28
7:23 PM
Margaret came over to the desk Agent Danley was working at, and dropped a note.
"This from my secretary?"
"They just said to call back immediately."
"I was sitting right here."
"I can't clog up the main number walking over here."
Agent Danley shot up an eyebrow, but then he left it alone.
"Thank you, Margaret."
"No problem, Agent."
She smiled and walked back to her desk.
Agent Danley picked up the phone, paused for a second, and then dialed. It was almost 10:00 in Washington. What was she still doing at the office?
"Howard? Is that you?"
"Yes."
"I've been reassigned. I think so have you. You've got a meeting with the Assistant Director tomorrow at 9 o'Clock."
"Tomorrow? At 9 o'clock."
"I know. I'm sorry. But I got you a flight out of Dallas Fort Worth that leaves at midnight hours. Can you make it?"
Agent Danley looked at the clock.
"Yes, I can make it, but it will make a mess of things here. And I won't be able to, you know, sleep."
"Sudden thing, I think."
"Well, Marjorie, I really appreciate you staying. I know it's way after the hour you normally go home."
"I couldn't just leave."
"You could have. Thank you."
He took down the particulars for the flight and then looked at the desk. He had to leave everything just as it was. That was a shame. He went over to Margaret.
"I've been recalled, Margaret. Please tell the Sheriff that I'm sorry and that it was a pleasure working with him."
She looked at him quizzically.
He didn't have time to explain. He put on his coat, picked up his bag and walked out the door to the car.
"So why the hell am I here?" she said to an empty room full of boxes and papers.
Friday, May 22, 2020
4:00 PM
27
4:00 PM
Being led in handcuffs up to bench to be arraigned, Dennis Dietrich didn't look so imposing. If anything, despite his size and his significant beard, he looked rather slight. He looked like he'd wandered into the wrong place and he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there.
"In the case State of Texas v. Dennis Walter Dietrich, defendant is accused of capital murder."
"Sheriff, do you want to explain the circumstances under which you arrested this man."
"Yes, Judge, we were investigating the murder of Dr. Samuel Jones. Following several roads, we discovered a conspiracy to commit premeditated murder between Mr. Dietrich, of Fidello, and a Caleb Sampson, of Houston, Texas, a seminary student at Fellowship Christian Academy. In Mr. Dietrich's possession was discovered several firearms, both registered and unregistered, as well as explosive materials and instructional manuals for producing and using them to kill as many people as possible. He had in his possession several unpublished manuscripts where, among other things, he described killing and maiming abortionists and medical clinics that provide abortion, as well as other enemies, among them federal and state buildings and the homes and offices of state legislators."
The judge looked at the accused. "You've been busy, haven't you?"
"Proposal for bail?"
The bail proposal was set in front of the judge.
"Proposal for no bail."
"Motion from the defense?"
Mr. Dietrich's lawyer passed his motion to the judge. "Defendant has longstanding ties to the community including rental properties and businesses throughout the county. He poses a minimal flight risk, and has an untarnished reputation."
"Defendant credibly accused of shooting down a man in cold blood. In broad daylight. Found with unregistered firearms and explosives. Motion denied. No bail set. Hearing set for 9 o'clock Tuesday, May 19th."
He hit the gavel and the landlord was led away by Deputy Powell.
The county attorney turned to the Sheriff. "I got to be honest, Horace. I'm going to need a ton of help going through the volumes of evidence."
"We're getting some support from the Rangers and the FBI."
"You might need to take on some support staff, just for the next few months."
The Sheriff nodded. "You know anyone?"
The county attorney smiled. "No."
"Alright, then."
The landlord's defense attorney came over.
"This is a big step up for you, Davis," the county attorney intoned.
"What? You think I'm not up to it? Anyway, Curtis, what's your primary qualification to prosecute a capital murder? That group of high schoolers you prosecuted for producing fake IDs?"
"Ha, ha. I guess you're right. State's probably going to take over prosecution, anyway. Capital murder cases, they tend to horn in."
"Bet they'll get a real nasty one, too."
"Bet you they will."
The Sheriff had to feel a little bit heartened, because in the county court things were just about the same as they always had been, no matter what was going on in the rest of the world. Heck, things probably would never much change, even in the time of robots and living in underground bunkers.
The Sheriff stopped by the county clerk's office to drop off some documents and pick up some requests for documents. Curtis was right. He was a bit out of his depth with the level of documentation. Margaret probably couldn't be counted on coming in two to three days a week at most to carry the load. Agent Danley had the energy for it, but he was based out of Washington, ultimately, and he couldn't find anybody from the field office in Dallas. He said he suspected someone from Washington was telling the Dallas field office not to provide any help.
Well, he thought, one day at a time. That's the only way he could do anything.
4:00 PM
Being led in handcuffs up to bench to be arraigned, Dennis Dietrich didn't look so imposing. If anything, despite his size and his significant beard, he looked rather slight. He looked like he'd wandered into the wrong place and he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there.
"In the case State of Texas v. Dennis Walter Dietrich, defendant is accused of capital murder."
"Sheriff, do you want to explain the circumstances under which you arrested this man."
"Yes, Judge, we were investigating the murder of Dr. Samuel Jones. Following several roads, we discovered a conspiracy to commit premeditated murder between Mr. Dietrich, of Fidello, and a Caleb Sampson, of Houston, Texas, a seminary student at Fellowship Christian Academy. In Mr. Dietrich's possession was discovered several firearms, both registered and unregistered, as well as explosive materials and instructional manuals for producing and using them to kill as many people as possible. He had in his possession several unpublished manuscripts where, among other things, he described killing and maiming abortionists and medical clinics that provide abortion, as well as other enemies, among them federal and state buildings and the homes and offices of state legislators."
The judge looked at the accused. "You've been busy, haven't you?"
"Proposal for bail?"
The bail proposal was set in front of the judge.
"Proposal for no bail."
"Motion from the defense?"
Mr. Dietrich's lawyer passed his motion to the judge. "Defendant has longstanding ties to the community including rental properties and businesses throughout the county. He poses a minimal flight risk, and has an untarnished reputation."
"Defendant credibly accused of shooting down a man in cold blood. In broad daylight. Found with unregistered firearms and explosives. Motion denied. No bail set. Hearing set for 9 o'clock Tuesday, May 19th."
He hit the gavel and the landlord was led away by Deputy Powell.
The county attorney turned to the Sheriff. "I got to be honest, Horace. I'm going to need a ton of help going through the volumes of evidence."
"We're getting some support from the Rangers and the FBI."
"You might need to take on some support staff, just for the next few months."
The Sheriff nodded. "You know anyone?"
The county attorney smiled. "No."
"Alright, then."
The landlord's defense attorney came over.
"This is a big step up for you, Davis," the county attorney intoned.
"What? You think I'm not up to it? Anyway, Curtis, what's your primary qualification to prosecute a capital murder? That group of high schoolers you prosecuted for producing fake IDs?"
"Ha, ha. I guess you're right. State's probably going to take over prosecution, anyway. Capital murder cases, they tend to horn in."
"Bet they'll get a real nasty one, too."
"Bet you they will."
The Sheriff had to feel a little bit heartened, because in the county court things were just about the same as they always had been, no matter what was going on in the rest of the world. Heck, things probably would never much change, even in the time of robots and living in underground bunkers.
The Sheriff stopped by the county clerk's office to drop off some documents and pick up some requests for documents. Curtis was right. He was a bit out of his depth with the level of documentation. Margaret probably couldn't be counted on coming in two to three days a week at most to carry the load. Agent Danley had the energy for it, but he was based out of Washington, ultimately, and he couldn't find anybody from the field office in Dallas. He said he suspected someone from Washington was telling the Dallas field office not to provide any help.
Well, he thought, one day at a time. That's the only way he could do anything.
Thursday, May 21, 2020
10:27 AM
26
10:27 AM
Deputy Powell was watching a stream of cars on the horizon. Somehow he knew from the outset what it was. The Sheriff came over to the window.
"What is it?"
"Don't know just yet," he said glumly.
"But you're watching it just the same."
"Got a feeling. Got a feeling that FBI agent and some of those Texas Rangers are coming back."
"You think?"
"I don't know."
There was a silence in the room, as they all knew who it was that was being transported. Had to be. Had to be.
But it could be anything. They couldn't assume.
The Sheriff felt a sinking feeling in his gut. As things were developing, he felt that this thing went deep in the town, maybe across a lot of towns in this area of Texas. Maybe cross-nationally. They were only skimming the surface right now, and there could be danger to the department, the whole town even. But, then the Sheriff supposed, if it got any deeper it wouldn't be in his hands any longer. He'd be relieved of it the second it got any deeper.
The cars pulled up finally, and out walked Agent Danley, Lieutenant Cantroux and Captain Beaks, with three Federal Marshals and a whole contingent of FBI from the Dallas field office and Texas Rangers. They reached into the back of one of the cars and pulled out a man. Well, not really a man, a boy really. A slight boy with hair over his eyes. He flipped it out of his eyes as he stood up fully.
"It's got to be him," Margaret said behind them.
"Could be anybody. Could be somebody else."
"Don't think it is, though."
"The Sheriff walked up to the Department."
Agent Danley walked over and smiled. "Got your suspect. Ready to be booked."
"You don't want to remove this to another jurisdiction?"
"Can't think of any one better, Sheriff. He's got to be tried. Got to be tried where he committed the offense. Got to face the town he changed through his actions."
The Sheriff looked over at the boy. "Got something to say for yourself?"
He looked at the Sheriff with wide eyes, but said nothing.
County lockup was an ancient jail behind the Sheriff's Department. It could house up to fifteen inmates. Most inmates that had done serious crimes were transferred to state lockup, but those sorts of crimes usually came so few and far between that the Sheriff couldn't think of the last time they'd called the state to transfer someone.
They brought him inside the Department and all sat around him with him in handcuff on a chair in the middle of the Department.
Margaret shouted over the gathering. "Harry says he's going to stay late and do his arraignment at 7:30."
"Tonight?" the Sheriff said. Usually the good judge was the kind to be in bed by 7:30.
"Tonight."
"Thank you, Margaret. Always looking ahead."
"Someone's got to," she said and got back on the phone with the county clerk to give all the particulars."
All eyes were on the boy.
"We're listening," the Sheriff said simply.
"Well, I, uh, I got to confess. I had a part in this crime."
"You did. Well, of course you did. What did you do?"
"I helped plan it."
"You did. Anything else?"
"Maybe I came up with the idea."
"Uh-huh. That's what I heard."
'From who?"
"Ben Damand."
The boy nodded slowly. "I shouldn't have included him."
"He's a big boy. An adult, even. An adult with a lot of responsibility in this community."
"Well, he didn't have anything to do with it."
"I hope so." The Sheriff paused. "You kill this man, son. Were you the one that did it?"
"No."
"You sure. You just planned it, or you came up with it."
"I did. I did I did."
"You don't feel anything for that?"
"I do," he said calmly.
'You don't sound all that remorseful."
"Well, I didn't do it. The deed I mean. The shooting. So, you know, it doesn't totally feel real, that it happened."
"You were involved in the murder or the getaway?"
"Nope."
"Just planning it."
"Yeah."
"So who was it? Who killed Dr. Jones?"
The boy paused, and then he looked around the room. "It was that landlord of ours. Dietrich."
"That's who we make it for. But there's just one problem. His car wasn't at the scene. Got two witnesses describe a lime-green Ford Taurus. He doesn't have one. Who's car is that?"
"Must have been a friend of his, huh? I don't know. I never saw a car like that before, or if I have I don't remember it."
"So what you're saying is, according to you, you planned it, this guy shot him, he did all the logistics. You heard about it later. Did you talk to your landlord after the shooting?"
"No. In fact, I owe him for the month still."
"So when you heard about it, you fled."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's right. When I heard he'd done it, I fled."\
The Sheriff looked at him, calmly turned off the recording device, and then smacked him hard across the face. "You're a smug little son-of-a-bitch."
And then Deputy Powell hoisted him up and pushed him out the back door in the direction of the jail.
"I'm frankly surprised," Agent Danley said, "at your lack of composure."
"To be quite honestly, agent, so am I."
10:27 AM
Deputy Powell was watching a stream of cars on the horizon. Somehow he knew from the outset what it was. The Sheriff came over to the window.
"What is it?"
"Don't know just yet," he said glumly.
"But you're watching it just the same."
"Got a feeling. Got a feeling that FBI agent and some of those Texas Rangers are coming back."
"You think?"
"I don't know."
There was a silence in the room, as they all knew who it was that was being transported. Had to be. Had to be.
But it could be anything. They couldn't assume.
The Sheriff felt a sinking feeling in his gut. As things were developing, he felt that this thing went deep in the town, maybe across a lot of towns in this area of Texas. Maybe cross-nationally. They were only skimming the surface right now, and there could be danger to the department, the whole town even. But, then the Sheriff supposed, if it got any deeper it wouldn't be in his hands any longer. He'd be relieved of it the second it got any deeper.
The cars pulled up finally, and out walked Agent Danley, Lieutenant Cantroux and Captain Beaks, with three Federal Marshals and a whole contingent of FBI from the Dallas field office and Texas Rangers. They reached into the back of one of the cars and pulled out a man. Well, not really a man, a boy really. A slight boy with hair over his eyes. He flipped it out of his eyes as he stood up fully.
"It's got to be him," Margaret said behind them.
"Could be anybody. Could be somebody else."
"Don't think it is, though."
"The Sheriff walked up to the Department."
Agent Danley walked over and smiled. "Got your suspect. Ready to be booked."
"You don't want to remove this to another jurisdiction?"
"Can't think of any one better, Sheriff. He's got to be tried. Got to be tried where he committed the offense. Got to face the town he changed through his actions."
The Sheriff looked over at the boy. "Got something to say for yourself?"
He looked at the Sheriff with wide eyes, but said nothing.
County lockup was an ancient jail behind the Sheriff's Department. It could house up to fifteen inmates. Most inmates that had done serious crimes were transferred to state lockup, but those sorts of crimes usually came so few and far between that the Sheriff couldn't think of the last time they'd called the state to transfer someone.
They brought him inside the Department and all sat around him with him in handcuff on a chair in the middle of the Department.
Margaret shouted over the gathering. "Harry says he's going to stay late and do his arraignment at 7:30."
"Tonight?" the Sheriff said. Usually the good judge was the kind to be in bed by 7:30.
"Tonight."
"Thank you, Margaret. Always looking ahead."
"Someone's got to," she said and got back on the phone with the county clerk to give all the particulars."
All eyes were on the boy.
"We're listening," the Sheriff said simply.
"Well, I, uh, I got to confess. I had a part in this crime."
"You did. Well, of course you did. What did you do?"
"I helped plan it."
"You did. Anything else?"
"Maybe I came up with the idea."
"Uh-huh. That's what I heard."
'From who?"
"Ben Damand."
The boy nodded slowly. "I shouldn't have included him."
"He's a big boy. An adult, even. An adult with a lot of responsibility in this community."
"Well, he didn't have anything to do with it."
"I hope so." The Sheriff paused. "You kill this man, son. Were you the one that did it?"
"No."
"You sure. You just planned it, or you came up with it."
"I did. I did I did."
"You don't feel anything for that?"
"I do," he said calmly.
'You don't sound all that remorseful."
"Well, I didn't do it. The deed I mean. The shooting. So, you know, it doesn't totally feel real, that it happened."
"You were involved in the murder or the getaway?"
"Nope."
"Just planning it."
"Yeah."
"So who was it? Who killed Dr. Jones?"
The boy paused, and then he looked around the room. "It was that landlord of ours. Dietrich."
"That's who we make it for. But there's just one problem. His car wasn't at the scene. Got two witnesses describe a lime-green Ford Taurus. He doesn't have one. Who's car is that?"
"Must have been a friend of his, huh? I don't know. I never saw a car like that before, or if I have I don't remember it."
"So what you're saying is, according to you, you planned it, this guy shot him, he did all the logistics. You heard about it later. Did you talk to your landlord after the shooting?"
"No. In fact, I owe him for the month still."
"So when you heard about it, you fled."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's right. When I heard he'd done it, I fled."\
The Sheriff looked at him, calmly turned off the recording device, and then smacked him hard across the face. "You're a smug little son-of-a-bitch."
And then Deputy Powell hoisted him up and pushed him out the back door in the direction of the jail.
"I'm frankly surprised," Agent Danley said, "at your lack of composure."
"To be quite honestly, agent, so am I."
Wednesday, May 13, 2020
Wander
So should the man,
Carrying his possessions,
Never find rest
But walk to the ends of the Earth
And there perish?
He can't.
For, among the solace he cannot find
Is death.
No, he is cursed
To have no home,
To be turned out everywhere.
The world is all wilds,
He cannot make sense of it,
And, lo and behold,
He finds the world is intolerant
Of him living in it.
The reason it gives him,
Is that he, like the Wandering Jew,
Has been ordained to suffer,
For his grave and awful offense.
But he has never been tried,
The sentence was never given,
The planners have decided
He is an excess human being.
And what would it cost
To relent in our description of a home?
To accept a tent in the wilderness,
Or, from our past, the shantytown?
We cannot accept
That there is a home
That is not a house:
Two beds with a white picket fence.
And yet,
How many live this way?
In our wandering new existence,
Moving from transient home
To transient home,
There has become wealth
Built up from the idea
That a person can never have a home.
What, then, do our planners accept?
If we must keep up transience,
Yet ourselves never be
Must not we then be broken
Over the rack of the corporation,
In order that it never be approached
That a permanent settlement
Is possible if we accept what it would be?
For it is simple to say,
A person lives where they end up.
And, space that is not used,
Can be used by anybody.
We could class the whole of land
As the commons once again,
As it was before our Land Lords
Let go of the idea of owning us entire.
The Wandering Jew,
Like the nomadic Indian,
Is a comfortable construct
For those who seek to dispossess,
But the curse is superstition,
And the Cherokee were sedentary
When the American Army
Marched them on the Trail of Tears.
For, ultimately,
There is only one solution,
If we disregard the right of any
To belong,
And, as the Nazi planners discovered
After they had invaded the Soviet Union,
Those who do not have a use
Must be exterminated.
Carrying his possessions,
Never find rest
But walk to the ends of the Earth
And there perish?
He can't.
For, among the solace he cannot find
Is death.
No, he is cursed
To have no home,
To be turned out everywhere.
The world is all wilds,
He cannot make sense of it,
And, lo and behold,
He finds the world is intolerant
Of him living in it.
The reason it gives him,
Is that he, like the Wandering Jew,
Has been ordained to suffer,
For his grave and awful offense.
But he has never been tried,
The sentence was never given,
The planners have decided
He is an excess human being.
And what would it cost
To relent in our description of a home?
To accept a tent in the wilderness,
Or, from our past, the shantytown?
We cannot accept
That there is a home
That is not a house:
Two beds with a white picket fence.
And yet,
How many live this way?
In our wandering new existence,
Moving from transient home
To transient home,
There has become wealth
Built up from the idea
That a person can never have a home.
What, then, do our planners accept?
If we must keep up transience,
Yet ourselves never be
Must not we then be broken
Over the rack of the corporation,
In order that it never be approached
That a permanent settlement
Is possible if we accept what it would be?
For it is simple to say,
A person lives where they end up.
And, space that is not used,
Can be used by anybody.
We could class the whole of land
As the commons once again,
As it was before our Land Lords
Let go of the idea of owning us entire.
The Wandering Jew,
Like the nomadic Indian,
Is a comfortable construct
For those who seek to dispossess,
But the curse is superstition,
And the Cherokee were sedentary
When the American Army
Marched them on the Trail of Tears.
For, ultimately,
There is only one solution,
If we disregard the right of any
To belong,
And, as the Nazi planners discovered
After they had invaded the Soviet Union,
Those who do not have a use
Must be exterminated.
Tuesday, May 12, 2020
8:47 AM
25
8:47 AM
The Sheriff and his Deputy were outside of Dennis Dietrich's office, deciding what it was that he was doing, because they could hear a lot of rearranging going on--some might say, fleeing--but they were patient to see where it all led before spoiling it all by knocking on the front door.
"You think we should just let this go on?" Deputy Powell said, finally.
"Yeah, I guess so," the Sheriff said, although he was kind of enjoying watching somebody panic from the outside. They so often only got to see the aftermath of a suspect's handiwork.
"Sheriff's Department!" Deputy Powell yelled into the trailer.
Everything inside stopped, and then the back door swung open and they could hear them attempt to get something heavy to come with him.
They ran to the other side, where they saw him attempt but fail to hoist a large bag into his truck.
"Stop! Put you hands up!"
He put his hands up. "What have I done?"
"You're resisting arrest," Deputy Powell tried.
"I didn't know I was being arrested."
"I'm finding that kind of hard to believe."
"We're placing you under arrest as an accessory to the murder of Dr. Sam Jones."
"What I do?"
"You housed a couple of terrorists. You gave them weapons. You gave them training. It wouldn't surprise me if you gave them the idea in the first place."
"How you going to prove all that, Sheriff?"
"I would guess, the contents of that bag right there are a good place to start."
"May I?" Deputy Powell said, pointing to the bag.
"Go ahead."
The Deputy unzipped it and, unsurprising, a large cache of weapons and documents stared them in the face.
"Wonder why you made it so easy for us?" the Sheriff said.
"I didn't do anything wrong," he said only.
"Well, we'll see about that."
Deputy Powell slapped the cuffs on him and the Sheriff put his hat back on. They stuffed him in Deputy Powell's cruiser.
"We got to go through the contents of that trailer."
"Yep."
"Guess I'll start on that just now."
The Sheriff looked at the dark trailer. There went the rest of his day.
8:47 AM
The Sheriff and his Deputy were outside of Dennis Dietrich's office, deciding what it was that he was doing, because they could hear a lot of rearranging going on--some might say, fleeing--but they were patient to see where it all led before spoiling it all by knocking on the front door.
"You think we should just let this go on?" Deputy Powell said, finally.
"Yeah, I guess so," the Sheriff said, although he was kind of enjoying watching somebody panic from the outside. They so often only got to see the aftermath of a suspect's handiwork.
"Sheriff's Department!" Deputy Powell yelled into the trailer.
Everything inside stopped, and then the back door swung open and they could hear them attempt to get something heavy to come with him.
They ran to the other side, where they saw him attempt but fail to hoist a large bag into his truck.
"Stop! Put you hands up!"
He put his hands up. "What have I done?"
"You're resisting arrest," Deputy Powell tried.
"I didn't know I was being arrested."
"I'm finding that kind of hard to believe."
"We're placing you under arrest as an accessory to the murder of Dr. Sam Jones."
"What I do?"
"You housed a couple of terrorists. You gave them weapons. You gave them training. It wouldn't surprise me if you gave them the idea in the first place."
"How you going to prove all that, Sheriff?"
"I would guess, the contents of that bag right there are a good place to start."
"May I?" Deputy Powell said, pointing to the bag.
"Go ahead."
The Deputy unzipped it and, unsurprising, a large cache of weapons and documents stared them in the face.
"Wonder why you made it so easy for us?" the Sheriff said.
"I didn't do anything wrong," he said only.
"Well, we'll see about that."
Deputy Powell slapped the cuffs on him and the Sheriff put his hat back on. They stuffed him in Deputy Powell's cruiser.
"We got to go through the contents of that trailer."
"Yep."
"Guess I'll start on that just now."
The Sheriff looked at the dark trailer. There went the rest of his day.
Monday, May 11, 2020
May 7, 1986 3:42 AM
24
May 7, 1986 3:42 AM
Some towns get known and some towns get forgotten. It isn't all gravy for the towns that get known, though. Sometimes they get known for the wrong reasons, and they wish just as soon as they got known to become forgotten again.
Fidello is a forgotten town, but it wishes it was known. Little girls wish they were known for their voices and style; little boys for their speed and passing ability. Hobbyists for their fine art and crafts. Some gentlemen for their style and panache; some women for their extensive knowledge of the workings of cars. People dream in their head that the things they do will some day make them famous, and the town they came from if they do will always live in fame.
Of course, in the act of doing things they think they should do, well, sometimes they end up doing things they shouldn't. Sometimes to get where they think they want to go, they rob, they cheat, they outright steal, hit, abuse, cajole, and, even, outright murder to get their way--to finish what they think they've started and make their way in the world. Becoming famous is all-consuming and that means becoming infamous.
And everybody that ever learns about either the famous or the infamous is going to learn about them, where they came from. That city or that town is going to be put on the map.
But just because you did something that should become well known doesn't mean your going to become famous or infamous. No, the timing has to be right for the discovery. And even if the world has followed from the feat, well, unless you get the credit for it, no one is going to remember you. No, they're going to forget you ever existed, and they're going to remember someone else in your place. Not because they were there first, but because they were there at the right time.
And your town is not going to become well known, as the birthplace of you and whatever you did. Nope, it'll just be another town, unless it's known for someone else.
There are just too many places for all of them to be well-known for something. Some towns must be forgotten. And Fidello, yes, Fidello was one of them. In the town was fired for the first salvo in a war that is still going on for the country, and yet the name is not famous and the soldiers that fired the shots not well-known.
Isn't that something?
10:35 PM
23
10:35 PM
The Sheriff and his wife debated for a long time whether it was worth disheveling everybody, but the whole thing kept gnawing at him and gnawing at him until he could hold off no longer. This was a terrorist plot that had been imagined for the town. This was a threat not just to the town but to everybody's way of life entire. If the Sheriff could allow that sometimes places in town were blown up based on people's hatred, then they would be living in a very, very different town than they had been living in. A town, well, the Sheriff was not quite sure he wanted to live in.
So he dragged Ben Damand in his bedclothes down to the Department and woke up Deputy Powell, though he decided to leave well enough alone with Margaret.
"We're going to be recording, just so you know."
"That's fine, Sheriff," he said in his best upbeat voice, but there were some rough edges to it, as rough as the tufts of his hair poking up or the redness in his eyes, softened endearingly by his charm and good looks.
The Sheriff clicked on the tape recorder. "Okay, state you name and occupation."
"Ben Damand. Chairman of the Board of Directors, White Sands Baptist Church."
"State, if you would how you came to know the suspect, Caleb Sampson, the circumstances in which you worked together, and any other background information you want to share."
"Caleb was in a work study program, and was working on youth initiatives when I met him. He was a young, bright man."
"Just the facts, Ben."
Ben smiled.
"Last summer he approached me about direct action to impede or possibly prevent an operating abortion clinic in Fidello. I told him that I didn't believe that there was one. He informed me that Dr. Sam Jones did, on occasion, perform them at his practice. I told him if that were true, we owed it to the pro-life movement to impede or prevent abortions from taking place, within our legal rights.
"He agreed that we would do only what was legally possible. However, he many times approached me about trespassing, burglary, assault, multiple batteries, and, eventually, kidnapping, murder, and terrorism. He mentioned stashes of weapons and explosives, as well as safe houses for people that committed the crimes. He mentioned that he was more than willing to become the first martyr to our cause. He mentioned many times that the early Christians had suffered mightily at the hands of the Romans for their faith, and that he intended to do the same, no matter if the American lawman played the part of the Roman Emperor.
"Did he mention, at any point, where these stashes of weapons and explosives where, or the locations of these safe houses?"
"No, and at the time, I thought he was just talking."
"Do you now believe that these things are real?"
"I haven't seen them still with my own eyes, but they at least had enough weapons to shoot that poor doctor down in cold blood in front of his home, and they've fled somewhere, we don't know where, so there's enough there to believe part of their story."
"Did he mention other crimes that you believe are imminent?"
"No. Everything centered around that clinic. Nothing else mattered."
"What, if anything, did you do to stop him."
"I told him that I would not participate in any violence, that I would not do anything illegal, that I would only do what I could do within the law."
"Did you attempt to stop him?"
Ben paused, very judicious with his words.
"There was nothing specific that I knew I needed to stop. He's not the only boy I've ever had in my ministry that got it in his head that he was a Christian soldier, fighting the Lord's fight. Most times, it's just a fantasy in their head, a daydream, and it never turns into anything. Once in a while, it turns into a petty property crime or something like that. I never would have imagined that a murder would follow, even after he repeatedly told me that he would. I guess I just, didn't give him enough credit for being serious."
The Sheriff nodded, and clicked off the recorder.
"Deputy Powell will be by tomorrow to pick up any documents that you think will help our investigation."
"Of course."
Ben sat in silence. "Is that all?"
"Yes, Ben."
He paused, and then he got up and left, whistling a gospel song to himself. They heard his truck engine start up, and then rumble away.
"Well, Horace," Deputy Powell said, leaned back against a corner wall. "We got a war on our hands?"
He cocked his head, remembering that Deputy Powell had been in boot camp just as Saigon fell. He'd never had his chance to deploy to the South Pacific, and he'd always imagined him and his company could have turned the tide of the war.
He'd been itching for battle ever since, staying in the Reserves and, with every news item thinking he was going to get called up and deployed. But, the Sheriff believed, he did not want to go to war against his friends and neighbors. Nobody did.
"I don't think it's going to come to that," the Sheriff said finally. "But we've got to be more vigilant. We've got to keep tabs on the comings and goings of people from that church."
"Yes, sir."
"And we've got to knock down the door of that landlord of theirs and, if necessary, put the screws on him until he gives up everything he knows."
"No better time than the present."
"No better time than the present," the Sheriff said.
10:35 PM
The Sheriff and his wife debated for a long time whether it was worth disheveling everybody, but the whole thing kept gnawing at him and gnawing at him until he could hold off no longer. This was a terrorist plot that had been imagined for the town. This was a threat not just to the town but to everybody's way of life entire. If the Sheriff could allow that sometimes places in town were blown up based on people's hatred, then they would be living in a very, very different town than they had been living in. A town, well, the Sheriff was not quite sure he wanted to live in.
So he dragged Ben Damand in his bedclothes down to the Department and woke up Deputy Powell, though he decided to leave well enough alone with Margaret.
"We're going to be recording, just so you know."
"That's fine, Sheriff," he said in his best upbeat voice, but there were some rough edges to it, as rough as the tufts of his hair poking up or the redness in his eyes, softened endearingly by his charm and good looks.
The Sheriff clicked on the tape recorder. "Okay, state you name and occupation."
"Ben Damand. Chairman of the Board of Directors, White Sands Baptist Church."
"State, if you would how you came to know the suspect, Caleb Sampson, the circumstances in which you worked together, and any other background information you want to share."
"Caleb was in a work study program, and was working on youth initiatives when I met him. He was a young, bright man."
"Just the facts, Ben."
Ben smiled.
"Last summer he approached me about direct action to impede or possibly prevent an operating abortion clinic in Fidello. I told him that I didn't believe that there was one. He informed me that Dr. Sam Jones did, on occasion, perform them at his practice. I told him if that were true, we owed it to the pro-life movement to impede or prevent abortions from taking place, within our legal rights.
"He agreed that we would do only what was legally possible. However, he many times approached me about trespassing, burglary, assault, multiple batteries, and, eventually, kidnapping, murder, and terrorism. He mentioned stashes of weapons and explosives, as well as safe houses for people that committed the crimes. He mentioned that he was more than willing to become the first martyr to our cause. He mentioned many times that the early Christians had suffered mightily at the hands of the Romans for their faith, and that he intended to do the same, no matter if the American lawman played the part of the Roman Emperor.
"Did he mention, at any point, where these stashes of weapons and explosives where, or the locations of these safe houses?"
"No, and at the time, I thought he was just talking."
"Do you now believe that these things are real?"
"I haven't seen them still with my own eyes, but they at least had enough weapons to shoot that poor doctor down in cold blood in front of his home, and they've fled somewhere, we don't know where, so there's enough there to believe part of their story."
"Did he mention other crimes that you believe are imminent?"
"No. Everything centered around that clinic. Nothing else mattered."
"What, if anything, did you do to stop him."
"I told him that I would not participate in any violence, that I would not do anything illegal, that I would only do what I could do within the law."
"Did you attempt to stop him?"
Ben paused, very judicious with his words.
"There was nothing specific that I knew I needed to stop. He's not the only boy I've ever had in my ministry that got it in his head that he was a Christian soldier, fighting the Lord's fight. Most times, it's just a fantasy in their head, a daydream, and it never turns into anything. Once in a while, it turns into a petty property crime or something like that. I never would have imagined that a murder would follow, even after he repeatedly told me that he would. I guess I just, didn't give him enough credit for being serious."
The Sheriff nodded, and clicked off the recorder.
"Deputy Powell will be by tomorrow to pick up any documents that you think will help our investigation."
"Of course."
Ben sat in silence. "Is that all?"
"Yes, Ben."
He paused, and then he got up and left, whistling a gospel song to himself. They heard his truck engine start up, and then rumble away.
"Well, Horace," Deputy Powell said, leaned back against a corner wall. "We got a war on our hands?"
He cocked his head, remembering that Deputy Powell had been in boot camp just as Saigon fell. He'd never had his chance to deploy to the South Pacific, and he'd always imagined him and his company could have turned the tide of the war.
He'd been itching for battle ever since, staying in the Reserves and, with every news item thinking he was going to get called up and deployed. But, the Sheriff believed, he did not want to go to war against his friends and neighbors. Nobody did.
"I don't think it's going to come to that," the Sheriff said finally. "But we've got to be more vigilant. We've got to keep tabs on the comings and goings of people from that church."
"Yes, sir."
"And we've got to knock down the door of that landlord of theirs and, if necessary, put the screws on him until he gives up everything he knows."
"No better time than the present."
"No better time than the present," the Sheriff said.
Thursday, May 7, 2020
7:00 PM
22
7:00 PM
The buzzer rung, and Ginger looked quizzically at Ben, as the service had been over for half an hour and nothing was scheduled the rest of the night.
"Who is it?" Ginger said as sweetly as possible.
"Oh, Ginger, it's you. I did some baking today. Horace said I should drop by and deliver one of my cherry pies."
"Are you serious?" Ginger said. "That is the about the sweetest thing...well, what am I saying this over the intercom to you for?"
And she rang the buzzer, and Myra drove into the parking lot.
Myra went over to the doorway, which was open just a crack to allow her admittance, and they all went inside.
"Doesn't that look beautiful," Ben said when Ginger showed him the pie.
"To be quite honest," Ginger said. "We have been expecting an unannounced visitor, but it's your husband we were expecting. He mention anything to you?"
"He said he came by and that you asked after my cherry pie, so here I am."
"So here you are," Ginger said.
"We wanted to tell the Sheriff that we have quite a bit more to tell him than we did that day, only we're kind of afraid."
"We don't want, or well we don't want to ministry to be pulled into the whole thing and dragged in the mud, do you know what I mean?"
"I'm sure that I don't," Myra said. "It's what I said, I came by to drop off a pie."
"Well, sure, but I know you're going home to him now, aren't you? Unless you have another delivery."
"No I don't."
"Well, we want to surrender. I mean, we want to surrender what we got. We want to be helpful, is what I mean."
"You want me to tell him to come by the Department, or have him come and meet you here."
"Either," they both said.
"Maybe there is best," Ben said. "But I want you to tell him, too, that we're really sorry. We didn't mean not to say everything, but we started thinking about ourselves--"
"And the ministry," Ginger said.
"And everything we've worked so hard for and, well, sin of pride, we forgot what is important which is finding that man's killer and that boy paying for what he did."
"You knew the killer?" Myra said offhand.
Ben looked at Ginger.
"We believe we did. We spent a great deal of time with him right here. We thought he just wanted to picket that practice of Sam's but, as it turned out, he had other things on his mind. Well, we could have guessed--"
"But we didn't know--"
"No, we didn't know he was going to do what he did, but sometimes he talked about doing things like that. Shooting or blowing up the place."
"But you two never--"
"No!" Ben said.
"Of course not, Myra," Ginger said. "You think either one of us is capable of anything approaching what that boy did?"
"Well, I certainly hope not! Well, anyway, this really isn't my business. But I'll tell Horace what you told me and I'll tell him you sounded really sorry and not to be hard on you two, just in case he's mad about it."
"Would you?" Ben said. "That would be amazing."
"Of course I don't want you blaming me on how he reacts. He's not a robot of mine."
"Yes, of course," he said.
Myra looked at Ginger. "Remember when the worst bit of trouble you got into was, you drank at little bit more than you should have?"
Ginger smiled uncomfortably.
Myra cackled despite them. She did like a good laugh, and that one tickled her nicely.
"Well, anyway, be seeing you two."
"You should come Sunday," Ben said.
"We got our own church, Reverend," Myra said.
"Yes, of course."
"I'll be sure to bake some of those butterscotch squares you used to like if I get the chance," Ginger said.
"Sounds delicious," Myra said, but gave it about a three percent chance of happening.
7:00 PM
The buzzer rung, and Ginger looked quizzically at Ben, as the service had been over for half an hour and nothing was scheduled the rest of the night.
"Who is it?" Ginger said as sweetly as possible.
"Oh, Ginger, it's you. I did some baking today. Horace said I should drop by and deliver one of my cherry pies."
"Are you serious?" Ginger said. "That is the about the sweetest thing...well, what am I saying this over the intercom to you for?"
And she rang the buzzer, and Myra drove into the parking lot.
Myra went over to the doorway, which was open just a crack to allow her admittance, and they all went inside.
"Doesn't that look beautiful," Ben said when Ginger showed him the pie.
"To be quite honest," Ginger said. "We have been expecting an unannounced visitor, but it's your husband we were expecting. He mention anything to you?"
"He said he came by and that you asked after my cherry pie, so here I am."
"So here you are," Ginger said.
"We wanted to tell the Sheriff that we have quite a bit more to tell him than we did that day, only we're kind of afraid."
"We don't want, or well we don't want to ministry to be pulled into the whole thing and dragged in the mud, do you know what I mean?"
"I'm sure that I don't," Myra said. "It's what I said, I came by to drop off a pie."
"Well, sure, but I know you're going home to him now, aren't you? Unless you have another delivery."
"No I don't."
"Well, we want to surrender. I mean, we want to surrender what we got. We want to be helpful, is what I mean."
"You want me to tell him to come by the Department, or have him come and meet you here."
"Either," they both said.
"Maybe there is best," Ben said. "But I want you to tell him, too, that we're really sorry. We didn't mean not to say everything, but we started thinking about ourselves--"
"And the ministry," Ginger said.
"And everything we've worked so hard for and, well, sin of pride, we forgot what is important which is finding that man's killer and that boy paying for what he did."
"You knew the killer?" Myra said offhand.
Ben looked at Ginger.
"We believe we did. We spent a great deal of time with him right here. We thought he just wanted to picket that practice of Sam's but, as it turned out, he had other things on his mind. Well, we could have guessed--"
"But we didn't know--"
"No, we didn't know he was going to do what he did, but sometimes he talked about doing things like that. Shooting or blowing up the place."
"But you two never--"
"No!" Ben said.
"Of course not, Myra," Ginger said. "You think either one of us is capable of anything approaching what that boy did?"
"Well, I certainly hope not! Well, anyway, this really isn't my business. But I'll tell Horace what you told me and I'll tell him you sounded really sorry and not to be hard on you two, just in case he's mad about it."
"Would you?" Ben said. "That would be amazing."
"Of course I don't want you blaming me on how he reacts. He's not a robot of mine."
"Yes, of course," he said.
Myra looked at Ginger. "Remember when the worst bit of trouble you got into was, you drank at little bit more than you should have?"
Ginger smiled uncomfortably.
Myra cackled despite them. She did like a good laugh, and that one tickled her nicely.
"Well, anyway, be seeing you two."
"You should come Sunday," Ben said.
"We got our own church, Reverend," Myra said.
"Yes, of course."
"I'll be sure to bake some of those butterscotch squares you used to like if I get the chance," Ginger said.
"Sounds delicious," Myra said, but gave it about a three percent chance of happening.
4:48 PM
21
4:48 PM
The phone rang and Deputy Powell picked up. Margaret's breasts were starting to hurt and her husband called in to complain that the baby was crying incessantly. Margaret tried to troop forward, but then she realized there wasn't going to be any solution to it unless she went home and solved both her and her baby's problem all at once.
She called Deputy Powell over and ordered him to take over the phones, which he did after a pause.
"Sheriff's Department," Deputy Powell tried.
"Yes," a quiet voice came over the phone. "I got a call from you, I think."
"Is this Nicole?"
"Yes."
"Hi, so," and the Deputy pulled out a piece of paper to write down on, "I can't say I'm calling under the best of circumstances. Dr. Sam Jones was, unfortunately murdered last week."
"I heard."
"Well, the Sheriff was talking to Trudy, your former boss I believe."
"Yes."
"And she said that round about the time you were working in the office. You were working in that office for a time, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, she said that there a man who was parked outside for a couple weeks during that time, and I was wondering if you might be able to give a description of the man you saw, if you remember him."
"His name is Caleb Sampson."
"Caleb Sampson. That's very specific. How do you know him by name?"
"He introduced himself. I think he kind of liked me."
"Wow. Fantastic. I mean, I don't know how fantastic it is, but that's great information. Thank you. We'll follow up. Can you search your memory, too, think of anybody else that you think might have had it in for the doctor?"
"His friend."
"His friend."
"Bill Peterman."
"Wow. You have in incredible memory, Nicole."
"I wrote down their names, officer--"
"Deputy."
"Deputy. I thought this would happen a lot quicker than it did, and I meant to go straight to the Department with it, but I guess I got shy."
"Well that's a shame. Might have stopped this whole thing before it happened."
"I know that, deputy, and I'm very, very sorry."
"You didn't do anything. It can be hard sometimes to accuse people of things they haven't yet done, anyway."
The deputy looked at what he'd wrote.
"Now, Nicole, this is the real hard part. At what point you can you come in for an interview with the department, because it appears you are a material witness in a murder investigation, and we really, really, could use you to sit down and get something written and signed."
"I'm still in school, deputy."
"No rush. Sometime in the next week or so?"
"Yes, entirely. I'll come home this weekend."
"That's wonderful. You're a superstar. I really, really appreciate all this. Gonna make me look great."
"Okay. I'm really glad I could help."
The deputy hung up the phone and then got on the radio.
He ran to the Sheriff's office, and threw the piece of paper in his face.
"We got them."
The Sheriff looked at him. "Who we got?"
"The two boys. Their names are Caleb Sampson and Bill Peterman."
"What? Who says?"
"The girl that worked in Sam's office. Says one tried to hit on her introduced himself and must have introduced his friend."
"Boys will be boys. Well this is great, deputy."
"The girl says she's going to go come in this weekend and give a statement."
"That's great."
"Well, I'll be at the phones."
The Sheriff looked at the piece of paper. They had their boys. But the question now was, who else was involved?
4:48 PM
The phone rang and Deputy Powell picked up. Margaret's breasts were starting to hurt and her husband called in to complain that the baby was crying incessantly. Margaret tried to troop forward, but then she realized there wasn't going to be any solution to it unless she went home and solved both her and her baby's problem all at once.
She called Deputy Powell over and ordered him to take over the phones, which he did after a pause.
"Sheriff's Department," Deputy Powell tried.
"Yes," a quiet voice came over the phone. "I got a call from you, I think."
"Is this Nicole?"
"Yes."
"Hi, so," and the Deputy pulled out a piece of paper to write down on, "I can't say I'm calling under the best of circumstances. Dr. Sam Jones was, unfortunately murdered last week."
"I heard."
"Well, the Sheriff was talking to Trudy, your former boss I believe."
"Yes."
"And she said that round about the time you were working in the office. You were working in that office for a time, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, she said that there a man who was parked outside for a couple weeks during that time, and I was wondering if you might be able to give a description of the man you saw, if you remember him."
"His name is Caleb Sampson."
"Caleb Sampson. That's very specific. How do you know him by name?"
"He introduced himself. I think he kind of liked me."
"Wow. Fantastic. I mean, I don't know how fantastic it is, but that's great information. Thank you. We'll follow up. Can you search your memory, too, think of anybody else that you think might have had it in for the doctor?"
"His friend."
"His friend."
"Bill Peterman."
"Wow. You have in incredible memory, Nicole."
"I wrote down their names, officer--"
"Deputy."
"Deputy. I thought this would happen a lot quicker than it did, and I meant to go straight to the Department with it, but I guess I got shy."
"Well that's a shame. Might have stopped this whole thing before it happened."
"I know that, deputy, and I'm very, very sorry."
"You didn't do anything. It can be hard sometimes to accuse people of things they haven't yet done, anyway."
The deputy looked at what he'd wrote.
"Now, Nicole, this is the real hard part. At what point you can you come in for an interview with the department, because it appears you are a material witness in a murder investigation, and we really, really, could use you to sit down and get something written and signed."
"I'm still in school, deputy."
"No rush. Sometime in the next week or so?"
"Yes, entirely. I'll come home this weekend."
"That's wonderful. You're a superstar. I really, really appreciate all this. Gonna make me look great."
"Okay. I'm really glad I could help."
The deputy hung up the phone and then got on the radio.
He ran to the Sheriff's office, and threw the piece of paper in his face.
"We got them."
The Sheriff looked at him. "Who we got?"
"The two boys. Their names are Caleb Sampson and Bill Peterman."
"What? Who says?"
"The girl that worked in Sam's office. Says one tried to hit on her introduced himself and must have introduced his friend."
"Boys will be boys. Well this is great, deputy."
"The girl says she's going to go come in this weekend and give a statement."
"That's great."
"Well, I'll be at the phones."
The Sheriff looked at the piece of paper. They had their boys. But the question now was, who else was involved?
Wednesday, May 6, 2020
3:45 PM
20
3:45 PM
Sheriff Donnelly sat in his office looking over Ginger's file. The way it had happened was, her husband had left her and moved in with his girlfriend. She showed up drunk to the new address brandishing a firearm and told him she was going to kill herself. By the time a Sheriff's Deputy arrived, she'd given up and was on the ground in tears. She was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct and public intoxication.
The Sheriff and Myra had prayed a lot for her, but she descended further into alcoholic madness before she came along the ministry of Ben Damand, and she became reborn. Since then, she'd been a good citizen, kept out of trouble, but something told the Sheriff that the wheels had really never stopped turning for her. She had just, adjusted the target of her almost limitless rage on other things.
And then there was the reverend himself to consider, no stranger to trouble. He'd been arrested no fewer than five times in the last few years, usually on trespass charges related to practices which performed abortions in the county. He had, or at least publicly showed to have, very little respect for authority other than his own.
Now, he didn't believe either on of them or even both of them together was capable of a criminal conspiracy of this magnitude, but they were both guilty of crimes of moral turpitude, and the sad thing was, people capable of crime are really one and the same. Big crimes, small crimes, criminals were criminals. All people are going to go through challenges in life. Most people go through those challenges without committing crimes. Some do. The people that do are liable to blame the challenges, but the truth is, their personality either forbade or accepted their criminal conduct as a tool to get them what they wanted.
From the outside, the Sheriff couldn't say what it was that the two of them had done, but it was clear that they were capable of crime; were in fact criminals. The question was how far did their criminality allow them to veer into deviant behavior?
He'd have to pay them another visit on the idea that he needed more background information on the killers. This time, though, he was going to lay it all out there rather than wait to find out what had been going on behind closed doors.
3:45 PM
Sheriff Donnelly sat in his office looking over Ginger's file. The way it had happened was, her husband had left her and moved in with his girlfriend. She showed up drunk to the new address brandishing a firearm and told him she was going to kill herself. By the time a Sheriff's Deputy arrived, she'd given up and was on the ground in tears. She was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct and public intoxication.
The Sheriff and Myra had prayed a lot for her, but she descended further into alcoholic madness before she came along the ministry of Ben Damand, and she became reborn. Since then, she'd been a good citizen, kept out of trouble, but something told the Sheriff that the wheels had really never stopped turning for her. She had just, adjusted the target of her almost limitless rage on other things.
And then there was the reverend himself to consider, no stranger to trouble. He'd been arrested no fewer than five times in the last few years, usually on trespass charges related to practices which performed abortions in the county. He had, or at least publicly showed to have, very little respect for authority other than his own.
Now, he didn't believe either on of them or even both of them together was capable of a criminal conspiracy of this magnitude, but they were both guilty of crimes of moral turpitude, and the sad thing was, people capable of crime are really one and the same. Big crimes, small crimes, criminals were criminals. All people are going to go through challenges in life. Most people go through those challenges without committing crimes. Some do. The people that do are liable to blame the challenges, but the truth is, their personality either forbade or accepted their criminal conduct as a tool to get them what they wanted.
From the outside, the Sheriff couldn't say what it was that the two of them had done, but it was clear that they were capable of crime; were in fact criminals. The question was how far did their criminality allow them to veer into deviant behavior?
He'd have to pay them another visit on the idea that he needed more background information on the killers. This time, though, he was going to lay it all out there rather than wait to find out what had been going on behind closed doors.
12:11 PM
19
12:11 PM
Margaret was frantic over the dispatch.
"We found the address. It's in Louisiana."
"Can you call my office and have them book a flight?"
"I don't have your office number, Agent."
"It's okay. I'll call when we get back to the Department."
"On to Louisiana, then," Sheriff Donnelly noted.
"Wherever the case leads me. Looks like you've got quite a bit to go through here, though, and you've got to follow up get the landlord's records. I really suspect the rabbit hole goes down pretty far with him, and you suspect that pastor and that woman."
"Think I'll take direction from the Texas Rangers."
"Yeah, I suppose that's best."
"Well, I really appreciate it, Sheriff. You've been a tremendous help. You're a good lawman. And I'll be back real soon, I think, because there's a whole lot more to investigate here."
"And who knows, could be a dead end."
"Could be."
They went back to the Department and Agent Danley called his secretary to make the arrangements and his secretary called the New Orleans field office to send an advance team to survey the situation.
Agent Danley went back to the motel to pack up his things. He drove back to the field office and then got a cab to the airport. At the gate, he thought about everything, and realized that as much evil as he saw, he saw a lot more good. There was trouble brewing, and he didn't know yet how that would all go, but there were good people to try to thwart it. Agent Danley just hoped it would be enough to stem the tide.
He wondered how things were back at the office. He highly suspected that Agent Harper was trying to undercut him, and he knew there was a lot riding on making one or several arrests to account for Agent Danley and his mission. In fact, Agent Danley high suspected that he was going to be reassigned regardless of the outcome of this investigation. It was a mission whose time had not yet come, and that generally meant, in a large and sprawling bureaucracy at the behest of political leaders, it just wasn't necessary.
Then he thought about the trip to Palestine he had taken at the expense of the Department to learn from the Mossad about counter-terrorism. The Agent he had talked to explained some of the psychology of terrorism, and Agent Danley was thinking hard about what it may mean for the future of the American republic.
Colonialism had stripped away the past of Arab people, through a series of convenient alliances to extract oil and revolutionary communism which expressly forbid the past to be expressed. When people's history is erased, they do not fail to yearn for it; instead, they make it up as they go along, and they become intolerant both of their parents, who they blame for not adhering to a version of the past which they invented in their mind, and outsiders, who they think are naturally intransigent to them practicing their "traditions." Ultimately, because they live in a fantasy world, in which the reality of the past must be erased to invent a new one that is ideologically pure, there is no way to reconcile them with a future of accommodation. They invent that their ancestors would not have accommodated foreigners or new ways of being, and they will never see any benefit to cooperation.
That colonialism is, in many ways, still at work, precludes much popular support for a way forward for Arabs that involves accommodation with the West or with Israel. They still are being taken advantage of, in innumerable ways, and the socialist leaders are truly no better than the colonial overlords.
To keep control over the population, in truth, both Soviet and colonial agents have encouraged proxy warfare between tribal groups, which has created a fractured landscape in which identity never has a chance to develop peacefully. It is constantly being manipulated and ethnic tensions are, when necessary to achieve geopolitical ends, exacerbated.
America was a colony of Britain. The American South was set up for a rich and politically well-connected planter class to control all the levers of power. African American slaves were marketed by the Crown and then brought in in great numbers. To control the population, Britain encouraged reducing the status of African slaves until they were little better than animals. Other Southern Whites, especially those of the upcountry, found themselves left out of the privilege of their rich and politically well-connected "brethren" and, led by revolutionaries like Andrew Johnson, helped halt the advance of the Confederacy in the South, which fell on ethnic and class divisions created by the British to monetize their colonial possessions.
Southerners in the years after the Civil War, searched for a Southern identity, embracing terrorist organizations like the Ku Klux Klan rather than admit that their ancestors, like Jefferson, were reliant on but abhorred slavery, and well recognized the colonial imposition of slavery on the colonies, and the need to end it and find a way forward that was not so reliant on the domination of one group over another based on something as flimsy as race. That Jim Crow developed was predictable, and that the Civil Rights movement developed to defeat it was an equally predictable Federal countermeasure. Defeat of the colonial legacy of slavery and racism has always come from above and never included Southerners in either its drafting or implementation. This has caused Southerners to tug closely to their "Southern heritage" which shifts in meaning so often that it, like Arab identity, seems to have little meaning outside of terrorism against a maligned race that, lo and behold, was the assigned enemy by their previous colonial overlords.
That being pro-life should have become inextricably linked to the formation of Southern identity perhaps is a recognition that it needed something which was not explicitly racist, though the interweaving of dreamed theocratic Christian institutions and a Master Race utopia are so similar as to really be one concept. The confusion of having had your identity stripped from you manifests as nihilism. Because the past and present cannot be reconciled into a workable future, all must be sacrificed to reflecting a vision of the past which vindicates Southern-ness. If need be, everything will be literally blown up rather than admit to a new Southern identity which is anything more than the concept of White Power.
Ultimately, being understanding of prejudice is the first and most important mistake in finding an identity which does not rely on it. Too much systemic racism is allowed to persist in the South, and very little is done to train Southern institutions to function without it. Anything that is done is usually done without the input of those in charge, which gives citizens of those states the impression that the Federal government is really in charge of the situation, when it cares enough to do something about it, and when it does not, it will leave Southern states to their own devices, with inevitable consequences.
The legacy of colonialism and racism will need to be dealt with at some point. Being Southern does not somehow necessitate being racist or intolerant in any way. That being Southern has been defined as such both by the messianic nihilists that claim themselves the defenders of the South and also by those in other American regions shows just how much work there is to be done to exorcise the demons of the past. Southern states are only places. A new identity is easy enough to craft. It was easy enough for those that claim they are recreating the proud history of the South.
12:11 PM
Margaret was frantic over the dispatch.
"We found the address. It's in Louisiana."
"Can you call my office and have them book a flight?"
"I don't have your office number, Agent."
"It's okay. I'll call when we get back to the Department."
"On to Louisiana, then," Sheriff Donnelly noted.
"Wherever the case leads me. Looks like you've got quite a bit to go through here, though, and you've got to follow up get the landlord's records. I really suspect the rabbit hole goes down pretty far with him, and you suspect that pastor and that woman."
"Think I'll take direction from the Texas Rangers."
"Yeah, I suppose that's best."
"Well, I really appreciate it, Sheriff. You've been a tremendous help. You're a good lawman. And I'll be back real soon, I think, because there's a whole lot more to investigate here."
"And who knows, could be a dead end."
"Could be."
They went back to the Department and Agent Danley called his secretary to make the arrangements and his secretary called the New Orleans field office to send an advance team to survey the situation.
Agent Danley went back to the motel to pack up his things. He drove back to the field office and then got a cab to the airport. At the gate, he thought about everything, and realized that as much evil as he saw, he saw a lot more good. There was trouble brewing, and he didn't know yet how that would all go, but there were good people to try to thwart it. Agent Danley just hoped it would be enough to stem the tide.
He wondered how things were back at the office. He highly suspected that Agent Harper was trying to undercut him, and he knew there was a lot riding on making one or several arrests to account for Agent Danley and his mission. In fact, Agent Danley high suspected that he was going to be reassigned regardless of the outcome of this investigation. It was a mission whose time had not yet come, and that generally meant, in a large and sprawling bureaucracy at the behest of political leaders, it just wasn't necessary.
Then he thought about the trip to Palestine he had taken at the expense of the Department to learn from the Mossad about counter-terrorism. The Agent he had talked to explained some of the psychology of terrorism, and Agent Danley was thinking hard about what it may mean for the future of the American republic.
Colonialism had stripped away the past of Arab people, through a series of convenient alliances to extract oil and revolutionary communism which expressly forbid the past to be expressed. When people's history is erased, they do not fail to yearn for it; instead, they make it up as they go along, and they become intolerant both of their parents, who they blame for not adhering to a version of the past which they invented in their mind, and outsiders, who they think are naturally intransigent to them practicing their "traditions." Ultimately, because they live in a fantasy world, in which the reality of the past must be erased to invent a new one that is ideologically pure, there is no way to reconcile them with a future of accommodation. They invent that their ancestors would not have accommodated foreigners or new ways of being, and they will never see any benefit to cooperation.
That colonialism is, in many ways, still at work, precludes much popular support for a way forward for Arabs that involves accommodation with the West or with Israel. They still are being taken advantage of, in innumerable ways, and the socialist leaders are truly no better than the colonial overlords.
To keep control over the population, in truth, both Soviet and colonial agents have encouraged proxy warfare between tribal groups, which has created a fractured landscape in which identity never has a chance to develop peacefully. It is constantly being manipulated and ethnic tensions are, when necessary to achieve geopolitical ends, exacerbated.
America was a colony of Britain. The American South was set up for a rich and politically well-connected planter class to control all the levers of power. African American slaves were marketed by the Crown and then brought in in great numbers. To control the population, Britain encouraged reducing the status of African slaves until they were little better than animals. Other Southern Whites, especially those of the upcountry, found themselves left out of the privilege of their rich and politically well-connected "brethren" and, led by revolutionaries like Andrew Johnson, helped halt the advance of the Confederacy in the South, which fell on ethnic and class divisions created by the British to monetize their colonial possessions.
Southerners in the years after the Civil War, searched for a Southern identity, embracing terrorist organizations like the Ku Klux Klan rather than admit that their ancestors, like Jefferson, were reliant on but abhorred slavery, and well recognized the colonial imposition of slavery on the colonies, and the need to end it and find a way forward that was not so reliant on the domination of one group over another based on something as flimsy as race. That Jim Crow developed was predictable, and that the Civil Rights movement developed to defeat it was an equally predictable Federal countermeasure. Defeat of the colonial legacy of slavery and racism has always come from above and never included Southerners in either its drafting or implementation. This has caused Southerners to tug closely to their "Southern heritage" which shifts in meaning so often that it, like Arab identity, seems to have little meaning outside of terrorism against a maligned race that, lo and behold, was the assigned enemy by their previous colonial overlords.
That being pro-life should have become inextricably linked to the formation of Southern identity perhaps is a recognition that it needed something which was not explicitly racist, though the interweaving of dreamed theocratic Christian institutions and a Master Race utopia are so similar as to really be one concept. The confusion of having had your identity stripped from you manifests as nihilism. Because the past and present cannot be reconciled into a workable future, all must be sacrificed to reflecting a vision of the past which vindicates Southern-ness. If need be, everything will be literally blown up rather than admit to a new Southern identity which is anything more than the concept of White Power.
Ultimately, being understanding of prejudice is the first and most important mistake in finding an identity which does not rely on it. Too much systemic racism is allowed to persist in the South, and very little is done to train Southern institutions to function without it. Anything that is done is usually done without the input of those in charge, which gives citizens of those states the impression that the Federal government is really in charge of the situation, when it cares enough to do something about it, and when it does not, it will leave Southern states to their own devices, with inevitable consequences.
The legacy of colonialism and racism will need to be dealt with at some point. Being Southern does not somehow necessitate being racist or intolerant in any way. That being Southern has been defined as such both by the messianic nihilists that claim themselves the defenders of the South and also by those in other American regions shows just how much work there is to be done to exorcise the demons of the past. Southern states are only places. A new identity is easy enough to craft. It was easy enough for those that claim they are recreating the proud history of the South.
Tired of the Future
How can you be tired
Of what has not yet happened?
How can you lament
What has not yet come to pass?
And what satisfaction
Can meditating on it bring,
Since no one can say
What the future will hold?
Yes, you say,
To worry about it is folly,
And rightly so,
But if you look at the present,
There can be no hope for the future.
All that is left,
Is misery
And destitution.
The end result of any life,
Not matter how great, is still death,
And the persistent limitations
Of our winner-take-all system
Means penury
For all but a lucky few.
And, my, the jokes on them too!
For fortunes, like lives, are neither spared.
I wish I had hopeful words,
But no, this is an open-ended lament.
For there can be no hope,
When considering what's to come.
I am tired of the future,
Before it has yet begun,
And when I look on babes.
Still nursing at the breast,
I see not hope
But tireless misery/
Why were they born?
To what will their life amount?
I am jealous now
Of them that have passed,
And those
That were spared being born.
Theirs is happiness.
And those that have life,
Well, they are not blessed
For the terrible responsibility.
To make worthwhile
This time on Earth,
Is too great for any
But the luckiest among us.
Take away the future
I pray
Take away the many tomorrows
That birth terrible beasts
They will stalk you
And they will kill your dreams
Stillborn in your breast
And then they will eat you whole
Of what has not yet happened?
How can you lament
What has not yet come to pass?
And what satisfaction
Can meditating on it bring,
Since no one can say
What the future will hold?
Yes, you say,
To worry about it is folly,
And rightly so,
But if you look at the present,
There can be no hope for the future.
All that is left,
Is misery
And destitution.
The end result of any life,
Not matter how great, is still death,
And the persistent limitations
Of our winner-take-all system
Means penury
For all but a lucky few.
And, my, the jokes on them too!
For fortunes, like lives, are neither spared.
I wish I had hopeful words,
But no, this is an open-ended lament.
For there can be no hope,
When considering what's to come.
I am tired of the future,
Before it has yet begun,
And when I look on babes.
Still nursing at the breast,
I see not hope
But tireless misery/
Why were they born?
To what will their life amount?
I am jealous now
Of them that have passed,
And those
That were spared being born.
Theirs is happiness.
And those that have life,
Well, they are not blessed
For the terrible responsibility.
To make worthwhile
This time on Earth,
Is too great for any
But the luckiest among us.
Take away the future
I pray
Take away the many tomorrows
That birth terrible beasts
They will stalk you
And they will kill your dreams
Stillborn in your breast
And then they will eat you whole
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
10:58 AM
18
10:58 AM
"Listen, Agent Danley," Sheriff Donnelly began. "I've been turning over what Ben Damand said to me more and more in my mind, and it doesn't sit right."
"What did he say?"
Agent Danley, like a kid in a candy store, had meticulously sorted through everything in the house, after taking meticulous pictures, of course. Everything was in front of him, and he couldn't have looked happier to be sorting through all of it.
"He said that there were two boys they picketed the practice with, two boys they said it was their idea in the first place to picket the place. Said they had told him about things they wanted to do that he didn't approve of."
"You mean like murder."
"He didn't say. But the more I think about it, and the more I think about Ben and Ginger, the woman does most of his planning for him, the more I start to think they were in all in league together."
"How do you mean, Sheriff?"
"Well, I don't. I don't know, but the more I think about the them, the more I think that they had a lot more to do with the whole thing than they say."
"You think they killed him?"
"No. No, I don't think they killed him. But I think they were in on the planning stages of the murder. I think they knew that he was in danger. And I think they might know where one or the both of them is."
"You think they directed the murder to begin with?"
"No. No, I don't think so. But you can give a lot of help to someone planning a murder without actually pulling the trigger."
"Well, that's very true. Just like the guy owns this building. I really suspect he has a lot more to do with things than he lets on."
"The landlord? You think so?"
"I never seen anybody refuse to grant law enforcement access to a vacant property before, and I mean never."
"Well, maybe you haven't spent much time in Texas."
"He's hiding something. I know he's hiding something. Maybe it's a different illegal act of some kind--I hope, for his sake, that it's something petty like his girlfriend is fourteen or something like that. But I suspect he wasn't just housing these boys for the little bit of money they gave him."
"You think he had something to do with the murder?"
"I do. I really do."
Sargent Thomas came into the room suddenly.
"The landlord wants to know if you plan on charging him for anything or if you plan on letting him go, because if you aren't charging him for anything, then it's an unlawful detention."
"Then take him to the Sheriff's Department and book him."
"What for, Agent?"
"Impeding a federal investigation."
"We'll have to transfer him to a federal jail."
"Well don't you have a similar statute in this state?"
"Not really."
"So you're saying there's nothing you can do if someone won't help you investigate a serious crime?"
"Not really."
"So what do you do?"
"Wait for people to cooperate. Get court orders that compel them to."
"Who has time for all that?"
Sargent Thomas looked at him.
"So we letting him go, or..."
"Yeah, alright, let him go. Tell him we'll be by to pick up any records on these boys that he has sometime in the afternoon."
"It doesn't seem like he'll be letting you."
"Well then let's get a court order for it."
Sargent Thomas nodded, and then left.
"Don't think they like me much," Agent Danley admitted.
"They have respect for you, Agent. I see it. They also think anybody that comes from outside has got to have something wrong with them."
"I could have gotten some people from the Austin field office."
"Why didn't you?"
"This is a counter-terrorism operation, Sheriff. They weren't going to investigate like a counter-terrorism operation."
The Sheriff nodded. Wasn't any of his business, he supposed.
10:58 AM
"Listen, Agent Danley," Sheriff Donnelly began. "I've been turning over what Ben Damand said to me more and more in my mind, and it doesn't sit right."
"What did he say?"
Agent Danley, like a kid in a candy store, had meticulously sorted through everything in the house, after taking meticulous pictures, of course. Everything was in front of him, and he couldn't have looked happier to be sorting through all of it.
"He said that there were two boys they picketed the practice with, two boys they said it was their idea in the first place to picket the place. Said they had told him about things they wanted to do that he didn't approve of."
"You mean like murder."
"He didn't say. But the more I think about it, and the more I think about Ben and Ginger, the woman does most of his planning for him, the more I start to think they were in all in league together."
"How do you mean, Sheriff?"
"Well, I don't. I don't know, but the more I think about the them, the more I think that they had a lot more to do with the whole thing than they say."
"You think they killed him?"
"No. No, I don't think they killed him. But I think they were in on the planning stages of the murder. I think they knew that he was in danger. And I think they might know where one or the both of them is."
"You think they directed the murder to begin with?"
"No. No, I don't think so. But you can give a lot of help to someone planning a murder without actually pulling the trigger."
"Well, that's very true. Just like the guy owns this building. I really suspect he has a lot more to do with things than he lets on."
"The landlord? You think so?"
"I never seen anybody refuse to grant law enforcement access to a vacant property before, and I mean never."
"Well, maybe you haven't spent much time in Texas."
"He's hiding something. I know he's hiding something. Maybe it's a different illegal act of some kind--I hope, for his sake, that it's something petty like his girlfriend is fourteen or something like that. But I suspect he wasn't just housing these boys for the little bit of money they gave him."
"You think he had something to do with the murder?"
"I do. I really do."
Sargent Thomas came into the room suddenly.
"The landlord wants to know if you plan on charging him for anything or if you plan on letting him go, because if you aren't charging him for anything, then it's an unlawful detention."
"Then take him to the Sheriff's Department and book him."
"What for, Agent?"
"Impeding a federal investigation."
"We'll have to transfer him to a federal jail."
"Well don't you have a similar statute in this state?"
"Not really."
"So you're saying there's nothing you can do if someone won't help you investigate a serious crime?"
"Not really."
"So what do you do?"
"Wait for people to cooperate. Get court orders that compel them to."
"Who has time for all that?"
Sargent Thomas looked at him.
"So we letting him go, or..."
"Yeah, alright, let him go. Tell him we'll be by to pick up any records on these boys that he has sometime in the afternoon."
"It doesn't seem like he'll be letting you."
"Well then let's get a court order for it."
Sargent Thomas nodded, and then left.
"Don't think they like me much," Agent Danley admitted.
"They have respect for you, Agent. I see it. They also think anybody that comes from outside has got to have something wrong with them."
"I could have gotten some people from the Austin field office."
"Why didn't you?"
"This is a counter-terrorism operation, Sheriff. They weren't going to investigate like a counter-terrorism operation."
The Sheriff nodded. Wasn't any of his business, he supposed.
10:07 AM
17
10:07 AM
Deputy Powell sat in the car with the map on his lap, trying to figure it out, when he realized the path of least resistance was just to start knocking on whatever door until he was told the right way.
He folding back up the map and drove to the first house he saw.
There was a rumbling the back, but no one answered the door.
He rang the doorbell again.
"Sheriff's Department," he said. "I'd like to ask you a few questions if I could."
The door opened, but it was just a little boy.
"Hey there. Anybody else home?"
The boy looked up, his finger firmly up his nose working on a booger. He shook his head.
"Do you happen to know where the Haverfords live?"
He walked up, his eyes full of either purpose or fear and pointed down the road.
"Thank you," Deputy Powell said honestly, and then he took a took a quarter out of his pocket and gave it to him. The boy looked almost like he wasn't sure what it was, but he figured if someone gave it to him it must have something good about it, and put ran to put it in a hiding place he had. "Alright then," the Deputy said. "Thank you. Goodbye."
Scenes like that made his heart break. Here was a child no more than two or three getting by by themselves. He supposed it was on him to call child services, but then, expectations were a bit different out here. There could be folks checking on him throughout the day. There was no way of knowing. Plus, could have been a brief trip to the store.
He drove down the block to what he now believed was the Haverford house, and knocked on that door.
Immediately a door opened wide.
"What do you want?"
"Hi. I'm Deputy Powell, from the Sheriff's Department."
"Yeah, hi. What do you want?"
"I'm looking for Nicole Haverford. Are you her father?"
"Yeah, I am. She in trouble for something?"
"No. Not at all. I hear she's working on a nursing degree in Austin. Highly commendable."
"She is."
"The trouble is, doctor she worked for has been shot."
"Oh, I heard about that."
"The office manager told us your daughter might have got a good look at a good might be the killer, or might even know who he is. Trouble is, she doesn't have any way to contact her."
"Oh, you want her number at school. I have that."
The man went into the back of the house, and then came out with his little book. "This is it."
He showed Deputy Powell the book with the phone number underlined.
"Thank you so much. You wouldn't happen to remember her mentioning, in the time she worked for the doctor, anybody that threatened her personally, or threatened anybody else at the practice."
"To be honest, she's the quiet sort of girl. The kind you go into her room and the curtains are on fire, and she tells you calmly 'that there might be a little problem with the curtains.'"
"I understand."
"It's terrible about that doctor, though. I really did appreciate him giving my daughter some work experience."
"We'll get the guy that did it, don't you worry, but every little bit helps, you know? Thank you for your cooperation."
"Sure, sure."
"Well, I guess I'll be on my way. You should take this card, though, just in case you think of anything, or the wife thinks of anything--"
"It's just me."
"Well, anyway, sometimes people think of things. I want you to call if you do."
"I will."
"Alright, then."
Deputy Powell rather softly closed the screen door that was bent and only on one hinge. The siding around it looked no better, with insulation coming out of a part of it next to the door. There was some furniture on the patio, but it seemed to be made of discarded pieces of other furniture fitted together, and there was quite the collection of spider webs in the dark corner by the two chairs and a tree stump table.
The front window had a hole in it which was patched up with tape, though was sagging slowly, and the whole thing was probably a stiff breeze away from falling apart entirely.
Hard to think, Deputy Powell shuddered, that these people don't do something about their living condition. But, he supposed there wasn't much to do. Not around here. Not without a truck that worked at least as often as it didn't.
He wanted to help, he really did, but instead he just went back to the cruiser and drove back to the Department.
"You get that number?" Margaret said.
"I did. I'll call her right now."
He stood there a moment too long.
"Anything else, deputy?"
"Terrible the way people are living out there."
'You're telling me! Got two cousins live out that way. Like a third world country! I don't even bother to visit them these days, got so tired of the whole thing."
"You don't think something ought to be done?"
"Oh sure something ought to be done. A lot of those people ought to get a decent job, or just move away entirely. There's nothing there. I suppose, in time, they will, or die."
Deputy Powell nodded, and went over to his desk.
He paused for a second before picking up the phone and dialing.
The machine.
"Hi, Nicole this is Desmond Powell calling you from the Sheriff's Department in Flat Bluff County, back home. If you could call me at your earliest convenience. It involves a matter of some importance."
Deputy Powell gave the number and hung up.
He still wasn't satisfied, but there was nothing much he could do about it at that moment, so he went over to the snack table and got a cup of coffee, as well.
10:07 AM
Deputy Powell sat in the car with the map on his lap, trying to figure it out, when he realized the path of least resistance was just to start knocking on whatever door until he was told the right way.
He folding back up the map and drove to the first house he saw.
There was a rumbling the back, but no one answered the door.
He rang the doorbell again.
"Sheriff's Department," he said. "I'd like to ask you a few questions if I could."
The door opened, but it was just a little boy.
"Hey there. Anybody else home?"
The boy looked up, his finger firmly up his nose working on a booger. He shook his head.
"Do you happen to know where the Haverfords live?"
He walked up, his eyes full of either purpose or fear and pointed down the road.
"Thank you," Deputy Powell said honestly, and then he took a took a quarter out of his pocket and gave it to him. The boy looked almost like he wasn't sure what it was, but he figured if someone gave it to him it must have something good about it, and put ran to put it in a hiding place he had. "Alright then," the Deputy said. "Thank you. Goodbye."
Scenes like that made his heart break. Here was a child no more than two or three getting by by themselves. He supposed it was on him to call child services, but then, expectations were a bit different out here. There could be folks checking on him throughout the day. There was no way of knowing. Plus, could have been a brief trip to the store.
He drove down the block to what he now believed was the Haverford house, and knocked on that door.
Immediately a door opened wide.
"What do you want?"
"Hi. I'm Deputy Powell, from the Sheriff's Department."
"Yeah, hi. What do you want?"
"I'm looking for Nicole Haverford. Are you her father?"
"Yeah, I am. She in trouble for something?"
"No. Not at all. I hear she's working on a nursing degree in Austin. Highly commendable."
"She is."
"The trouble is, doctor she worked for has been shot."
"Oh, I heard about that."
"The office manager told us your daughter might have got a good look at a good might be the killer, or might even know who he is. Trouble is, she doesn't have any way to contact her."
"Oh, you want her number at school. I have that."
The man went into the back of the house, and then came out with his little book. "This is it."
He showed Deputy Powell the book with the phone number underlined.
"Thank you so much. You wouldn't happen to remember her mentioning, in the time she worked for the doctor, anybody that threatened her personally, or threatened anybody else at the practice."
"To be honest, she's the quiet sort of girl. The kind you go into her room and the curtains are on fire, and she tells you calmly 'that there might be a little problem with the curtains.'"
"I understand."
"It's terrible about that doctor, though. I really did appreciate him giving my daughter some work experience."
"We'll get the guy that did it, don't you worry, but every little bit helps, you know? Thank you for your cooperation."
"Sure, sure."
"Well, I guess I'll be on my way. You should take this card, though, just in case you think of anything, or the wife thinks of anything--"
"It's just me."
"Well, anyway, sometimes people think of things. I want you to call if you do."
"I will."
"Alright, then."
Deputy Powell rather softly closed the screen door that was bent and only on one hinge. The siding around it looked no better, with insulation coming out of a part of it next to the door. There was some furniture on the patio, but it seemed to be made of discarded pieces of other furniture fitted together, and there was quite the collection of spider webs in the dark corner by the two chairs and a tree stump table.
The front window had a hole in it which was patched up with tape, though was sagging slowly, and the whole thing was probably a stiff breeze away from falling apart entirely.
Hard to think, Deputy Powell shuddered, that these people don't do something about their living condition. But, he supposed there wasn't much to do. Not around here. Not without a truck that worked at least as often as it didn't.
He wanted to help, he really did, but instead he just went back to the cruiser and drove back to the Department.
"You get that number?" Margaret said.
"I did. I'll call her right now."
He stood there a moment too long.
"Anything else, deputy?"
"Terrible the way people are living out there."
'You're telling me! Got two cousins live out that way. Like a third world country! I don't even bother to visit them these days, got so tired of the whole thing."
"You don't think something ought to be done?"
"Oh sure something ought to be done. A lot of those people ought to get a decent job, or just move away entirely. There's nothing there. I suppose, in time, they will, or die."
Deputy Powell nodded, and went over to his desk.
He paused for a second before picking up the phone and dialing.
The machine.
"Hi, Nicole this is Desmond Powell calling you from the Sheriff's Department in Flat Bluff County, back home. If you could call me at your earliest convenience. It involves a matter of some importance."
Deputy Powell gave the number and hung up.
He still wasn't satisfied, but there was nothing much he could do about it at that moment, so he went over to the snack table and got a cup of coffee, as well.
Undone
And so, when the hermit,
All content in her surroundings,
Stands back from her work,
And tells herself
I can never want for anything.
So happy am I,
In my perfectly appointed
Little home, what happens?
If she does not immediately
Consider seven things
Which she cannot live without,
There will come a knocking at the door,
And in will walk
The Ruiners,
Who will destroy the home
She has carefully set for herself.
And if they can be kept at bay
Well, being a hermit
Does not always eliminate
The pangs of loneliness,
Only reduces their effect.
So might she, in a weak moment,
Invite into her perfect home
A lover or a friend.
And if she withstands
Desire in all of its forms,
And sabotage from all its sources,
Is she still left unprotected
From withering storms,
The dreaded flood,
The wind funnel, earthquake,
And hundred forms of terror.
In short, the work of being content
Can never quite be finished.
Even accepting as fate,
Being alone and having little.
For the perfect place,
To pass a life without worry,
Is not found
In any perfect design.
To design a life without worry,
Is folly from the beginning/
No matter how close you get
To your perfect set-up,
You will find
The work can never be complete.
It is so much easier to make undone,
Than to be content with your surroundings.
So while I would never suggest
Completely giving up,
You must remember as you look around
That if it were perfect it would be sterile.
Perhaps it would be too perfect,
And it would never be enjoyed,
Not even by you.
All content in her surroundings,
Stands back from her work,
And tells herself
I can never want for anything.
So happy am I,
In my perfectly appointed
Little home, what happens?
If she does not immediately
Consider seven things
Which she cannot live without,
There will come a knocking at the door,
And in will walk
The Ruiners,
Who will destroy the home
She has carefully set for herself.
And if they can be kept at bay
Well, being a hermit
Does not always eliminate
The pangs of loneliness,
Only reduces their effect.
So might she, in a weak moment,
Invite into her perfect home
A lover or a friend.
And if she withstands
Desire in all of its forms,
And sabotage from all its sources,
Is she still left unprotected
From withering storms,
The dreaded flood,
The wind funnel, earthquake,
And hundred forms of terror.
In short, the work of being content
Can never quite be finished.
Even accepting as fate,
Being alone and having little.
For the perfect place,
To pass a life without worry,
Is not found
In any perfect design.
To design a life without worry,
Is folly from the beginning/
No matter how close you get
To your perfect set-up,
You will find
The work can never be complete.
It is so much easier to make undone,
Than to be content with your surroundings.
So while I would never suggest
Completely giving up,
You must remember as you look around
That if it were perfect it would be sterile.
Perhaps it would be too perfect,
And it would never be enjoyed,
Not even by you.
Monday, May 4, 2020
9:17 AM
16
9:17 AM
Deputy Powell was sitting in the chair waiting for the Sheriff for more than forty-five minutes. Every time he heard a noise, he got up, and then sat back down.
"If he's going to yell at you, he's going to yell at you."
"I was sick."
"I'm sure you were, but you well enough to be here right now, I suppose."
"Barely."
He slumped back in the chair.
There was a rattling of the door, and then it opened. In walked not the Sheriff but Trudy, the late doctor's secretary.
"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"
"Hi. I'm here to see the Sheriff. Is he in?"
"I'm afraid he isn't, but I'm a Sheriff's Deputy. Can you speak to me?"
She sighed. "I suppose so. I found that address he was looking for. The girl saw that man who was outside the practice for a couple weeks."
"I'll be very interested in that. Thank you."
He looked at it.
"Now, where in the heck is this?"
He showed it to Margaret.
"Wow. That's way outside of town."
Margaret showed him on the map where that was. To say it was on the wrong side of the tracks didn't do it justice. It was on the bombed out side of the county.
Deputy Powell swallowed.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Deputy. Got to follow those leads, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
He slunk off towards the parking lot, looking back to see if Margaret was going to make him. Well, goddamn if she had to, well then she would!
9:17 AM
Deputy Powell was sitting in the chair waiting for the Sheriff for more than forty-five minutes. Every time he heard a noise, he got up, and then sat back down.
"If he's going to yell at you, he's going to yell at you."
"I was sick."
"I'm sure you were, but you well enough to be here right now, I suppose."
"Barely."
He slumped back in the chair.
There was a rattling of the door, and then it opened. In walked not the Sheriff but Trudy, the late doctor's secretary.
"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"
"Hi. I'm here to see the Sheriff. Is he in?"
"I'm afraid he isn't, but I'm a Sheriff's Deputy. Can you speak to me?"
She sighed. "I suppose so. I found that address he was looking for. The girl saw that man who was outside the practice for a couple weeks."
"I'll be very interested in that. Thank you."
He looked at it.
"Now, where in the heck is this?"
He showed it to Margaret.
"Wow. That's way outside of town."
Margaret showed him on the map where that was. To say it was on the wrong side of the tracks didn't do it justice. It was on the bombed out side of the county.
Deputy Powell swallowed.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Deputy. Got to follow those leads, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
He slunk off towards the parking lot, looking back to see if Margaret was going to make him. Well, goddamn if she had to, well then she would!
6:00 AM
15
6:00 AM
Sheriff Donnelly gingerly walked towards the front door of the duplex and double checked the address, since both addresses looked exactly the same side by side.
He nodded to Agent Danley standing beside him, and knocked firmly on the door. He went around to the side of the building, which was difficult because the walk sagged a bit on the side and was cut off by a fence.
They couldn't see anybody stirring inside.
The Sheriff knocked again.
He walked back to the car, and radioed Margaret.
"Hey, Margaret, come in."
"What's happening, Sheriff?"
"I need you to call Judge Thompson, see if he'll issue us a warrant over the phone to search the premises of a suspect."
"Yeah, okay, Sheriff. I'll call him right now."
The Sheriff went back over. He saw Agent Danley inspecting the door for a way to break in.
"We're calling for a warrant."
"Wise. But any reason you think he'll reject it?"
"It's your investigation, agent."
"I want in. Right now."
"Now, listen here, Agent--" Captain Beaks started.
"We're all on the same team," Lieutenant Cantroux started.
"Yeah, the team of the Constitution. Now, Agent, I am absolutely sure that you have been in many situations where these tactics are warranted, but this this is a small town. I'm absolutely sure it can wait until you get a warrant to search this property."
"It probably can, but I can't."
They heard a honking horn in the distance, and a tan truck moving quickly towards them.
They all found cover and drew their weapons, but the truck stopped short and a big, burly man got out.
"Don't shoot me, for the love of God, and don't destroy my property!"
He ran up out of breath, and it was readily apparent that he had rather recently been in bed, because he was wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and some slippers.
"Are you the owner of this property?" Sheriff Donnelly tried.
"I sure am, but it's currently vacant."
"Well, we want to ask you about that, because we're looking for the previous tenants."
"You mean, where I can find them? Well, you let me know if you find them, because they owe me for this month's rent, and they got a whole apartment full of stuff they left behind I got to clear out myself before I can rent the place again."
"How many tenants were there?"
"Two boys. Seminary students, I think."
"Both left."
"Yeah."
"Well, we're going to need to go through any records you have on either one, and we'd also like a look around inside if you don't mind."
"Well, I'm not entirely sure about that, Sheriff, you see I still have to take some pictures of the inside of the property for my own records."
"Maybe I should rephrase that..." Agent Danley started.
"Dennis Dietrich."
"Dennis Dietrich. I'm Agent Danley. I'm with the FBI. We're investigating a murder, a possible terror cell. We need to get inside now."
"Well, I've got rights, Agent Danley, and I--"
"This is a murder investigation. Some might say you are impeding it right now. Some might even say you are aiding and abetting them by delaying the inevitable, which is we are going to get inside one way or another. There's going to be a warrant issued for this property this morning or this afternoon or this evening but either way, we're going to get inside. Now, for the love of God, can you open up this door so we can have a look around?"
The landlord look right at Agent Danley. "No."
Agent Danley slapped cuffs on him and cuffed him to his car.
"Hey!"
"Sheriff Donnelly, if you would."
Agent Danley went over and they took turns kicking down the door.
Lieutenant Cantroux looked at Captain Beaks. The Captain shrugged and then went inside.
Inside, a musty odor met them; the apartment of two bachelors.
As advertised the apartment had seen a recent hasty escape, with things thrown about and left behind in a frantic rush. It was the scene of criminals running away from the law.
Agent Danley breathed it in. "Fantastic," he said. "This is a treasure chest of information. I can't wait to go through it all."
He picked up the phone, which was still live, and pressed *69. The phone rang, and it rang, and then, miraculously, someone picked up.
"Hello?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"Well, who is this?"
"Honey, I'm a police officer, and I wanted to know, do you know someone that just graduated from seminary?"
"My brother."
"Your brother. I see. Is he there?"
"Uh, I don't know."
"Can you go get him for me if he is?"
"Okay."
There was a pause, and then she came back to the phone.
"No, he's not here."
"Hey, what's your name, by the way?"
"I don't think I'm allowed to tell strangers over the phone."
"I'm a police officer, honey. It's okay."
"Deirdre."
"Deirdre. Is there an adult at home right now?"
"No. Not right now."
"You're home alone?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I want you to tell an adult to call me, and that it's urgent. Do you know what urgent means?"
"Not really."
"Very important. Very, very important. Can I leave a phone number with you and you'll make sure they call it for me? It's a matter of life and death. Can you do it for me?"
"Yes."
Agent Danley gave them the Sheriff's Department number and then hung up with little girl.
"Wow!" Agent Danley said. "I got him. Get the call records for this number. Boy went home. He killed a man, he graduated, he went home."
"I'll radio Margaret right now."
Agent Danley looked over at Captain Beaks. "I know what you're going to say, and I'll readily admit I didn't follow all the rules. But this isn't an isolated incident, Captain. This is a campaign of terror and this is a terrorist."
"I'm not arguing with you anymore, Mr. Danley. You got your way, and you don't care what happens afterward. I kind of respect it. Don't think it's going to end well for you, but I respect it. We got a whole big apartment full of clues as to these guy's whereabouts right here, though. Suggest we ought to start working through it all."
6:00 AM
Sheriff Donnelly gingerly walked towards the front door of the duplex and double checked the address, since both addresses looked exactly the same side by side.
He nodded to Agent Danley standing beside him, and knocked firmly on the door. He went around to the side of the building, which was difficult because the walk sagged a bit on the side and was cut off by a fence.
They couldn't see anybody stirring inside.
The Sheriff knocked again.
He walked back to the car, and radioed Margaret.
"Hey, Margaret, come in."
"What's happening, Sheriff?"
"I need you to call Judge Thompson, see if he'll issue us a warrant over the phone to search the premises of a suspect."
"Yeah, okay, Sheriff. I'll call him right now."
The Sheriff went back over. He saw Agent Danley inspecting the door for a way to break in.
"We're calling for a warrant."
"Wise. But any reason you think he'll reject it?"
"It's your investigation, agent."
"I want in. Right now."
"Now, listen here, Agent--" Captain Beaks started.
"We're all on the same team," Lieutenant Cantroux started.
"Yeah, the team of the Constitution. Now, Agent, I am absolutely sure that you have been in many situations where these tactics are warranted, but this this is a small town. I'm absolutely sure it can wait until you get a warrant to search this property."
"It probably can, but I can't."
They heard a honking horn in the distance, and a tan truck moving quickly towards them.
They all found cover and drew their weapons, but the truck stopped short and a big, burly man got out.
"Don't shoot me, for the love of God, and don't destroy my property!"
He ran up out of breath, and it was readily apparent that he had rather recently been in bed, because he was wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and some slippers.
"Are you the owner of this property?" Sheriff Donnelly tried.
"I sure am, but it's currently vacant."
"Well, we want to ask you about that, because we're looking for the previous tenants."
"You mean, where I can find them? Well, you let me know if you find them, because they owe me for this month's rent, and they got a whole apartment full of stuff they left behind I got to clear out myself before I can rent the place again."
"How many tenants were there?"
"Two boys. Seminary students, I think."
"Both left."
"Yeah."
"Well, we're going to need to go through any records you have on either one, and we'd also like a look around inside if you don't mind."
"Well, I'm not entirely sure about that, Sheriff, you see I still have to take some pictures of the inside of the property for my own records."
"Maybe I should rephrase that..." Agent Danley started.
"Dennis Dietrich."
"Dennis Dietrich. I'm Agent Danley. I'm with the FBI. We're investigating a murder, a possible terror cell. We need to get inside now."
"Well, I've got rights, Agent Danley, and I--"
"This is a murder investigation. Some might say you are impeding it right now. Some might even say you are aiding and abetting them by delaying the inevitable, which is we are going to get inside one way or another. There's going to be a warrant issued for this property this morning or this afternoon or this evening but either way, we're going to get inside. Now, for the love of God, can you open up this door so we can have a look around?"
The landlord look right at Agent Danley. "No."
Agent Danley slapped cuffs on him and cuffed him to his car.
"Hey!"
"Sheriff Donnelly, if you would."
Agent Danley went over and they took turns kicking down the door.
Lieutenant Cantroux looked at Captain Beaks. The Captain shrugged and then went inside.
Inside, a musty odor met them; the apartment of two bachelors.
As advertised the apartment had seen a recent hasty escape, with things thrown about and left behind in a frantic rush. It was the scene of criminals running away from the law.
Agent Danley breathed it in. "Fantastic," he said. "This is a treasure chest of information. I can't wait to go through it all."
He picked up the phone, which was still live, and pressed *69. The phone rang, and it rang, and then, miraculously, someone picked up.
"Hello?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"Well, who is this?"
"Honey, I'm a police officer, and I wanted to know, do you know someone that just graduated from seminary?"
"My brother."
"Your brother. I see. Is he there?"
"Uh, I don't know."
"Can you go get him for me if he is?"
"Okay."
There was a pause, and then she came back to the phone.
"No, he's not here."
"Hey, what's your name, by the way?"
"I don't think I'm allowed to tell strangers over the phone."
"I'm a police officer, honey. It's okay."
"Deirdre."
"Deirdre. Is there an adult at home right now?"
"No. Not right now."
"You're home alone?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I want you to tell an adult to call me, and that it's urgent. Do you know what urgent means?"
"Not really."
"Very important. Very, very important. Can I leave a phone number with you and you'll make sure they call it for me? It's a matter of life and death. Can you do it for me?"
"Yes."
Agent Danley gave them the Sheriff's Department number and then hung up with little girl.
"Wow!" Agent Danley said. "I got him. Get the call records for this number. Boy went home. He killed a man, he graduated, he went home."
"I'll radio Margaret right now."
Agent Danley looked over at Captain Beaks. "I know what you're going to say, and I'll readily admit I didn't follow all the rules. But this isn't an isolated incident, Captain. This is a campaign of terror and this is a terrorist."
"I'm not arguing with you anymore, Mr. Danley. You got your way, and you don't care what happens afterward. I kind of respect it. Don't think it's going to end well for you, but I respect it. We got a whole big apartment full of clues as to these guy's whereabouts right here, though. Suggest we ought to start working through it all."
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