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.

Pastor John Hart

“Our Heavenly Father, kind and good,

We thank Thee for our daily food. 


We thank Thee for Thy love and care.

Be with us Lord, and hear our prayer.

Amen.”

The grace done I unfold my hands and dig into the beef casserole.

“This is mighty good casserole, Maria,” I say to the empty chair to my right, “I must thank Millie when I bring her back her dish. You remember Millie don’t you? The two of you used to chat up a storm.”

My daughter, Nellie, worries that I still talk to her mother. Honestly, it just wouldn’t be natural for a man not to talk to his own wife. Just because Maria’s been in heaven for several years now, doesn’t make a difference.

“Papa, you know Mama isn’t there, don’t you?” She will say.

“Don’t you worry none about me pumpkin,” I tell her, “they’ve got good hearing in heaven. She can hear me just fine.”

Then she looks at me all concerned and pats me on the arm. Good grief. Why must she make a habit of worrying over me? Nellie keeps going on about some old-folks home, Sunny Meadows, Sunny Fields, or something like that. I’m not an old folk; I’m only sixty-nine. No need to be hasty. Besides I don’t know what I would do without my sermons.

“I’ve finished my sermon for Sunday. It’s a bit of a comfort piece. There have been terrible happenings in town. Murder. Can you imagine that? In our little town it just doesn’t seem possible. I must admit Maria, I feel shaky at the thought. Just a few days ago, Finn, from the bakery, remember him? He was killed. I won’t tell you how; it was terrible. The poor boy, he didn’t deserve it. Remember the strawberry scones he made? Do you remember how we used to have them on Sunday mornings? I’ve still been having one every Sunday. This is going to be the first Sunday that I’ve gone without one. It’s not a very important thing really, but it makes my old heart ache. The only thing a person can do is trust in God. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. All this death makes me sad though. People shouldn’t die so young.”

I finished eating, piled the silverware and my empty milk glass on top of the plate, and carried it to the sink. I turned on the faucet and scrubbed at the plate with a sponge. Maria’s mother gave us the sponge; Maria was so pleased with it because it was a good, long-lasting sort from Europe. I thought it was a ridiculous amount of excitement over a sponge. Both women are in heaven now, but their sponge lives on. It's funny how such unimportant things can hold so much significance. Like Finn’s strawberry scones. I sigh as I put the dried items into their proper places.

“Honestly, Maria, what is the world coming to?”

The doorbell rings, must be Millie come to get her dish back. She shouldn’t be wandering around this late, not with a killer roaming our streets.

I open the door.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory?
(1 Corinthians 15:55)

Maria, darling, I believe I have met the devil.

__

Bible quote found at: http://www.bibleinsong.com/Promises/Troubles_life/Death/Death.htm