Tales From The South

 

My Short Life of Crime

By Jimmie von Tungeln

 My father decided, the year I turned fifteen, that a summer job would provide just the catalyst through which to redirect me from a life of idle languor to one of resolute achievement. He was, he assured me, there to help. Little did he know that his efforts would nearly veer me into a life of crime.

It happened this way. Daddy procured for me a job at a “filling station” in downtown Pine Bluff, Arkansas. It was during the late 1950s and life was slow and predictable, particularly in the summer months. The station employed two full-time attendants plus me and a college student, the son of a multi-millionaire cotton farmer, a father who also saw work as curative. The college kid arrived at work each morning in a brand new Corvette Stingray that probably cost more than the annual salary of one of the regular workers. My sister dropped me off on her way to work at a bank in the family car, an old purple Pontiac my classmates dubbed “The Purple People-eater.” Life can be sorrowful for a high school kid with a color-blind father.

Social disparity aside, we were a happy crew. When we weren’t serving customers, we washed cars, the college kid and I. When there were no cars to wash, we greased vehicles that were hoisted on racks like kings on their thrones. When there were no cars to grease, we learned things that would, the older guys assured us, stand us in good stead in later life—like shooting craps, doing card tricks, and learning how to spot girls who lived “on the spicy side of life.” What, one might ask, could go wrong?

It had to do with the FBI.

Two Special Agents, both bachelors (I think maybe all the agents were then) roomed in a boarding house two blocks from the station. It was our privilege to maintain their vehicle, a powerful Ford, in peak condition from which to fight crime, ferret out the Communists lurking in Pine Bluff, and keep the region safe.

The agents left that car in one of our vehicle bays at night and that is where the trouble started.

During the day, the car sat on the street, ready for action in the event of a Communist uprising or a chase after known criminals. It came to pass that it was my lot one hot summer afternoon to move the vehicle from the daytime spot to the vehicle bay. Like a good scout, I drove the car into the bay, left the key in the ignition as I had been taught to do and, having been told not to forget to close the bay door, followed that instruction. Then I was careful to lock the bay from the inside.

By exhibiting such a high level of professionalism, I could already visualize being accepted as a Special Agent myself, with all the glory that such a life promised. Certainly I would achieve a grander post than a sleepy Southern town, maybe New York. Just wait.

What no one had told me was that, due to a lack of criminal activity and the sleepy nature of our city, the station owner had agreed that the vehicle bay door wouldn’t be locked at night, just closed. This presupposed that nobody would be stupid enough to prowl around where an FBI vehicle was parked.

Wouldn’t you know it? That night, the only bank robbery that I remember occurring during my entire time of growing up occurred. It was in a little farming town with a branch bank some thirty or so miles away.

I knew nothing about this until I slammed the door on “Old Purple” next morning, ending some argument with my sister, and walked into the station.

Somber can’t describe it. All three of my comrades were leaning against a counter looking at me as if I were carrying a violin case and a copy of Das Kapital. I nodded but not a single one of them nodded back. They just stared. Finally the one we called Boss spoke.

“Where were you last night?”

“Me? At home.”

“Can anyone prove that?”

I knitted my brow. What business was that of his? “Sure, the family. Why?”

“What time did they go to bed?”

He knew what time my parents went to bed. “With the chickens,” as they say down South.

“Your sister there?”

“No, she was on a date.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You better get your story straight.”

“My story?”

“Your story.”

“What,” I said, “on earth are you talking about?”

“Somebody robbed the bank at Sherrill last night, just as they were closing.”

“Really?”

“Really. Guess what else happened?”

“What?”

“Somebody locked the FBI car in the bay here and the FBI guys had to walk all the way back home and get the key or they might have gotten over there in time to catch the robbers.”

The weight of the world began to lower on me like one of our fully loaded vehicle hoists. I said nothing.

“Don’t leave,” Boss said.

“What do you mean, don’t leave?”

“The agents want to take you in for questioning when they get back.”

“Questioning? Why?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked where sunlight originated. “Because you are the one who locked the FBI car in the bay.”

I couldn’t speak. I tried but my vocal chords just made a little squeaking sound like a screen door being opened on a hot summer day.

“They are pretty sure,” Boss said, “that you were in on it.”

Robinson Crusoe, on first reaching shore, could not have felt more abandoned and alone than I did at that moment.

“Don’t worry,” the college kid said. “We won’t get to listen to them.”

I finally found my voice. “Listen to them what?” I said, a half tone below “High-C.”

“Interrogate you,” he said in a grave voice honed by years of hazing fraternity pledges. “They are going to take you to the Police Station. That way they can just go ahead and lock you up if they decide to.”

“Lock me up for what?”

Boss said, “Aiding in a bank job is a pretty serious offense.” He told me that he had assured the agents that all his employees knew not to lock the bay at night. Mine was clearly a renegade action. With that, they all found something to do that didn’t include me. I moseyed around, bumping into things, until I finally found a quiet place to sit and await my doom.

Maybe prison wasn’t so bad, I thought. Maybe I could learn to sing there. Elvis did in some movie. Or maybe I could escape. As the minutes evaporated, so did my options, until only dark despair remained. Then I heard the sound.

It was the dark rumble of the FBI car’s powerful engine. The car came into view, lumbered alongside a gas pump, and stopped. It didn’t occur to me to attend it until I looked around and saw nobody else in sight. I was alone. The agent driving honked and it evoked the sound of a large creaking door closing on my life. I wandered out.

The driver rolled down the window and smiled. “Hey sport,” he said. “We drove this old gal a piece today so fill her up.”

“Fill her up?”

“Fill her up, and check the oil.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “Anything else?” I would get this thing over with, once and for all.

“Windshield’s dusty,” he said. “Oh…” Here it came. I froze. “They forgot to tell you but you don’t lock that bay door at night. Saves us some time and trouble.” With that, he turned to the other agent and began to compare notes. I moved to the gas pump.

As the pump hummed to life, my life hummed afresh. I even whistled. Then I saw three heads peer from the back of the station, laughing like they might never have another chance. I squeezed the pump handle like it was the hand of a lover, took in the smell of gasoline as if were the scent of roses, smiled at the three guys, and nodded. That was a good one, all right.

 

DEFEAT FASCISM

 Reading “Murder Among Friends” by Candace Fleming. It’s the latest recounting of the murder of 14-year-old Bobby Franks in 1924 by teenagers Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb. All lived in Chicago near one another and the murder shocked the world, created new standards in criminal law, and caused generations of concern about mental capabilities.

The two murderers were from wealthy families and well educated. They lived under the Nietzschean idea that some individuals were superhuman and marched to a different moral drum than mere mortals. They chose their victim because he was walking home from school. They simply wanted to experience the thrill of murder.

Disclaimer. I’m no psychiatrist. Nor am I a psychologist. I’m not overly educated. Both degrees originated from state-supported public universities. I do claim the right, however, to be fascinated. I am.
Some analysts suggest that two people acting together will participate in horrific actions that neither would consider when acting alone.

Some increasingly accepted scholarship suggests that interactions with peer groups largely determine our adult proclivities and that parental upbringing contributes little. See “The Nurture Assumption: Why Children Turn Out the Way They Do” by the psychologist Judith Rich Harris. (Don’t yell at me.)

What fascinates me is this: In a younger life, I joined thousands of youth, some as young as 17 years, who learned from respected authority figures that it was perfectly acceptable to do what Loeb and Leopold did, i.e. murder a randomly selected youth from another tribe. The burden posited that it was not only okay, but our duty, to murder on demand, whether by hand, pistol, rifle, knife, artillery, or (for the more timid at heart) with bombs dropped from thousands of feet in the air. Almost all of my peer group would have complied if ordered to.

Now we ask ourselves why millions of Americans blindly follow a command to murder the American dream.

Further reading: The Milgram Experiment On Obedience to Authority.

Oh, clicking on an ad helps me fund these efforts.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 CRIME

A short recounting of the time I almost went to prison, or thought so. To may friends in my home town, this happened at the old Lion Oil Station at Fifth and Pine and is true best I remember.

My father decided, the year I turned fifteen, that a summer job would provide just the catalyst through which to redirect me from a life of idle languor to one of resolute achievement. He was, he assured me, there to help. Little did he know that his efforts would nearly veer me into a life of crime.

It happened this way. Daddy procured for me a job at a “filling station” in downtown Pine Bluff, Arkansas. It was during the late 1950s and life was slow and predictable, particularly in the summer months. The station employed two full-time attendants plus me and a college student, the son of a multi-millionaire cotton farmer, a father who also saw work as curative. The college kid arrived at work each morning in a brand new Corvette Stingray that probably cost more than the annual salary of one of the regular workers. My sister dropped me off on her way to work at a bank in the family car, an old purple Pontiac my classmates dubbed “The Purple People-eater.” Life can be sorrowful for a high school kid with a color-blind father.

Social disparity aside, we were a happy crew. When we weren’t serving customers, we washed cars, the college kid and I. When there were no cars to wash, we greased vehicles that were hoisted on racks like kings on their thrones. When there were no cars to grease, we learned things that would, the older guys assured us, stand us in good stead in later life—like shooting craps, doing card tricks, and learning how to spot girls who lived “on the spicy side of life.” What, one might ask, could go wrong?

It had to do with the FBI.

Two Special Agents, both bachelors (I think maybe all the agents were then) roomed in a boarding house two blocks from the station. It was our privilege to maintain their vehicle, a powerful Ford, in peak condition from which to fight crime, ferret out the Communists lurking in Pine Bluff, and keep the region safe.

The agents left that car in one of our vehicle bays at night and that is where the trouble started.

During the day, the car sat on the street, ready for action in the event of a Communist uprising or a chase after known criminals. It came to pass that it was my lot one hot summer afternoon to move the vehicle from the daytime spot to the vehicle bay. Like a good scout, I drove the car into the bay, left the key in the ignition as I had been taught to do and, having been told not to forget to close the bay door, followed that instruction. Then I was careful to lock the bay from the inside.

By exhibiting such a high level of professionalism, I could already visualize being accepted as a Special Agent myself, with all the glory that such a life promised. Certainly I would achieve a grander post than a sleepy Southern town, maybe New York. Just wait.

What no one had told me was that, due to a lack of criminal activity and the sleepy nature of our city, the station owner had agreed that the vehicle bay door wouldn’t be locked at night, just closed. This presupposed that nobody would be stupid enough to prowl around where an FBI vehicle was parked.

Wouldn’t you know it? That night, the only bank robbery that I remember occurring during my entire time of growing up occurred. It was in a little farming town with a branch bank some thirty or so miles away.

I knew nothing about this until I slammed the door on “Old Purple” next morning, ending some argument with my sister, and walked into the station.

Somber can’t describe it. All three of my comrades were leaning against a counter looking at me as if I were carrying a violin case and a copy of Das Kapital. I nodded but not a single one of them nodded back. They just stared. Finally the one we called Boss spoke.

“Where were you last night?”

“Me? At home.”

“Can anyone prove that?”

I knitted my brow. What business was that of his? “Sure, the family. Why?”

“What time did they go to bed?”

He knew what time my parents went to bed. “With the chickens,” as they say down South.

“Your sister there?”

“No, she was on a date.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You better get your story straight.”

“My story?”

“Your story.”

“What,” I said, “on earth are you talking about?”

“Somebody robbed the bank at Sherrill last night, just as they were closing.”

“Really?”

“Really. Guess what else happened?”

“What?”

“Somebody locked the FBI car in the bay here and the FBI guys had to walk all the way back home and get the key or they might have gotten over there in time to catch the robbers.”

The weight of the world began to lower on me like one of our fully loaded vehicle hoists. I said nothing.

“Don’t leave,” Boss said.

“What do you mean, don’t leave?”

“The agents want to take you in for questioning when they get back.”

“Questioning? Why?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked where sunlight originated. “Because you are the one who locked the FBI car in the bay.”

I couldn’t speak. I tried but my vocal chords just made a little squeaking sound like a screen door being opened on a hot summer day.

“They are pretty sure,” Boss said, “that you were in on it.”

Robinson Crusoe, on first reaching shore, could not have felt more abandoned and alone than I did at that moment.

“Don’t worry,” the college kid said. “We won’t get to listen to them.”

I finally found my voice. “Listen to them what?” I said, a half tone below “High-C.”

“Interrogate you,” he said in a grave voice honed by years of hazing fraternity pledges. “They are going to take you to the Police Station. That way they can just go ahead and lock you up if they decide to.”

“Lock me up for what?”

Boss said, “Aiding in a bank job is a pretty serious offense.” He told me that he had assured the agents that all his employees knew not to lock the bay at night. Mine was clearly a renegade action. With that, they all found something to do that didn’t include me. I moseyed around, bumping into things, until I finally found a quiet place to sit and await my doom.

Maybe prison wasn’t so bad, I thought. Maybe I could learn to sing there. Elvis did in some movie. Or maybe I could escape. As the minutes evaporated, so did my options, until only dark despair remained. Then I heard the sound.

It was the dark rumble of the FBI car’s powerful engine. The car came into view, lumbered alongside a gas pump, and stopped. It didn’t occur to me to attend it until I looked around and saw nobody else in sight. I was alone. The agent driving honked and it evoked the sound of a large creaking door closing on my life. I wandered out.

The driver rolled down the window and smiled. “Hey sport,” he said. “We drove this old gal a piece today so fill her up.”

“Fill her up?”

“Fill her up, and check the oil.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “Anything else?” I would get this thing over with, once and for all.

“Windshield’s dusty,” he said. “Oh…” Here it came. I froze. “They forgot to tell you but you don’t lock that bay door at night. Saves us some time and trouble.” With that, he turned to the other agent and began to compare notes. I moved to the gas pump.

As the pump hummed to life, my life hummed afresh. I even whistled. Then I saw three heads peer from the back of the station, laughing like they might never have another chance. I squeezed the pump handle like it was the hand of a lover, took in the smell of gasoline as if were the scent of roses, smiled at the three guys, and nodded. That was a good one, all right.

Youth

 

My Short Life of Crime

By Jimmie von Tungeln

 My father decided, the year I turned fifteen, that a summer job would provide just the catalyst through which to redirect me from a life of idle languor to one of resolute achievement. He was, he assured me, there to help. Little did he know that his efforts would nearly veer me into a life of crime.

It happened this way. Daddy procured for me a job at a “filling station” in downtown Pine Bluff, Arkansas. It was during the late 1950s and life was slow and predictable, particularly in the summer months. The station employed two full-time attendants plus me and a college student, the son of a multi-millionaire cotton farmer, a father who also saw work as curative. The college kid arrived at work each morning in a brand new Corvette Stingray that probably cost more than the annual salary of one of the regular workers. My sister dropped me off on her way to work at a bank in the family car, an old purple Pontiac my classmates dubbed “The Purple People-eater.” Life can be sorrowful for a high school kid with a color-blind father.

Social disparity aside, we were a happy crew. When we weren’t serving customers, we washed cars, the college kid and I. When there were no cars to wash, we greased vehicles that were hoisted on racks like kings on their thrones. When there were no cars to grease, we learned things that would, the older guys assured us, stand us in good stead in later life—like shooting craps, doing card tricks, and learning how to spot girls who lived “on the spicy side of life.” What, one might ask, could go wrong?

It had to do with the FBI.

Two Special Agents, both bachelors (I think maybe all the agents were then) roomed in a boarding house two blocks from the station. It was our privilege to maintain their vehicle, a powerful Ford, in peak condition from which to fight crime, ferret out the Communists lurking in Pine Bluff, and keep the region safe.

The agents left that car in one of our vehicle bays at night and that is where the trouble started.

During the day, the car sat on the street, ready for action in the event of a Communist uprising or a chase after known criminals. It came to pass that it was my lot one hot summer afternoon to move the vehicle from the daytime spot to the vehicle bay. Like a good scout, I drove the car into the bay, left the key in the ignition as I had been taught to do and, having been told not to forget to close the bay door, followed that instruction. Then I was careful to lock the bay from the inside.

By exhibiting such a high level of professionalism, I could already visualize being accepted as a Special Agent myself, with all the glory that such a life promised. Certainly I would achieve a grander post than a sleepy Southern town, maybe New York. Just wait.

What no one had told me was that, due to a lack of criminal activity and the sleepy nature of our city, the station owner had agreed that the vehicle bay door wouldn’t be locked at night, just closed. This presupposed that nobody would be stupid enough to prowl around where an FBI vehicle was parked.

Wouldn’t you know it? That night, the only bank robbery that I remember occurring during my entire time of growing up occurred. It was in a little farming town with a branch bank some thirty or so miles away.

I knew nothing about this until I slammed the door on “Old Purple” next morning, ending some argument with my sister, and walked into the station.

Somber can’t describe it. All three of my comrades were leaning against a counter looking at me as if I were carrying a violin case and a copy of Das Kapital. I nodded but not a single one of them nodded back. They just stared. Finally the one we called Boss spoke.

“Where were you last night?”

“Me? At home.”

“Can anyone prove that?”

I knitted my brow. What business was that of his? “Sure, the family. Why?”

“What time did they go to bed?”

He knew what time my parents went to bed. “With the chickens,” as they say down South.

“Your sister there?”

“No, she was on a date.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You better get your story straight.”

“My story?”

“Your story.”

“What,” I said, “on earth are you talking about?”

“Somebody robbed the bank at Sherrill last night, just as they were closing.”

“Really?”

“Really. Guess what else happened?”

“What?”

“Somebody locked the FBI car in the bay here and the FBI guys had to walk all the way back home and get the key or they might have gotten over there in time to catch the robbers.”

The weight of the world began to lower on me like one of our fully loaded vehicle hoists. I said nothing.

“Don’t leave,” Boss said.

“What do you mean, don’t leave?”

“The agents want to take you in for questioning when they get back.”

“Questioning? Why?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked where sunlight originated. “Because you are the one who locked the FBI car in the bay.”

I couldn’t speak. I tried but my vocal chords just made a little squeaking sound like a screen door being opened on a hot summer day.

“They are pretty sure,” Boss said, “that you were in on it.”

Robinson Crusoe, on first reaching shore, could not have felt more abandoned and alone than I did at that moment.

“Don’t worry,” the college kid said. “We won’t get to listen to them.”

I finally found my voice. “Listen to them what?” I said, a half tone below “High-C.”

“Interrogate you,” he said in a grave voice honed by years of hazing fraternity pledges. “They are going to take you to the Police Station. That way they can just go ahead and lock you up if they decide to.”

“Lock me up for what?”

Boss said, “Aiding in a bank job is a pretty serious offense.” He told me that he had assured the agents that all his employees knew not to lock the bay at night. Mine was clearly a renegade action. With that, they all found something to do that didn’t include me. I moseyed around, bumping into things, until I finally found a quiet place to sit and await my doom.

Maybe prison wasn’t so bad, I thought. Maybe I could learn to sing there. Elvis did in some movie. Or maybe I could escape. As the minutes evaporated, so did my options, until only dark despair remained. Then I heard the sound.

It was the dark rumble of the FBI car’s powerful engine. The car came into view, lumbered alongside a gas pump, and stopped. It didn’t occur to me to attend it until I looked around and saw nobody else in sight. I was alone. The agent driving honked and it evoked the sound of a large creaking door closing on my life. I wandered out.

The driver rolled down the window and smiled. “Hey sport,” he said. “We drove this old gal a piece today so fill her up.”

“Fill her up?”

“Fill her up, and check the oil.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “Anything else?” I would get this thing over with, once and for all.

“Windshield’s dusty,” he said. “Oh…” Here it came. I froze. “They forgot to tell you but you don’t lock that bay door at night. Saves us some time and trouble.” With that, he turned to the other agent and began to compare notes. I moved to the gas pump.

As the pump hummed to life, my life hummed afresh. I even whistled. Then I saw three heads peer from the back of the station, laughing like they might never have another chance. I squeezed the pump handle like it was the hand of a lover, took in the smell of gasoline as if were the scent of roses, smiled at the three guys, and nodded. That was a good one, all right.

 

Into the Depths

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER THIRTY-one

            “Hey sailor.” Tina Barrow looked from the paper she was grading and into Nelson’s eyes. “Are you stalking me or is that just a look of wonderment in your eyes?”

            Nelson ignored her. “Coffee?” he said.

            “I thought you would never ask,” she said, placing a red pen on the paper. She motioned toward the paper. “This poor child is sweating bullets trying to convince me that the modern Fundamentalist Mormons represent one end of a continuous arc of religious cultism that began with the Child-abusing Patriarch, Abraham.” She indicated that Nelson should sit.

            “So,” he said, “she condemns both?”

            “No,” she said, “she holds the FLDS boys accountable for their obsession with 14 year-old girls but lets old Abe get away clean with traumatizing his favorite son.” She shifted into a fake German accent. “He vas yust followink orders.” She resumed her normal voice. “It figures, don’t you think?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “These young folks today are a lot like their parents and grandparents when you delve into their neuroses.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “You wouldn’t,” she said. “You aren’t from these parts.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “As much as modern Southerners may claim to be free of religion, it sticks to them like the smell of death sticks to someone headed for the execution chamber.”

            Nelson didn’t respond, but waited.

            “When you are taught,” she said, “from the moment you first gain consciousness, that there is an invisible monster in the sky who will burn your little body in a fiery pit for all eternity if you cross him, no amount of education or rationality ever quite cleanses you of the primal fear of fire.”

            “That’s a little heavy for me this early in the morning,” Nelson said. “Is there a lesson there somewhere?”

            “Let’s just say the hard-core Mormon men either don’t think it’s a sin to swap their young daughters around, or they like it so much they will tolerate the fear of heat,” she said. She placed the paper on a stack to her right. “Speaking of which, you mentioned coffee?”

            “Come on,” he said, and she followed.

            Once seated in the student union, Nelson sipped his coffee and said, “Are you okay?”

            “And why shouldn’t I be, surrounded as I am by the future hopes of America?” She motioned around them.

            He allowed the implied cynicism to fade before answering. “Cryptic notes deliver more than their stated message,” he said.

            “Are you talking about our broken date?”

            “Was it a date?”

            “It was something,” she said. “I’m not sure what.” She drank her coffee and watched the activity of the students for a moment. “They don’t have a clue, do they?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “Their worry list is so limited.”

            He sat his coffee cup on the table before them and studied her. “Their worry list?”

            “Yeah,” she said. “They have to find their way from here to the next class. They have to find their way from there to their girlfriend or boyfriend’s place. They have to find their way from the Raman Noodles to the condoms at Walmart, and, on rare occasions they might be asked to find their ass with both hands.” She drank more coffee and smiled. “Pretty limited worry list if you ask me.”

            “What about,” he said, “all those papers and tests you and the others require of them.”

            She faked a look of incredulity. “Trust me,” she said, “they don’t spend a lot of time worrying about those.” She leaned back in her chair and lifted her cup in mock salute. “Bless you my children, for yours is the kingdom of heaven.”

            Nelson took on a look of resignation. Placing his cup on the table with some force, he said, “Do you get into these states often?”

            She eyed him with a cold look. “You don’t have many regrets, do you sailor?”

            “I’m willing to be your friend,” he said. “I don’t regret that.”

            “You told me you’ve never been married,” she said.

            “That’s correct.”

            “You’ve never stood before a crowd and promised to love and honor someone.”

            “No,” he said, “I never have.”

            “So you don’t have ghosts, ghosts that call to you from the grave?”

            “It was a mistake to intrude on you,” he said. “I’ll be going.” He shoved his coffee cup aside and started to rise.

            “Don’t,” she said. He did.

            When he left the campus an hour later, he drove north to the office of the state crime lab. Sheriff Love had given him directions and a brief history of the grounds. “The area used to be called ‘crazy graveyard’ when I was a kid,” he said. “It is where they buried patients from the state mental hospital that had no family connections. We would bring girls to Little Rock and go there to park,” he said. “Of course, my girl and I would just sit and discuss history projects, Sunday School assignments, and plans for the future. But some of those boys would threaten to leave the girls there if they didn’t … well, you know.” He stopped, but then added, “They used to tell us they buried the corpses upright to save space”

            “Sheriff,” Nelson had said, “why are you telling me all this?”

            “Just to let you know that we don’t respect our dead at times the way we should. We can learn a lot from them if we listen.”

            Nelson had said, “I knew that already.” Then the Sheriff had called Little Rock and arranged an appointment for Nelson.

            Later, he was ushered into a small well lighted office. A young man wearing dark trousers, a checked shirt, paisley tie, and lab coat welcomed him. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties and had a ruddy complexion, pale blue eyes, and an unruly shock of red hair.  “Ben Forsythe,” he said. “I’m a forensic specialist, and you are from the Armistead County Sheriff’s Office.”

            Nelson extended his hand, “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Deputy.”

            They shook. “We have the report on the young girl,” Forsythe said, “the one murdered outside Connorville.” He pushed a large brown envelope from his side of the desk toward Nelson. “Your county has been keeping us busy of late,” he said.
            “Oh?”

            “Nasty truck accident the other day. Couple young guys playing ‘how fast can this old pickup go,’ and they found out the hard way.”

            “I didn’t work that case,” Nelson said. “Find anything?”

            Forsythe frowned and thought. “We normally can’t discuss cases with just anyone,” he said. “But since you are from the same office …,” he stopped. “Oh hell,” he said, “I’ve been curious ever since. Do you folks have a big methamphetamine problem?”

            “Doesn’t every county?”

            “Sure,” Forsythe said, “but I mean a really big one.”

            “Why do you ask?”

            “That kid’s clothing was soaked in it,” he said. “None in his bloodstream, but you could have stayed awake for weeks just sniffing his clothes.”

            “Does Sheriff Love know this?”

            “Yeah,” Forsythe said. “Didn’t he tell you and the other deputies about it?”

            “No.”

            “Odd,” Forsythe said. He seemed to catch himself. “Anyway, there is the report on the young girl. Not much … died from a single gunshot wound entering her frontonasal suture, her, uh, forehead, and exiting the anterior.”

            “One shot?”

            “Yes.”

            “Only one?”

            “Only one. Why do you ask?”

            “Somehow I had the impression that multiple shots were involved.”

            “Oh there were,” Forsythe said, “multiple shots fired into the plywood board to which the body was attached. Some were quite close but only one hit her.”

            “Oh hell,” Nelson said.

            “Oh hell is right. It appears that the perpetrators took multiple shots at her with different weapons, possibly to torture her.”

            “That’s in the report?” Nelson’s face displayed shock.

            “Yes,” Forsythe said. “Of course it is.” Then he paused and stared at Nelson. “Say,” he said, “just how long have you been a law enforcement officer?”

            “Not long,” Nelson said, “not long at all.” He recovered his composure.

            “And before?”

            “United States Navy.”

            “So you’ve never had to deal with reports of violent murders, I suppose.”

            “I’ve never had to tell a young girl’s parents that her daughter was used for target practice before she was executed.” He glanced at the folder. “Calibers involved?”

            “Multiple,” Forsythe said. “All the way from the small handguns women carry in their purses to 38 calibers and nine millimeters.”

            “And the one that killed her?”

            “One of the small ones, a 22 long rifle, probably a Walther P22. They are pretty popular around here.”

            “Her personal belongings,” Nelson said, “when might they be released?”

            “Depends,” Forsythe said, “on a lot of factors. But I can tell you there weren’t many, just some ragged clothes. The body was washed around in a violent rainstorm, you know.”

            “I know,” Nelson said, “but a young man, a friend of Abbey’s, gave her the necklace she was wearing and it would be a great favor if he could get it back some day.”

            Forsythe thought. “Don’t remember it,” he said. “I’ll check but let me tell you ….” He stopped.

            Nelson said, “Tell me what?”

            Forsythe looked toward the door. “Mind closing that?” he said.

            Nelson rose and did what he was asked. He came back and sat, but didn’t say anything.

            Forsythe drew a deep breath. “Can I trust you?”

            “Yes, if you can help me find Abbey’s killer.”

            “The body of the deceased wasn’t handled initially by Sheriff Love’s office.”

            “I know,” Nelson said. “The Connorville Police Department was the first responder.”

            “Do you know anything about that department, or the city for that matter?”

            “I’m learning.”

            “Then you may not be surprised to know that anything of value worn by a murder victim found in that jurisdiction may not find its way here.”

            “You mean it may have been stolen.”

            Forsythe didn’t answer. He simply stared at Nelson with no expression on his face.

            “I see,” Nelson said. “We may never find it.”

            “You have the report,” Forsythe said. “If you or the Sheriff has any questions, please feel free to call. Feel free to call the pathologist as well, but I did most of the work. She just supervises, reviews, and approves.”

            Nelson rose. “You have been a great help,” he said. He extended his hand and the two shook again. Nelson said, “I wouldn’t want your job.”

            “Nor I yours,” Forsythe said. As Nelson turned to leave, Forsythe said, “By the way, you didn’t tell me what you did in the Navy. My dad was a machinist mate during Vietnam.”

            “Not much,” Nelson said. “I spent most of my time straightening out messes that other people made. And sometimes I made messes that others had to clean up.”

           As Nelson reached his truck, his cell phoned beeped, announcing a text message. “You were a great help,” it said. “I think I may be exorcised of ghosts, at least for the present. If you are game, I think the kimono may drop tonight.”

Friends

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Our hero is beginning his investigation into a strange murder.

After leaving the Sheriff’s office, Nelson turned onto the old highway and headed west. When Charlie looked at him, Nelson said, “One more stop, to see an old friend.”

“Hey, you’re driving,” Charlie said. “I’m just happy I’m not sleeping on a riverbank.”

“We all have things to be happy about,” Nelson said. “The Sheriff seemed happy, didn’t he?”

“He wasn’t always?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Charlie said, “When are you going to tell me about this great adventure you seem to have had in Armistead?”

“Soon,” Nelson said. “Maybe next year.”

Charlie leaned back and watched the empty fields glide by, appearing like great flat cakes glazed with the March rains. “Crops going to be late this year,” he said. “They like to have corn planted by now.”

“Not much they can do to change the weather,” Nelson said.

“Maybe sacrifice a virgin,” Charlie said. “That’s what our ancestors did.”

“That reminds me,” Nelson said, “did you tell your friend why we are coming to see him?”

“Just that we were interested in the kind of folks that live in Connorville.”

“What did he say to that?”

“You don’t want me to repeat it,” Charlie said.

Before he could continue, Nelson pulled off the highway into a large complex announcing itself simply as “Barker’s” and offering groceries, gas, feed, and hunting supplies. He parked his truck next to a Lincoln Navigator and they climbed out and walked toward the entrance. As Nelson stepped onto the porch, the door swung open and a striking woman in gray business apparel stepped through, almost running into him. Recognition struck them both at once and they stopped in their tracks.

“Morgan,” Nelson said.

“Hello Gideon.”

Neither spoke for several seconds. Finally the woman said, “I heard you were back in the area.” She glanced at Charlie. Nelson found his voice, “This is Charlie Winters,” he said, nodding toward him. “Morgan Fowler,” he said as he turned back toward Morgan. She extended her hand to Charlie and they shook.

“Good to see you,” Nelson said. “I hope you are doing well.”

She smiled. “In business now, I’m doing quite well,” she said. “I don’t imagine you’ve heard, but I run the bank now.”

Nelson looked surprised, “Run the bank?”

“For a fact,” she said. She looked a Charlie and back at Nelson. “I don’t know if you heard but the last officers are no longer able to. Someone must, and the regulators decided I could do it.”

“That was a good decision,” Nelson said. “What brings you out to Barker’s?”

She reddened. “I figured you would be stopping by eventually.” She looked at Charlie again. “I left something for you.” Before Nelson could respond, she said, “Got to run. Nice seeing you.” She nodded toward Charlie. “Sir,” she said. With that, she brushed by them and hurried to her car.

            Charlie turned toward Nelson and started to say something. Before he could, Nelson said, “Not one word,” and he led him through the door.

            Immediately, a booming voice shouted, “Well fry my cracklin’s if it ain’t Boats. My blessings will not cease on this day.”

            Charlie looked to see a stout African-American standing at the register. He immediately came around the counter and rushed toward Nelson. The two embraced as Charlie stood by.

            “Jack me off with a bilge pump and call me a ‘snipe,’ if the United States Navy ain’t docked,” the man said as he stood back and looked Nelson over with a broad smile.

            “Hey Elvis,” Nelson said, “and the Marines too. Meet Charlie Winters. Charlie … Elvis Barker.”

            “You a jarhead?” Elvis said, pumping Charlie’s hand.

            “Got papers to show it,” Charlie said, “right next to my proof of insanity file.”

            “You a friend of his?” Elvis said, indicating Nelson. “If you are, that’s all the proof on insanity you need.” He turned to Nelson. “Boats,” he said, “what the hell you been up to?”

            “Five-ten and holding,” Nelson said. “How about you?”

            “Still fully rigged and on course,” Elvis said. “Come on over to the ‘Collusion Corner.’” He led them to a back table of an area set aside for dining. They sat and the two friends looked at one another.

            Then Elvis spoke. “Town ain’t been the same since you left. Hell, we are flourishing now.”

            “I saw that,” Nelson said. “We just left Sheriff Love’s office.”

            “How about him?” Elvis said. “We can’t call him ‘Old Tub of Love’ anymore.”

            “He looks good,” Nelson said, “and so do you.”

            “Hell man,” Elvis said, “hard work and a piece of ass on odd numbered months keeps a man healthy.” The three laughed.

            Elvis looked at Charlie and said, “How do you know this fool?”

            Before Charlie could answer, Nelson said, “Charlie is staying with me for a while.”

            “Roommate or boarder?”

            “Fellow vet,” Nelson said. “He has a dysfunctional wife.”

            “Hell, can you make room for me too?” Elvis said. The three laughed again. Then Elvis turned to Nelson and became serious. “Are you planning on helping my son?”

            “If I can. That’s why I dropped by here.”

            Elvis said, “To tell me?”

            “No, to see if you knew much about Abbey.”

            Elvis studied a fingernail. “Not much. I met her a couple of times and she seemed like a sweet, bright girl, not as much of a geek as my son, but like him in many ways.”

            Nelson said, “What ways?”

            “Serious, focused, and knowing what they wanted from life.”

            “Was she adventurous, for lack of a better word?”

            “Adventurous? How?”

            “The Connorville Police call her death gang related.”

            “That’s bullshit,” Elvis said. “Bullshit.”

            Nelson said, “You sound certain.”

            “You don’t carry a straight A average in the Genius School and swim like a dolphin if you are fucking around with gangs, Boats.”

            “Good point,” Nelson said. “Is there anything else you know about her.”

            “Smart, beautiful, talented, young with her whole life ahead of her. What else you need to know?”

            “Did Martin ever mention any problems she had? I’ll ask him but he gets pretty emotional talking about it. That’s why I started with you.”

            Elvis stood up and walked to the wall of soft drink coolers. He looked back, “Diet Cokes okay?” The two nodded and he took three cans from a cooler and walked back with them. He sat the drinks in front of the two and the three of them opened them. “Cups?” Elvis said. The others shook their heads. Elvis raised his for a toast and the others responded. “To girls in every port,” he said. They touched cans.

            Elvis looked away and then back. “I know she had been pretty upset about the disappearance of her best friend,” Elvis said. “Abbey had.”

            Nelson said, “Disappearance.”

            “A runaway they say. That’s why I can’t imagine Abbey ever doing drugs.”

            “You’re going to have to explain,” Nelson said.

            “Bridgette Thompson is a white girl who was on Abbey’s swim team,” Nelson said, “and they had been best friends for several years.”

            “And she ran away from home?”

            “No, she ran away from a camp for wayward girls. But first she had gotten on drugs, you know—the kind that helps athletes.”

            Nelson nodded and said, “Performance enhancers.”

            “That was all at first,” Elvis said. “She wanted to be as good an athlete as Abbey, which wasn’t going to happen. So she, according to my son, managed to get hold of some ‘pump you ups’ in an effort to catch up with her friend.”

            “And?”

            “Those drugs agitated her, so she turned to pot to calm her down between times.”

            “And then?”

            “Martin says her parents found out and tried a number ways to straighten her out. So did Abbey. Nothing worked so they took her to this rehab place over in the next county. It’s called ‘The Ransom Center’ or something like that.”

            Nelson said, “Let me guess. She ran away.”

            “Bingo,” Elvis said. “Martin says they took her there with another friend who was onto drugs thinking they would support one another and both be rehabbed.”

            “And it didn’t work?”

            “Worked for the other girl according to Martin. She’s back home now, he says, and doing well with her life. But Bridgette ran off after two weeks. Ain’t nobody heard from her since.”

            Charlie said, “Can I ask a question?”

            “Sure,” Elvis said, “but I’ve told about all I know about the late Abbey Stubblefield.”

            “Maybe you don’t know,” Charlie said, “but I wonder what Abbey was supposed to be doing the night she was killed.”

            “Nobody knows,” Elvis said. “They say she had taken the family car that afternoon and said she had some errands to run. Never came back. They found the car in Little Rock three days later. By then they had found her body in Connorville.”

            “So,” Charlie said, “that’s one of the reasons the local police believes the murder was committed in Little Rock.”

            “Man,” Elvis said, “I haven’t a clue what those fucking police in Connorville think, except as it regards one thing.” He looked at the two men and indicated the conversation had ended.

            They reminisced  for a while, their thoughts broken several times by customers and Elvis moving back and forth between the counter and where the others were sitting. When the store was empty, Nelson finished his soda and banged the empty can on the table. “Well,” he said, “guess that’s enough interrogation for one day.”

            “Glad to help if I can,” Elvis said. “I hope you can catch the motherfucker, or motherfuckers, who did it.”

            “Don’t get your hopes up,” Nelson said. “By the way, did I tell you that I’m going to go to college?”

            “Get the fuck out of here,” Elvis said. “No shit. What you going to study, pussy or partying?”

            “Literature,” Nelson said. “And by the way, I met someone you probably know—Millard’s nephew.”

            “Brains?” Elvis said. “You met Jackson?”

            “He’s my advisor.”

            “Watch him,” Elvis said. “He can be as tricky as his uncle, and just as smart. I always suspicioned that he might have hit a lick in there for old Martin.” He smiled. “The old lady denies it but he didn’t get them brains from me.”

            “No, maybe his mother,” Nelson said, rising.

            “Hell, she married me so she ain’t no rocket scientist either, even if her son is gonna be.” He rose then raised finger. “And speaking of pussy, I got something for you and I ain’t even had a chance to steam it open yet.” He walked the register area, reached under the counter and produced an envelope. “Somebody left this here in case I saw you and you’ll never guess who.”

            “Oh yes I will,” Nelson said, taking the envelope. “I ran into her on the way in.”

            “That woman gets tears in her eyes ever time she says your name,” Elvis said. “Here.” He handed the envelope to Nelson and looked at Charlie. “Did he ever tell you about getting the best piece of ass ever had in Armistead County?”

            Charlie started to speak but Nelson raised a finger toward him. “Not a word,” he said in a mock threat. “Not one word.” Charlie nodded. The two shook hands with Elvis and started toward the door. Just as they reached it, Elvis yelled from the counter.

            “One more thing,” he said walking over to them.

            Nelson turned toward him. “And what would that be Detective Columbo?”

            “I just remembered. Martin did say that Abbey had started going to church before she got killed.”

            “He mentioned that to me,” Nelson said. “Did he tell you why?”

            “No,” Elvis said. “It was odd because neither she nor Martin was what you would call religious. Bothers the wife, but she hopes it may just be a phase.”

            “Do you have any idea why she suddenly turned into a churchgoer?”

            Elvis shook his head, “As my granny would say, son, you jist gonna have to go to de Lawd wif dat.”

Friday Fiction

Here's one that started me off on writing a book.

JURY DUTY

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            “How do you like jury duty so far?” the man next to Clyde Olsen asked. They had been cleared for the next case and were waiting in the Jury Room—a narrow space stuffy and thick with cigarette smoke. A ceiling fan swirled the smoke around in the heat, and Clyde could hear the sound of chairs scraping and people talking in the courtroom. It was still early in the morning but nearing time for the trial to begin.

            “Oh I like it fine,” he said. “I don’t get out much—gives me a chance to get away from work and do something useful.”

            “Tell you the truth,” the other man said. “I’d rather be fishing.”

            They both laughed. Clyde eyed the man. He was trim and well-dressed. His suit was cheap but new and the man was clean-shaven and short-haired. Clyde saw the Service Pin in the man’s lapel. “You been in the service?” he asked.

            “Seventy-ninth Infantry. Landed at Normandy on D-day plus four. With it all the way to
Germany.” He paused. “How about you?”

            Clyde smiled and looked away. “Had two kids, one of them just a baby, so I was exempted until the last few months. They finally called me in January and I was set to be taken but then Germany surrendered. This your first jury duty?”

“First time. Hope it’s the last,” the other said.

“Oh, I’ve been here before,” Clyde said. “During the war they were short of men to choose from so I got called pretty often. Armistead, Arkansas ain’t a big town, you know. Myself? I kinda enjoy it. Mostly bootleggers and wife beaters so far.”

“This your first murder case?”

“Yep, and I understand it’s an open and shut affair.”

“Open and shut. That’s what I hear.”

Just then, the bailiff walked through the door and announced that it was time for the trial and asked if anyone had any questions.

“Will they feed us dinner?” asked a thin young man with a large Adam’s apple.

“We may be through before noon even gets here,” the bailiff laughed and said.

“Shucks,” I’m already hungry,” the man said to a ripple of laughter from the group.

The jury filed out and Clyde found himself looking down the row of attorneys’ tables. At the farthest one sat a man in a wrinkled suit and next to him another who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, wearing khaki pants and a white shirt and looking for all the world as if he might bolt for the door at any moment—the defendant.

The crowd was small, basically divided into two groups of five or so each. Clyde noticed a couple of children but movement drew his attention back to the defendant. He had turned in his seat and was looking into the crowd, his neck pulsing from the effort. The man in the suit nudged him and nodded toward the front as the Judge entered the room. The crowd rose and remained standing until the Judge sat and the bailiff announced that court was in session. After those in the room had seated themselves, it became quiet except for the clicking of ceiling fans. The judge nodded and the trial began.

As had been predicted, it appeared to be a simple affair—a case of a tragic set of circumstances and a youthful and horrible lapse of judgment. There was first a bar, where a young married man should never have been in the first place. Then there was an argument over something so silly and meaningless as to almost make the jury laugh. There were threats and, later—after feelings should have cooled—there was violence on a man who was walking home alone.  Through the morning, there was enough evidence and testimony to convince any juror that the defendant had caused the death of an innocent man.

The only balancing weight would be the sincerity of the youthful defendant when it came time for him to testify. Though he swore his innocence, he had no way of proving it. The jury watched without emotion as the prosecutor destroyed, one by one, his protests.

Then it was noon and the Jury was escorted to a local diner to be fed. They were instructed not to talk about the case until they returned but there were few who didn’t whisper about the scope of the tragedy.

Clyde sat next to the man with whom he had talked earlier. Clyde expressed his opinion that a man would stay out of trouble as long as he minded his own business.

“There ain’t a thing outside a man’s family that ought to concern him,” Clyde said, then added, “Unless it’s something like this that somebody has to do.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” the other man said. “I don’t much care for being on a jury.”

Clyde seemed surprised. He lit a cigarette and said. “Why, we are making sure justice is served. Don’t you think it’s our duty?”

“I reckon. I’ve just had enough of duty to last me awhile.” The man rose and headed outside to take the air.

Clyde turned to the man seated on his other side. “Ain’t he the one, though?”

After lunch the man in the wrinkled suit questioned two people that had been in the bar when the argument started. He seemed to be building up a case that the defendant had been goaded beyond some human breaking point. Then he produced a short parade of witnesses who swore to the goodness and honesty of the defendant.

After that, each lawyer gave a speech, both of which the jurors seemed to find boring and it was over.

Back in the jury room, the heat was intense and none of the jurors seemed energetic about discussing what they had just heard. Most of the conversation centered on the tragic waste and the role of circumstances in a person’s life. On the first vote they, one and all, found the man guilty of murder. It was second-degree murder, but still murder, and the jurors were solemn as they waited for their decision to be delivered to the Judge.

Clyde didn’t look at the defendant when he was seated again in the jury box. He and the other jurors stared at the judge without moving. It was now late in the afternoon and time for them to go home, having done their duty in the only way possible.

Shortly, the ceremony was over. The jury foreman announced the verdict. The defendant declined to speak, simply lowering his head and waiting for the announcement. The judge handed it down and two bailiffs appeared from nowhere to handcuff the prisoner. The judged thanked the jurors and dismissed them.

Clyde had begun to stand when it happened.

It was just a sound but one like he had never heard. Vicious and unreal, it pushed him back into his chair. He almost threw his hands to his ears but this wouldn’t have stopped it. Nothing would have. He turned toward the back of the room, jerking his head like the first movement of an animal in danger.

From the crowd a woman was screaming. High and piercing, it was first just a sound of anguish torn from an unimaginable depth of feeling like someone had punched a hole in a pressurized tank. Then it formed along “Nooooooooo…” A quick breath and then again, “No, no, please God no.” The sounds tore past Clyde like winds in a storm.

They were from a woman dressed in a shabby, floral-patterned dress. She was thin, and wore a pair of glasses that dominated her face. She kept screaming and tried to move toward the prisoner but she was being held by the group of people who had sat with her during the trial.

“Oh God… don’t let them take him,” she screamed again, trying to break loose from those who were holding her. They held her, though, and her screaming turned to wet sobs as arms closed around her.

            The arms didn’t stop a boy of about five years of age.  He tore from the group and, vaulting a low partition, raced to where the prisoner stood and wrapped his arms around one leg.

            “Daddy, daddy,” he yelled. The sound echoed from ceiling to wall and seemed to be strengthened and spun by the ceiling fans. “Please don’t take my daddy. Please, please!”

            He sobbed into the khakis of the prisoner who stared at him with surprise. The entire courtroom stopped. Even the judge had turned to see what was happening.

            One of the bailiffs who had been holding the prisoner’s arm let go and said to him, “Don’t move.” He moved around the man and began pulling the boy loose.

            “Oh daddy, don’t, don’t, daddy don’t,” the boy said. The bailiff wrenched him free from the man’s legs and dragged him backwards, the little arms flailing in circles like the blades of a windmill, as if he might generate enough wind to unite him with his father.

            “Daddy, daddy,” he sobbed. His entire head had turned red and tears flowed through the redness and then were slung away as he shook his head from side to side to emphasis the “No, no” he voiced. His cries joined those of the woman to form a sound that flooded the room.  “Don’t take our daddy,” the woman yelled, but the strength was going from her. There was a rough sound as the bailiff and another man, each holding an arm, dragged the young boy backwards along the hardwood floor with the heels of a ragged pair of brogans scraping the floor.

            Through it all, the prisoner had not moved, nor had the judge or the jurors. They all watched the scene as if it were occurring in some strange theatrical performance. They kept watching as the woman and boy were led from the room, their faces still turned toward the prisoner and still entreating someone—the judge, the jury, the bailiffs, maybe God himself. It was a general and non-directed plea for mercy.

            Then the courtroom was quiet again. Still no one moved for what seemed like minutes. Then the bailiffs began leading the prisoner toward the side door. Just when the jurors thought the spectacle might be over, the young man broke the silence with a series of hoarse and guttural sobs that sounded as if they were erupting from the bowels of the earth itself. It was as if the shaking of his body might cause the entire building to fall.

            “Come on now,” a bailiff said. “Don’t let these folks see you like this.” The man tried to nod but the sobs conquered him. They led him from the room in that state.

            Now the jurors stirred, as if they belonged to one great organism, and filed from their seats. As they moved toward the door, Clyde’s companion turned to him.

            “Maybe I’ll see you again some day… at another trial.”

            Clyde’s eyes seemed to be trying to focus. His face was pale and slack, like a balloon from which the air had been released. His mouth moved several times before sound emerged.

            “Never,” he said. “Not me, never again. No… not ever.”

Started me on a book.