Ralph Sûreté Part 1

Sorry I'm so late! I only just got back from Utah. Anyway the detective from the city has finally arrived. Addie, I couldn't remember what Ophelia's father's name is, so I'm leaving the officer's name blank for now, if you tell me his name, I'll put it in. Also I couldn't remember if you named the Deputy. Ralph has been in town for two days so any reactionary pieces you post will have to have happened during those two days. Hope you like it!

Ralph Sûreté Part 1

The refrain in Elvis Costello’s This is Hell comes to mind as I drive down the deserted road that passed for Main Street in this damn town. I’ve been banished here for two days.

This is Hell, this is Hell

I’m sorry to tell you

It never gets better or worse

But you get used to it, after a spell

For heaven is hell in reverse

Except for the getting used to it bit, it’s a pretty damn good portrayal. Figures I would get stuck with this stupid case. I swear Captain Jones has it in for me. If I don’t catch the psycho murderer running loose I may die from over exposure to this damn town. There is no Starbucks here. There is a store that sells only porcelain figurines and no Starbucks. I’m gonna die here. I miss the city. I want coffee. I think I’m going into withdrawal. I had a dream about coffee last night. It was wonderful, but then I woke up. God, I sound like a whining five-year-old. Like I said: Withdrawal.

I pull up in front of the tiny police station and park my sedan next to a rusty police cruiser. I enter the building, and Deputy Ben Johnson looks up.

“Hey, Detective Sir-etty.”

“It’s pronounced Syr-taeh.” How many times have I told you this? “Where’s Officer ________?”

“______ is with his daughter, Ophelia.”

“Right. Ben, if you could hand me the file on the homicides, I would like to review it again.” And the sooner I solve this case, the sooner I can get the hell out of here.

Ben nods and hands me the case file. “The murderer sure is a deranged madman.”

I try to ignore that the man is ogling at my suit, I’m sure he’s never seen one before, and get to reading.

This is Hell, this is Hell

Damn it, now I have that song stuck in my head.

I’ve been over this file so often over the last two days I could probably recite it word for word. This case bothers me. And for reasons besides its location. See, I’ve had some experience with deranged madmen, and it had been bothering me how these murders happened. In one case I had, the murderer was killing bald, Caucasian men in their forties, turned out he had a boss who fired him that fit that description. Another case I had, the murderer was killing prostitutes and he put red lipstick on each of the corpse’s lips. My point is there is always some connecting factor. The victims in this case all appear to have been killed in overdramatic ways, but none of the ways are really connecting. I page through the file again. Suddenly it occurs to me that something’s missing.

“Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the autopsy?”

“Isn’t it in there? Hang on,” he riffles through some paper on the cluttered desk. “Here ya go.”

I look through the autopsy. I love that moment when it suddenly makes sense.

See, all the victims appear to have been murdered in a horrific, over-dramatic manner. The last one, a Pastor John Hart, was apparently beaten unconscious, and then died from either the smoke fumes or the flames when the perpetrator set his house on fire. The keywords here are ‘appear’ and ‘apparently.’ The murderer is trying to give the appearance of insanity, and not doing such a terrific job. The only real connecting factor is that all the victims happen to live nearby. I’m guessing the murderer wants to cover up one murder with other murders. But who is the target victim? Has the murder killed him yet? Or does he still need to?

“Ben?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The murderer isn’t a psychopath.”

“How do you figure that?” Ben asks, rubbing his eyes, sleepily.

“Have you seen the autopsy report?”

“Naw, ______ and I figured we’d skip it. Anyone can see how they died,” Ben stretched and yawned.

Of course they didn’t read the autopsy. “You should have read the autopsy.”

“So some expert in a lab can tell me that Eli was hung?” Ben says sarcastically.

Hey, I can be sarcastic to, Ben. “No, so some expert in a lab can tell you that Eli didn’t die because he was hung. So some expert can tell you he was shot twice in the chest with a .45 automatic. So some expert can tell you that all the victims were killed with a gun.”

Ben knocks over an empty mayo jar that was serving as a pencil holder. “They were shot?! But… what?”

“The killer was giving you a show, Ben. He wanted to give the appearance of a psychopath.” Ben looks at me mutely.

“Would you mind looking up who, in this town, owns a .45 automatic?”

Ben snaps out of it. Great. Soon as we find and arrest the murderer I can get the hell out of here. My dream of Starbucks is soon to come true.

Azalea, Part Eight

“Would you like some more potatoes, Caleb?”

“No.”

“Hannah?”

“No, thanks.”

“Elizabeth?”

“I’m full.”

“I’d love some, Azalea—those are yummy.”

I slowly and deliberately rotate my body towards the offending sound, my left eyelid twitching with images of smacking Jezebel upside the head with the hot spatula currently clenched in my hand. Why is this monstrous fiend tainting my dining room table with her hideous immorality? Why is she devouring my family’s supper like it’s a complimentary Thanksgiving dinner?

“I adore your cooking, Azalea,” she tells me cheerfully as I grudgingly scoop seconds onto her plate. “Thank you so much for letting me eat with you! You didn’t have to go through all of this trouble for me.” Okay, reality check: I didn’t go through “all of this trouble” for her. I didn’t even know she was coming until she showed up at the front door thanking me for the invitation—or, rather, Warwick’s invitation. It’s a good thing I was planning for leftovers. Or maybe that’s a bad thing; there wouldn’t have been enough to accommodate her otherwise.

Oblivious to the poisonous glare I’m directing at her blindingly pink lips as they chew what was supposed to be tomorrow’s lunch, she compliments, “This is delicious. How do you cook them?”

“They’re just roasted in olive oil…and garlic…and thyme…” I mumble, scooting my fork across my half-eaten plate.

“And the chicken?”

“It’s a Greek recipe,” I answer after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s marinated in yogurt.”

“Mmm, I thought I tasted Greek yogurt.” Nodding, she continues, “What’s your secret for the green beans?”

Okay, seriously? Is my husband not enough for her? Is she trying to steal my meager culinary skills now, too?

I’m considering telling her that I boil them in donkey intestines before Warwick intercedes, “Parsley and basal, right Azalea?”

“Yup,” I affirm through clenched teeth.

There’s blissful silence for a few moments as everyone either chomps noisily or gulps down a glass of wine (I’m the latter), and I take the chance to glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. Just one more hour until we have to be at the church to mourn last night’s loss. I can survive an hour…unless, of course, the murderer decides to break into the house and kill us all like he did Pastor John.

As I’m told, John was eating his own dinner just before death arrived on his doorstep—literally. And yet somehow Warwick thought it fitting to commemorate the poor man with a nice “family” supper.

On the bright side, due to pure physical impossibility, Ophelia’s name has been cleared from her father’s daunting list of suspects. The public has miraculously realized that unless she inherited magical powers that allow her to commit crimes from behind steel bars, she’s not guilty, and contrary to popular big-city belief, we Midwesterners aren’t big on witch-hunts. That’s more of a European thing.

For a few measly seconds, I’m able to pretend that I’m not sitting next to a lying, cheating bastard on one side and his imbecilic mistress on the other, but that heavenly vision is eventually broken by piggish groans of satisfaction.

“I’m stuffed,” Jezebel announces, planting within my head a daydream of fattening her up like Hansel and Gretel and tossing her in my gingerbread oven.

Good God. I’m starting to sound like the murderer.

Patting his rounded stomach, Warwick glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “You did a good job on the chicken this time. It wasn’t as dry as last week’s.”

“Thanks.” I think my sarcasm is lost on him.

He nods as if to say, “You’re very welcome,” but instead asks, “What’s for dessert?”

My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in an effort to strangle him with my optic nerves. I just cooked that entire dinner for him and his slut, and he has the audacity to ask for another course? Since when do we even have a family dessert, anyway? And why the heck should it be my responsibility to bake a freakin’ soufflé for his girlfriend?

I’m sure my face is white with rage as I calmly rise from my seat to return to the kitchen for vanilla ice cream and gingersnap cookies, and possibly a bottle of cyanide sauce for the other adults in the room. Why, for Christ’s sake, did the serial killer pick the pastor’s house and not City Hall?

Madelina, Part 6

I never considered myself the most holy person. My family didn’t regularly attend church, nor did we proclaim ourselves of one single religion. So it sort of struck me as odd when I discovered the next murder victim. 

Ophelia was being held in custody. Or so I heard. And unless she magically escaped, I somehow doubted she killed this person. 

A part of me really wanted to go visit her. Even though we didn’t know each other that well, I still felt obligated to do so; even if only to assure her that I belived she was innocent. 

And that’s how I found myself redirecting the now daily walk I took towards where Ophelia was being kept. I was so caught up in thoughts of what I would say to her, when suddenly I saw it. 

A house should’ve been there. I recognized that immediately, and for a moment, that was about all that processed for me. It was the charred remains, the burnt structure of what was once a home. I knew immediately from the close proximity it shared with the nearby church that it was the priest’s home. It had been burned to the ground.

The priest was dead. Even he wasn’t safe from these horrific attacks.

And I was pretty sure that unless Ophelia magically escaped, she did not commit this one.

I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. I couldn’t even bear being in the same vicinity of this.

I didn’t even bother going to see Ophelia now. I ran and ran and didn’t stop until I safely reached home again. 

Madelina, Part 5

When I woke up the following morning, it took me a moment to process why I had this sickening fear pressing on me.

            And then it hit me.

            The bonfire. The sparks. Screaming. Running. The cow—the disgusting, disfigured, burnt corpse of mammoth proportions in the bonfire; our bonfire. A tradition sacred for years in this hellhole of a town, but a tradition nonetheless. And someone had screwed with it.

            All I had wanted was an escape. Albeit a mental one at that, but simply an escape. I had thought the fall festival would give that to me, but apparently not. The town had still been in shock after the unexpected murder, but everyone had still been excited for the festival. I think they had all been looking for an escape too.

            Maybe a walk would be good for me. Yes, a nice long walk through the streets (and far away from the site of the festival) would suit me. Some fresh air would certainly clear my mind.

            I stepped outside into the early fall day and the sun greeted me with its sparkling rays smoothly gliding over the earth. Normally happy scenery only evoked the opposite feeling in me, but after the past couple of days I would take anything happy.

            It was just a little stroll through the neighborhood. Nothing much; I planned on returning home very soon. But although I had only been dealing with this weirdness for two days, somehow I wasn’t surprised when I heard the scream.

            It took me a moment the realize the scream was directed at me and it wasn’t much of a scream of fright…more of an exclamation to get my attention. Of course when I saw the expression on my neighbor’s face, there was definitely fear there.

            “What?” I asked, slightly annoyed. If I had to hear a recounted experience of last night’s bonfire I swear I would strangle someone.

            The woman who had called my attention and now answered was certainly one of my neighbors, although she lived farther down so unlike the closer ones she had never had a reason to call the police on me or my mom before. We were still on good terms, in other words. She was middle-aged, lived alone, and I could never remember her name.

            “Eli, h-he was h-hanged in Farmer Harris’ barn!” she exclaimed, fear making her voice tremble.

            Now this took me a moment to process and also to remember who Eli was. Before the shock had even fully consumed me, I allowed it to take hold of my voice as I cried, “What?!” So very profound, I know, but there really wasn’t much of a response one could give to this news.

            She nodded quickly and stammered out the next words. “He was found this morning with a—with a bouquet of roses at his feet.” She looked about to burst into tears.

            “Roses?” I asked, confused.

            My kind, (yet clearly mentally unstable at this moment) neighbor nodded again. “Didn’t you hear? Last night at the bonfire a note was found. I-It said, ‘Enjoy the fire. Stop to smell the roses. It won’t last long.’”

            I stared blankly for a moment. Why was I always receiving this information second-hand? “Who found him?” I asked.

            “Ophelia,” she said and the woman finally burst into tears.

Madelina, Part 4

When I woke up the following morning, it took me a moment to process why I had this sickening fear pressing on me.

            And then it hit me.

            The bonfire. The sparks. Screaming. Running. The cow—the disgusting, disfigured, burnt corpse of mammoth proportions in the bonfire; our bonfire. A tradition sacred for years in this hellhole of a town, but a tradition nonetheless. And someone had screwed with it.

            All I had wanted was an escape. Albeit a mental one at that, but simply an escape. I had thought the fall festival would give that to me, but apparently not. The town had still been in shock after the unexpected murder, but everyone had still been excited for the festival. I think they had all been looking for an escape too.

            Maybe a walk would be good for me. Yes, a nice long walk through the streets (and far away from the site of the festival) would suit me. Some fresh air would certainly clear my mind.

            I stepped outside into the early fall day and the sun greeted me with its sparkling rays smoothly gliding over the earth. Normally happy scenery only evoked the opposite feeling in me, but after the past couple of days I would take anything happy.

            It was just a little stroll through the neighborhood. Nothing much; I planned on returning home very soon. But although I had only been dealing with this weirdness for two days, somehow I wasn’t surprised when I heard the scream.

            It took me a moment the realize the scream was directed at me and it wasn’t much of a scream of fright…more of an exclamation to get my attention. Of course when I saw the expression on my neighbor’s face, there was definitely fear there.

            “What?” I asked, slightly annoyed. If I had to hear a recounted experience of last night’s bonfire I swear I would strangle someone.

            The woman who had called my attention and now answered was certainly one of my neighbors, although she lived farther down so unlike the closer ones she had never had a reason to call the police on me or my mom before. We were still on good terms, in other words. She was middle-aged, lived alone, and I could never remember her name.

            “Eli, h-he was h-hanged in Farmer Harris’ barn!” she exclaimed, fear making her voice tremble.

            Now this took me a moment to process and also to remember who Eli was. Before the shock had even fully consumed me, I allowed it to take hold of my voice as I cried, “What?!” So very profound, I know, but there really wasn’t much of a response one could give to this news.

            She nodded quickly and stammered out the next words. “He was found this morning with a—with a bouquet of roses at his feet.” She looked about to burst into tears.

            “Roses?” I asked, confused.

            My kind, (yet clearly mentally unstable at this moment) neighbor nodded again. “Didn’t you hear? Last night at the bonfire a note was found. I-It said, ‘Enjoy the fire. Stop to smell the roses. It won’t last long.’”

            I stared blankly for a moment. Why was I always receiving this information second-hand? “Who found him?” I asked.

            “Ophelia,” she said and the woman finally burst into tears.