Cudney?” I hear that you brought in a likely suspect.”
“We got nothing out of him and had to let him go. But, we found the magazine from Barney’s gun. We’re trying for prints right now. Should know something by morning.”
“Good work. Stay on it. I want this murderer behind bars by the end of the week.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll stay on it.” But Graham had already hung up. Ian sighed and looked at the clock. Time for a couple of cocktails and dinner. This case was not how he had imagined his cruising into retirement.
The next morning Ian walked in to find Traci already at her desk. He growled at her, “Anything new?”
“Yes, we got one good thumb print off the magazine and have submitted it to the Automated Fingerprint ID System database. It came back without a match. We also submitted it to the FBI system in the US. The print’s not there either.”
Ian scratched his head. “If the print is Gerard’s or even Barney’s it would be in the database. All the Army guys are printed. Unless maybe the guys in JTF2 are not in the database.”
“JTF2?”
“You know, Canadian Special Forces… like the US Delta Force or Navy SEALs.”
“I suppose we could get Gerard in here and take his prints, see if we get a match.” Offered Traci.
“Yeah, but that would require a warrant and I don’t think we’re gonna get a judge to do that with what we’ve got now.” Ian headed for his office. “I’m going to get on the phone and start calling up the Canadian Forces. See if I can find out anything about our Mr. Gerard. You can stall Graham if he gets anxious.”
After three hours, Ian emerged from his office with anger and frustration clouding his face. He looked into Traci’s cubicle and said, “Let’s go to lunch and then drop in on Mr. Gerard.”
As they settled into a booth at Joe Kool’s and ordered drinks, Ian a pint of lager and Traci a diet Coke, Traci asked, “Well, what did the Army have to say?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I got bounced around and talked to lots of colonels, majors and many sergeants but essentially they were all telling me zip. Never heard of Pete Gerard. Or, so they said.”
“So what now?”
“Well, I’d like to drop it. The guy saved a lot of lives. Norton had over 300 rounds of .223 ammo on him when he got capped. By the time the ERT got there, a lot more people would have been dead.”
“Graham is going to insist that we pick up Gerard and bring him in for printing.”
“I know. I figured we’d do it right after lunch.”
When they got to Gerard’s apartment he wasn’t there and neither was his pickup truck. Nor was he there the rest of the afternoon and night when a patrol car cruised the parking lot. Gerard had seemingly vanished.

London Chief of Police, Stuart Sims, rummaged through his top desk drawer looking for some antacids. Between the Mayor demanding an explanation for what happened at the mall and the ranting of Graham Brantwell, his stomach boiled with acid. His phone buzzed and his secretary announced, “Chief, there’s a Ms. Smith here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Ms. Smith. She says she has an urgent personal message for you from Ottawa.”
Stuart frowned. Now what? “Send her in.”
The woman entered briskly. Tall and slender, she dressed in a serious business suit with low heels. She wore little make-up and her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. After shaking hands she presented her ID wallet that sported a bright badge and picture ID.
“CSIS? What the Hell do the spooks want with me?” A pained look caused Sims to realize the offense and he quickly added, “Sorry, Ms. Smith. You just caught me by surprise. What can I do for you?”
“Perfectly understandable Chief. I’ll get right to the point. Your department is trying to get information on Peter Gerard.”
Sims nodded. “Yes, we have reason to believe that he was involved in the shooting at the mall two days ago.”
“Yes, we know and I’m here to deliver the message that the government wants you to drop your pursuit of Mr. Gerard.”
“What! Why?”
“What I am about to tell you is Top Secret and revealing any of this is a federal crime. Understood?” Sims nodded and Smith continued, “You may have noted that there is not a lot of history on Mr. Gerard. That’s because that’s not his real name. He was a highly trained member of JTF2 and involved in numerous clandestine operations in Afghanistan. In one highly successful operation, he rescued some very important British civilians who were on a humanitarian mission and were abducted by the Taliban. He was awarded the George’s Cross, their second highest award, by a grateful Britain.”
“Wow!” Sims said. “But why is he in hiding?”
Smith held up her hand. “Gerard killed several high ranking Al Qaeda leaders in a later operation and they issued a fatwa on him and his family. He was seriously injured at that time and retired from service as a result. He received the Cross of Valor from Canada for his actions. In secret, of course.”
“What about the murder charge? Sims asked. “I’m assuming from this that he did it?”
“Of course he did it. But, I think under the circumstances most people would consider what he did a tremendous service, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I’m not the problem. My Deputy Chief is a stickler and has political ambitions.”
“We’re well aware of that. I have a message from the Prime Minister for him. Why don’t we call him in and talk it over?”
When Graham entered the room and Ms. Smith introduced herself Graham looked at her with a haughty expression. He did not approve of the clandestine service or the military so her explanation fell on deaf ears. She produced from her slim folder a hand written note from the Prime Minister explaining the situation and requesting that he back off. Graham stood angrily.

“Ms. Smith or whatever your name is….. I despise this Conservative government and its militaristic ways! When I get to the House of Commons I intend to vote to eliminate your organization, cut funding to the military and re-instate the long gun registry! I will not back off of my pursuit of the criminal that committed murder in my town!”
“Sit down, Mr. Brantwell, before you have a stroke.” Smith pulled a phone from her pocket and punched a speed dial number and set the phone in the middle of the desk. “You’re a member of the NDP, right Mr. Brantwell?” She asked. He nodded as the phone rang. “Maybe you’d like to speak to the leader of your party?”
When the phone was answered Smith spoke loudly. “Hi, Tom. I’m here in London with Chief Sims and Graham who does not think too highly of the Prime Minister’s note.”
Tom sighed. “Hi, Chief. Look, Graham, I don’t agree with Steven on very much but on this subject, we see eye to eye. Gerard is a hero and if we expose the guy and subject him to this, we will do irreparable harm to the party. The Conservatives will beat us over the head with it and we will have the Queen on our ass. A couple of the people he rescued were close to the Royal Family. Graham, I know you have political hopes but I promise you this; if you push this or breathe one word to the media you will never get elected to anything. I will see to it personally! Do you understand?”
With a pout Graham mumbled, “Yes, I got it, Tom.”
“Good. I’ll see you at the convention next summer, buy you a drink and I’ll introduce you around. Gotta go, guys.”
“Thanks, Tom.” Smith chirped.
“Well.” Chief Sims said. “What now?”
“Simple,” Smith answered, “Call in the media and tell them that after investigating you have determined that Barney fought it out with the gunman and though gravely wounded managed to kill Norton before he could murder more innocent Christmas shoppers. Quite frankly, he’s a hero.”
Graham looked glum but the Chief beamed, “Let’s make it happen, Graham.” He then looked at Smith. “I’m going to have to explain to the detectives working this case what’s going on here. They know Barney did not shoot Norton.”
“Yes, you may but you should also remind them of the secret nature of this situation and that if this leaks out I will be back looking for the culprit.”

Epilogue

Three weeks later Traci exited her grimy, ancient Toyota sedan as Pete Gerard drove his beat up F-150 into his apartment parking lot. He looked mildly surprised as she approached him. “Well, Detective Whitequill, what brings you into this neck of the woods? Not here to arrest me I hope?”
She laughed. “You saw that Barney is up for the Cross of Valor?”
“Yeah, I saw that. I’ve got a TV and everything. He deserved it and it will make his family proud. Why are you really here?”
She blushed and said, “I wanted to see if you’d have dinner with me.”
“What?” He looked shocked. “Why? Detective, I’m old enough to be your father!”
“No you’re not. I’m 28, and you can call me Traci.”
“Geeze … ah Traci, a woman that looks like you shouldn’t have any trouble attracting guys like bees to the clover patch.”
“Guys maybe, but not real men. Guys I meet are too full of themselves, only want to get their hand up your skirt and get you into bed. Too many guys with multiple earrings and too many tattoos; guys who wear perfume and moisturize and can’t walk past a mirror without admiring themselves, or married guys looking for a little something on the side. Plenty of guys like that.”
“I’m pretty beat up, Traci. Damaged goods.”
“Hey, I’m just talking about dinner here.” As he stood there considering it, she continued. “You don’t have a daughter in town you have to pick up from swim practice do you?”
He laughed and she liked hearing it. “No, but I do have a daughter. She’s 12 going on 22 and she does swim. She lives with her mum quite far from here.”
“I’ll even buy.”
“Nah, can’t have that. Tell ya what though. I’m a modern guy; we can split the cheque.”

Gun Free Zone

© Richard Draper, August 2015

Post Script:
This story was prompted by my observation that the worst of the mass shootings that plague modern society seem to happen in “gun free zones”. Gun free, that is, for everyone but the armed psycho bent on killing as many people as possible. Like the muslim terrorists, they are essentially cowards and pick the softest targets they can find. Unarmed Christmas shoppers are as easy as it gets. I also wanted to write a story that takes place in Canada, a country with some pretty restrictive gun laws, and to my Yankee readers, some unusual spelling of certain words.
I was helped in getting my facts and terminology about Canadian police procedures correct by RCMP Officer Cst. Janelle Shoihet. True, I had to stretch a couple of facts to fit the story but mostly I think I got it right. And, of course, thanks to the Blogmaster, Karen, for her suggestions in getting the ‘teen speak’ in Lucy’s dialogue accurate and for her thorough editing. Hope you liked the story.
Thanks,
Dick

6 Comments

Filed under Guns, Short Stories

Purveyors of Apocalypse

Next up on my list of writing projects was a piece on fracking but the recent cold snap bumped this one to the top of the list.
If you are a frequent reader of this blog you are well aware of my long skepticism of AGW (Anthropogenic Global Warming) now referred to as “climate change”. I’ve taken some significant amount of ridicule for that view over the years, particularly from the readers of “The Vancouver Sun” where I offered some thoughts on the subject after the intellectual dishonesty at the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change was exposed.

So, it brought me no small measure of satisfaction when the expedition to the Antarctic to study the impact of global warming found itself stuck in the sea ice. The ice breaker sent to rescue them also got stuck and then the US sent a huge ice breaker to try to free both ships. True to form, of the first 41 news reports on the incident, 40 of them failed to mention what the Hell they were doing down there and simply referred to them as “tourists” or “scientists”. According to the expedition leader’s website, Professor Chris Turney of the U. of New South Whales, they were there to study the effects of global warming on sea ice. You would think that the media would be unable to resist this rich irony, but of course you would be wrong. They have too much invested in the global warming story.

The news services, however, cannot ignore the cold spell that is now breaking 100 year old temperature records all over the North American continent. Of course, they can cry that this “polar vortex” is just a very unique phenomenon and has in no way disproved global warming, er, climate change. This is the thesis of Jason Samenow, the weather editor of the Washington Post, who has made a career out of pushing the global warming story. It is true. You can’t predict what’s going to happen a hundred years hence by a single weather event. However, whenever a nasty event like a heat wave, tornado, hurricane or drought strikes somewhere on Earth these same guys and gals are loudly blaming it on global warming. Some yahoos have even tried to blame the polar vortex on AGW.

Dr. Roger Pielke of the U. of Colorado is a professor of Environmental Studies and he testified before Congress on December 11, 2013 that hurricane landfalls since 1900 have NOT increased, nor are they more intense or causing more damage. His studies also show the same is true for floods, droughts, tornadoes and forest fires. There is simply no evidence that these extreme weather events have increased in the last couple of decades. Did you see that on NBC Nightly News?

No? Maybe you saw this one? A sea level study by Lennart Bengston, a Swedish researcher using satellite data from the U of Colorado concludes that sea levels have risen an average of 3 mm/year over the last 20 years. This slow increase in sea level continues a trend begun at the end of the last ice age and the rate has not increased in the last 20 years.

To put this in perspective let’s do a little metric conversion arithmetic. There are 2.54 cm in one inch or 25.4 mm. So 3mm equals about 1/8 inch rise in sea levels per year. In 100 years that comes out to about a foot or so…just a tad lower than the 20 foot prediction in Al Gore’s Academy Award winning 2006 film “An Inconvenient Truth”. But hey, Al’s made some $200 million dollars since losing his bid for the Presidency. Perhaps winning the prize for Purveyor of Apocalypse of this decade and pocketing the $200 million will be sufficient consolation?

There have been many predictors of the coming Armageddon who have cashed in on the gravy train. After all, nothing sells newspapers and magazines or loosens the purse strings of governments and rich donors like the end of life on our fragile planet. No one wants the facts to mess up a good story or to obstruct the government grants to universities and think tanks to study the problem. The US has doled out billions to energy related start-ups (mostly to large donors to Obama and the Democrats) for wind or solar farms, electric car developers and solar panel manufacturers. Most have gone tits up.
We also recently learned that the Obama brain trust has given $4.7 billion between 2010 and 2012 to other countries to battle global warming! Draining the public treasury to do battle with a ghost like AGW is one thing but the war on carbon has more dangerous implications when mandated policies like closing down coal fired electrical generating plants and putting unnecessary restrictions on drilling or pipelines is added to the insanity. As this unusual cold snap is demonstrating, electrical grids are dangerously close to their limitations during prolonged frigid periods. Closing power plants because you hate coal and nuclear is simply irresponsible.

It doesn’t seem to matter that past dire warnings of the coming apocalypse have proven hopelessly wrong, the gullible public always falls for the next one. Recently we had the Y2K computer crisis. Some smart computer nerds made a bundle on that one. And what about the Mayan Calendar 2012 scare? Hard to dispute the Mayans were pretty clever dudes for their day. But I did wonder how smart they could be if they sacrificed their prettiest virgins to make it rain? Just sayin’. Here in more enlightened times we just sacrifice tax dollars and economic prosperity.

Nor does being hopelessly wrong about predictions that the world is coming to an end seem to adversely impact a reputation or income. Take Paul Ehrlich, a Stanford professor of biology who in 1968 appeared on Johnny Carson to promote his book “The Population Bomb” predicting mass starvation in the next 20 years due to overpopulation. This is, of course, the same crap espoused by Rev. Thomas Malthus in 1798.

The population of the earth in 1960 was 3 billion people at the time and Ehrlich and his fellow doomsayers professors John Holdren and John Harte, among others jumped on the bandwagon. They predicted that growing populations would outstrip the food supply and the world would soon run out of everything including oil, copper, iron, tin, etc. This became the “settled science” of the period and governments and journalists called for action to control population growth and resource consumption. The guys selling this apocalyptic vision made a bundle selling books, making speaking fees and with cushy university jobs. Politicians of all stripes jumped on the bandwagon. By 1970 Earth Day had kicked off the modern environmental movement and Nixon created the EPA.

Of course, there were skeptics most notably Julian Simon, an economist and business professor at the U of Illinois. Simon believed that technology and human ingenuity would prevail and that resources were not finite. This led to a very public battle between the two… essentially the apocalypse camp and the optimist camp. Simon proposed a bet with Ehrlich that soon became very public. Simon offered to let Ehrlich pick any five commodities (he chose chromium, copper, nickel, tin and tungsten) and bet that these would not increase in price in the next decade. If they were to become scarce they would obviously increase in price. Ehrlich was assisted in selecting the five by Holdren and Harte.

So, how did the bet turn out? Not good for Ehrlich. All five commodities were LESS costly. (This is all detailed in the book The Bet by Paul Sabin.) What about the mass starvation that was predicted by these guys in 1968? The earth’s population has more than doubled since then and the only starvation is caused by war and political repression. Improved farming practices, seed genetics and mechanization has vastly improved yields. Besides, the UN among others are predicting that the earth’s popu-lation has peaked and will be declining in the coming decades.

Ehrlich and his fellow doomsayers were hopelessly wrong about everything so their credibility as prognosticators should be over, right? Wrong! Like the guy on the street corner with the sign, “Repent. The world ends on July 14th!” When it doesn’t happen he simply changes the date.

Ehrlich is still a Harvard professor and much in demand for his opinions on the serious threat of global warming.

John Holdren who seems to never have been right about anything, is now Obama’s“Science Czar” and helps shape their climate change agenda. John Harte, now a professor at Berkley has written a book called “Climate Shock”.

Ya gotta give it to these guys and their guru, Al Gore; they’re pretty good at riding the latest apocalyptic fad to the bank.

2 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society

In the fading sunlight, Sam Bailey pulled his battered Explorer off the tarmac and on to the gravel track leading to the headquarters of the Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society. After unlocking the substantial metal gate, he wound his way back to a large log and stone structure tucked into a grove of white pines. Sam struggled to remove the heavy shutters that covered the windows and slowly unloaded the truck. He started a fire in the cold stone fireplace and poured himself a dark scotch. He sat down before the fire to catch his breath.

As the darkness crept into the cabin with only the snap and hiss of the fire as companions, Sam’s thoughts also turned dark. He struggled to change his mood by remembering the old days and the good times: The deer camps with cards and laughter filling the cabin, along with wood and cigar smoke. The redolent odor of drying wet wool hunting clothes hanging everywhere and exhausted dogs dozing contentedly by the fire. The clink of ice cubes and whiskey-lubricated merriment had echoed off the log rafters.

Most of all, he remembered his friends. But one by one his companions had grown frail and died. Only Charlie remained, housed in a nursing home over in Racine, unable to even remember his own name.

They had all had believed that the next generation would take over the Society, but inexplicably, all the children of the next generation had moved away or were uninterested in hunting and fishing. His own son, Joe, his favorite hunting and fishing buddy in the early years, had too quickly grown and moved to California where he worked for a big software company. His daughter, Sue, had married a Navy pilot and was raising a family in Florida. The offspring of all the other members had similar stories, either moving away or uninterested.

But Sam’s biggest blow had been losing his wife, Martha, two years ago. He had been utterly lost since. He sighed, drained his glass and, struggling to his feet, shuffled to the kitchen area to prepare his supper. A second scotch was required for the meal and a third for the clean up and dishes. It had become a nightly ritual and his doctor didn’t like it one bit. Frankly, he did not give a “fiddler’s fart” as his Dad used to say, what a doctor half his age thought about his alcohol consumption. What was it going to do…. Kill him?

After coaxing the fire back to life in the blackened granite fireplace, he settled into a battered cherry wood rocker. He carefully placed the scotch bottle on the end table next to his Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver and propped his feet on the hearth. This had been his routine in recent nights. Sam was trying to find that elusive niche between inebriation and consciousness where he would find the courage to join his wife and his old friends from the Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society. He had yet to find it, but the night was young. Perhaps one more scotch?

***

Dad fly fisherman

I first met Sam Bailey on a sunny mid-May morning on the Big Green River in Southwest Wisconsin. The Big Green runs out of the oak and walnut forested hills of Grant County and into the Wisconsin River about 20 miles up from where it joins the Mississippi on the relentless journey to the Gulf. The limestone soil and outcroppings along the Green’s passage provide the nutrients to produce fat brown trout and also accounts for the impressively solid antlers on the local white tail bucks.

I arrived at the Green a little late that morning and as I approached my favorite hole I could see someone had beaten me to it. It soon became clear he was an older gent and he wore clothes of another era; a checked wool shirt topped with an ancient fishing vest, canvas waders and a battered felt hat. The wicker creel that hung at his side clearly cemented him in another century. I had never seen one of those outside of fancy hunting and fishing stores where they served as wall decorations. In the modern religion of catch-and-release, a creel represented a clear sacrilege.

He worked the water with the easy efficiency of decades of wielding a fly rod, and as I sat down to watch, I could see from the smooth, slow action that it was a bamboo rod. Some Blue Olives started coming off and Sam tied on one of the delicate mayfly imitations.

He quickly hooked and released a couple of smaller fish when he noticed a heavy rise near the far bank where I was sitting. It would be a long cast, perhaps 65 feet, but the old man didn’t hesitate. He stripped long pulls off his reel and made several double hauled false casts before landing the tiny, dry fly soundlessly in the back eddy next to the grassy bank. It disappeared in a slurp and as the line snapped taut, a dazzling shower of droplets were catapulted into the sunlight along its entire length. With the reel screaming and the rod bucking, the trout powered back and forth across the pool before turning and racing upstream like a charging bull. At the end of the pool, it launched skyward and seemed levitated in the sunlight, gleaming gold with black and red spots all surrounded by a halo of sparkling spray. And then he was gone.

Sam reeled in his slack line and carefully waded the river toward me. He plunked down beside me and I could see that his hands were shaking as he pulled a scared briar pipe and worn tobacco pouch from his vest and began the ritual of filling and lighting it.

“Big fish.” I offered in horrendous understatement. “Must have been 5 lbs.”

“Yep.” He replied. “Too big for that tippet anyway.”

“Too bad.” I mumbled lamely.

“Ah well, It was fun there for about 10 seconds.” “By the way, my name’s Sam Bailey.” He offered his big rough hand that bore the wear and spots of many years and too much sun.

“I’m Kurt Jensen,” I replied.

I could see him eyeing my Winston rod and Ross reel with interest. “Nice outfit,” he said. And then looking at me directly in the eyes, “Don’t see many Black guys out here on the rivers.”

He could see that I was a little surprised and annoyed and quickly said, “Ah shit, sorry. I guess you guys like to be called African Americans now.”

“No. Mostly I like to be called Kurt and referred to as a fly fisherman,” I replied a little offended.

He chuckled. “Sorry Kurt. That was rude of me. I apologize. What do you do…? I mean for a living.”

“I’m an attorney in Milwaukee with Bigelow, Linstrom and Meyers.”

“Sure. I know that firm. I used to do a little business with old Bill Bigelow. Good guy. I was sad to hear of his passing.”

“Me too. He was the man responsible for my joining the firm.”

“You hunt?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, love to hunt grouse. Got a setter at home. A few friends and I go out for deer each year.”

“Hmmm,” replied Sam. “Let’s see you wave that high priced piece of plastic, Son. I’ll just sit here and smoke for a bit.” Sam relit his pipe and watched as I waded out into the pool and started peeling off some line. I’ve been fly-fishing since high school and pride myself on my technique, but I must admit that I was a little nervous. After about 10 minutes, I hooked a nice foot long fatty, and after a brief but furious struggle, brought him in and released him. I looked over for some praise from Sam but he had already gone.

***

I was at my desk early the following Monday–as all law associates aspiring to make partner must be–when my intercom buzzed and my secretary, Lucy, announced in her strangled valley girl voice, “Kurt, there’s a Mr. Bailey here to see you.”

I happened to be working on a routine real estate deal at the time so, intrigued, I replied, “Fine, send him in.”

Sam lumbered in, slightly hunched over, and I stood and offered my hand. He was dressed in a brown tweed sport coat that looked like vintage 1980 complete with string tie and tan slacks. His long white hair was slicked back and accentuated his ruddy complexion. He sat and refused my offer of a coffee. After staring at me for a moment, grinned and said, “Surprised to see me?”

I nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“I checked you out this weekend. The Internet is amazing. We never even had a damn phone until I was in high school so I could never have imagined what we have now.”

I just nodded wondering what was coming next. “Go on.” I said.

“I did a Google search on you and checked out your Facebook and Linkedin page. You are an interesting fellow…. Your Dad was a 30-year vet of the Milwaukee police department and your Mom an elementary teacher, three successful sisters. You’re a lucky guy to be born in those circumstances with a family like that. A lot of black kids in Milwaukee are not so lucky.” He paused to see if I’d reacted and I tried not to look pissed. Sam continued, “To your credit, you didn’t waste it. You’ve done well.”

“You have impressive computer skills.”

“Yeah, well,” He chuckled. “Full disclosure, I called my son, a computer nerd, and he walked me through it.”

“That’s all fine, Sam. But why are you here?”

“I’ve got a story to tell you and then a proposition for you to consider.”

***

My phone rang promptly at 8:00 as I was hanging up my coat. “Hello,” I chirped into the phone trying to sound business-like.

“Man, you are so predictable. I could set my watch by when you walk in the door.”

“What are you talking about? I‘ve been here for half an hour working away at my desk.”

“Bullshit, Jeff. I’ve known you since the seventh grade and you never have been anything but perfectly on time in your entire life. Never late and never early. I couldn’t figure out how you always managed to do it.”

It was Kurt Jensen, my best friend for as long as I could remember. We had gone to grade school, junior high, high school and college at the University of Wisconsin together. We had parted in grad school when I took my MBA at Marquette and Kurt had gotten his law degree at UW Madison. We got reunited in Milwaukee when Kurt joined one of our biggest law firms and I started plying my investment banker trade with the money boys on Water Street.

I asked, “What’s up calling me so early?” I thought he might want to set up a game. He regularly kicked my ass in racquetball and I cleaned his clock in one-on-one basketball, a fact that our friends found hilarious since Kurt is black and I am as white as a person can be without actually being blue.

“Lunch? Kurt asked.

“Sure,” I responded quickly. “You buying?”

“OK. Jonah’s on the Water. 12:30.” He hung up.

“That’s odd,” I thought. No quibbling about who was going to buy. Nothing. I sat back wondering.

***

As I sat fidgeting at Jonah’s, nursing an iced tea, Kurt was, as usual, late. Finally, he swung through the door and waved as he spotted me across the crowded dining room. He looked, as always, like a GQ model suddenly set loose in downtown Milwaukee. He sported an impeccably tailored tan summer weight suit, brilliant white shirt and patterned brown and gold tie. It all complimented his smooth light chocolate completion. He carried himself with such confidence that he seemed bigger than his 5’ 10” that I knew him to be, and coupled with his looks and dazzling smile, he caught the attention of every female in the room. I shook my head for it was always the same. I used to tell him… before my marriage, of course…that I would just follow him around and pick up his cast-offs.

He slid into the chair across from me, grinned and asked, “Waiting long?”

“Nope, just the usual 20 minutes.”

“Sorry, Man. Busy, busy, you know.” Before Kurt could continue the waitress showed up and Kurt glanced down at my iced tea and frowned. “Tea is not going to cut it today,” he declared. “Let us have a bottle of the Sterling Chardonnay, 2009 and take this man’s tea away immediately.”

I looked at him curiously. “What’s up Kurt? Did you discover gold in your garden? Is Darlene pregnant again? What’s gotten into you? You never drink at lunch.” I said. “Did they make you a partner?”

“Nah, maybe next year on the partnership. I’ve got an opportunity for the two of us and a few of our close friends.” Kurt raised his hands to halt my coming questions as the waitress arrived with the wine.

We went through the ritual of opening, tasting and pouring the wine and as we clinked glasses in the traditional toast I said, “OK buddy, let’s hear it.”

Kurt started by relating his encounter with Sam Bailey at the Big Green last Saturday and then began, “So Sam shows up unannounced at my office yesterday at 9:00 sharp. He sits down in my office and without much preamble says, ‘You got 6 or 7 pals who are hunters and fishermen and have a few disposable bucks in their pockets?’ And, I say, ‘Sure, so?’ He then proceeds to tell me about how he and 7 of his friends founded the Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society 49 years ago.”

“The what?” I ask.

Kurt held up his hand to stop me, “In due time, son, in due time.” He also waved off the waitress who was hovering to take our order. “We’re going to enjoy our wine for a bit.” He squinted at her name tag. “Thanks, Eileen.” He gave her his 1000-watt smile and she blushed and scampered away.

“OK. Cut the flirting and tell me what this is all about,” I grumped.

Kurt sighed and began, “Sam tells me that he’s the last of the Society members still alive. The only other survivor died this weekend at a nursing home. He’s 85 and doesn’t seem to determined to live much longer himself.” Kurt paused and took a hit of his wine. “He tells me that our firm, specifically our founding partner, Bill Bigelow, did the legal work to set up the Society originally. It was started in the early ‘60s during the period when farmland prices, especially for marginal farmland, were in the toilet. Sam and his friends bought 400 acres of bottomland on the Wisconsin River and the surrounding hills for a song from a bank that had foreclosed on the property.”

I took a sip of the chard and raised my hand to slow Kurt down, “Where does this chowder and marching society come in?”

“Whitetail and Chowder Society. Pay attention.”

“OK. Proceed, Councilor.”

“Bill set up this society and made a deal with the Wisconsin DNR, under certain stipulations: That they would provide an easement for fishermen to have access to the trout stream that flows through the property; that they would do no actual farming or grazing on the property and that they would maintain it in a natural state. The society was grandfathered in on a reduced real estate tax rate but the kicker is…if the society ceased to exist the title of the property would revert to the state to turn into public hunting land.”

I sat there a little confused while Kurt let that sink in. “Why is he coming to you? What about the kids of the original members?”

“All gone. Some dead, many moved away and some not interested. I guess the members had a lot of girls. We better have the water supply checked out there,” he replied thoughtfully.”

“So why us? Or more specifically, why you?”

“Us. Sam wants the two of us to recruit 5 or 6 more guys our age to take over the…”

“Marching and Chowder Society?” I interrupted. Kurt gave me the Don’t-Be-A-Smartass look.

“Well, here’s the catch. Sam’s proposing that we agree to use some of the time during the summers to turn it into a sort of camp for under privileged kids from Milwaukee.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, not completely. We have to take over the taxes and maintenance plus continue to follow the obligations of the original agreement with the state.”

“This deal goes on in perpetuity?”

“Nope. It’s a 100-year deal. Expires in 2062.”

“Holy shit! I can think of five guys off the top of my head who would jump at this deal.”

“I can too, but let’s consider carefully because we will be stuck with each other for a long time in this deal.” Kurt refilled our glasses and started to tick off some names. “By the way, he wants to meet us out at the property on Saturday morning at noon when he gets back from trout fishing.” He waved his hand at Eileen who had been keeping her eye on us and she came running.

***

Kurt and I followed Sam’s directions to the driveway of the Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society property. He was waiting for us at the end of the dirt track in his dusty Explorer. He started up his truck and motioned for us to follow him.

The classic log and stone house had the look of a structure that had been built in many stages over the years by people who had vastly different architectural theories. Sam unlocked the substantial oak door and swung through the door to turn off the alarm system. “We had a few burglaries and vandalism incidents over the years so we installed a very sophisticated system of video cameras, motion detectors and alarms.”

“Does it work? This place is pretty far away from any police service.” Kurt asked.

“Pretty much. The system rings up a couple of the neighbors who we keep on our good graces with some generous Christmas gifts and word gets around.”

We walked into the cavernous main room, dominated by a huge, rustic stone fireplace that was adorned by a mounted moose head. “You shoot that sucker on this property, Sam?” I asked nodding toward the moose.

“Sure.” He grinned. “I’ll show you the spot up on the ridge later.”

The log living room seemed to be the original cabin with a kitchen and bedroom wings tacked on at a later date. Mounts of huge whitetail bucks, mallards, wood ducks and grouse with a few duck art painting interspersed formed the decorating theme. “You two can wander around and see the rest of the place while I dig out some of the paperwork.” Turning to my buddy, he said, “Kurt, did you bring along the original legal documents setting up the club?”

“Yep. Got them out in the truck.”

“OK, after you’ve had your look around we can sit down and go over everything.”

Ten minutes later we gathered around the dining room table and scattered various files and books between us. “Kurt, you have the signed agreements from the new members, right? These fellows presumably understand their legal, financial and moral obligations that are spelled out in the charter. In addition, here are the Society rules and traditions.” Sam slid a thin, leather bound book across the table at us.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“These have evolved over the years by consensus. Not legally binding, but hopefully things the new members will continue to honor.”

I opened the book and glanced at the first page. “I see the first entry is about gun safety.”

“Yep. Other than failing to hold up your financial end or screwing another member’s wife, violating the gun safety rules is the one thing that can get you kicked out of the Society. Accidental discharge of a firearm, bringing a loaded gun into the cabin, or carrying one in a vehicle are grounds for automatic expulsion.”

Kurt and I looked at each other and nodded. “Sounds good to me.” I said.

“The rest of the stuff is in there and you can read it and pass it on to the other new members. By the way, in the back is the recipe for our traditional chowder. Each year a designated guy has to prepare a large vat of the chowder for the opening day of deer season. It’s for lunch. I’ll show you the hidey hole where we keep that book and some other stuff too before we leave.” He rose and headed for the door. “Come on, I’ll show you the boats and ATVs.”

A large metal pole building stood a short distance from the cabin. Inside stood a substantial pile of fireplace wood, four Lund aluminum fishing boats and three ATVs of various vintages. Sam waved his hand to the corner where three 25-horse Mercury outboards stood on a rack. “None of those have been used in several years so you should probably have them serviced before you let anyone go out on the river. While you’re at it, oughta have the ATVs checked too.”

“Can we get a look at the river access?” Kurt asked.

“Sure. Good idea. If you’re going to bring kids out here this summer there’s pretty good walleye and bass fishing and a nice swimming hole. Probably be a popular spot.”

We strolled about 100 yards down the path leading to a grassy clearing on the bank of the gently flowing Wisconsin River. A rolling dock stood well back from the sandy beach and the deep hole beyond. Sam pointed to one of the wooded islands that checkered the wide river and said, “Those islands out there have some potholes that the mallards love during the migration and you can get some great wood duck shooting early in the fall.”

Sam led us back to the cabin and we stood in front of a large map on the wall. He pointed out another gate on the other side of the county road and the trail leading up to the hardwood covered hills that had been the ancient river bank during the glacial floods. “Nice campsite here by the creek. When you bring kids out that might be a good place to set up. There are some pretty good brown trout in the creek, although it’s tough to fly fish it. The kids used to do well drifting a night crawler down into the deeper holes.”

I pointed to a number of red stars scattered across the map. “What are these, Sam?” I asked.

“Permanent deer stands.” He replied. “You can see there’re not too far off the ATV trails that run throughout the property.”

Sam showed us where all the keys were stashed, gave us the security code and the names of the neighbors and left us to fire up one of the ATVs and take a tour of the property. When we got back, he was gone.

***

We traveled in convoy. Kurt rode with me in my Suburban in the lead and the other six members of the Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society followed in two SUVs. Kurt hadn’t said much until we got past Madison and were passing by Barneveld, the site of a nasty tornado that wiped out the town back in the early 80s. “Sam came to me and had me re-write his will shortly after we took over the society.” He said.

“You read the will when his kids were here for the funeral, right?”

“Yep. But he also included a letter to me and that’s the reason we are all going out to the cabin today.”

“I was wondering what all the mystery was about. No wives, no kids, no dogs and all members present on a nothing happening Saturday.” I replied.

I turned on to the country road that paralleled the Wisconsin River and slowed to follow its narrow, winding course. As we passed the entrance to the upland part of the property Kurt glanced up at the sign above the gate that read SAM BAILEY YOUTH CAMP. “I’m glad Sam got to see us get a bunch of kids out here this summer before he passed.” He said.

“Me too. I think he got a real kick out of seeing those kids swimming in the river and learning how to fish. By the way, it was a master stroke getting your Dad and his retired cop friends to do the bulk of the work.” Kurt flashed me a grin with those dazzlingly white teeth of his and popped his seat belt as I turned into the driveway that leads to the cabin.

Twenty minutes later we were all clustered around the foot of the dock that extended out into the river. Kurt carried the urn and a bouquet of daisies and I held a polished wooden box. He stepped up on the dock gazed at us and began, “Sam asked me to bring us all down here after the funeral and consign his ashes to the river. He figured they would eventually make it down to the ocean and get back into the food chain. He also said he was looking forward to joining his wife. I’m not sure how exactly those two things work together but that was his wish and we’re honoring it.”

“Sam told me he was glad that all the new members of the Society were joining at the same time and were about the same age. He thought we would develop our own traditions but hoped we’d keep some of the old ones.” He nodded at me. “Jeff.”

I opened the box and started passing out small crystal glasses and then a dark bottle of Hennessey brandy. As I poured a generous shot in everyone’s glass Kurt continued, “Sam explained that somewhere in the early days of the Society they had purchased this bottle and the idea was to open it when the last of the original members died. The thinking was that the Society would be adding members as they went along. Since that didn’t happen it’s up to us.”

He raised his glass. “To Sam Bailey and the Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society!”

To a chorus of “Here, Here!” we all downed the amber liquid and grimaced. Fifty additional years of aging hadn’t done it any favors. It might be useful for lighting fires. Kurt handed me his glass and walked to the end of the dock where he opened the urn and began spilling Sam’s ashes into the river. The light breeze scattered some of the dust and Kurt tossed the daisies into the rest. A small swirling eddy of current caught the ashes and flowers and sent them spinning toward the shore.

“Looks like Sam’s in no hurry to leave,” quipped Mike. We all stared at him for breaking the solemn mood and then we all burst out laughing. As we trooped back down the path to the cabin I thought, “Sam would have gotten a kick out of that.”

***

Copyright 2014 Richard Draper

Alert readers may notice that this story is told from different Points Of View as it goes along.  It was intentional.  I had written several short stories before I purchased a book on ‘how to write a short story’.  I’d never really thought about it much…. just did it.  It’s kinda like a golf swing, if you think about it too much you can’t do it.  Anyway, I found the chapter on POV interesting and decided to play with it a bit in this tale.  I did not read far enough in that chapter to find out if switching POV back and forth in the same story is a no-no.  Probably is, but who cares.  Let me know if you find the flipping back and forth confusing or if you think the story is crap.

DD

Comments Off on Mill Hollow Whitetail and Chowder Society

Filed under Short Stories

Verbal Crutches

In the winter of 1973 we moved to Cold Spring, a small town in central Minnesota where I had recently taken a job. Our kids soon became acquainted with the neighbor kids down the street. We had been there less than a week when Tara, our oldest daughter, says to her younger sister, “Come here once, Karen.”

“Once?” I thought. “Why not twice?”

I soon discovered that it was a local speech custom to attach useless and unnecessary words to the end of perfectly good sentences. Much like Canadians stick an “Eh” at the end of a statement or question. Minnesotans would tack on a “once”, “then” or “hey”.

This is, of course, not all that big a deal and cannot be compared to, say, the Iranians getting a nuclear bomb and wiping out Israel. Nor is it as annoying to certain speech crutches currently in vogue. Repeatedly sticking in “you know” between comments can be distracting and seems to be a common filler for athletes being interviewed by sports reporters. You would think that star baseball or football players who are frequently asked for on camera comments and who make the big bucks would have someone from the team’s media office taking the guy aside and saying, “Look Dwayne, you said ‘you know’ 37 times in that two minute interview yesterday. That makes you sound like a dumb shit and you are a graduate of Notre Dame and make $10 million dollars a year. Can we cut the ‘you knows’ down to perhaps 10 next time around?”

President Obama has a reputation for being a gifted orator, but that depends on whether he is reading his speeches off his teleprompter or not. When he is forced to speak off the cuff things do not go quite so well and he typically sticks in repeated “ah, ah, ahs” in the middle of sentences and phrases. It seems he’s groping for the thought or correct word. I guess that’s why they haul the damn teleprompters everywhere he is going to make even the most unimportant speech.

Some of the stuff that annoys me most is now part of the youth culture propagated by the all-pervasive media. The use of the word “go” as a substitute for “said” when recounting a conversation can be confusing to senior citizens like me. (“So he goes, blah, blah and I go blah, blah, blah and then he goes…..” etc.) In my memory, failing as it is, the verb “go” is not a suitable substitute for “said”.

But, by far the most maddening verbal crutch of recent times is the repeated and unnecessary insertion of “like” into conversation. “Like” is a perfectly useful word but has no place getting stuck excessively and inappropriately into otherwise perfectly fine sentences. Example conversation: “He was like really mad and I was like completely totally like shocked.” You get the drift.

I guess this is not so shocking. Teenagers all watch the same stuff on TV and the same movies and all their heroes talk this way. What really drives me nuts is to hear 40 something celebrities talking like (acceptable usage of the word) teens on Jay Leno or Jimmy Kimmel. My wife used to count the “likes” on those occasions and often could make it to 30 or 35 before I grabbed the remote and switched channels. Don’t these people ever watch one of their own interviews?

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized