DIRTBAG CHAPTER 29

    “Oh, you won’t believe this.”  Roger was telling John about his weekend party.  “Our grandchild was chasing the dog through the house, when the dog went under the table, a table my wife recently set, our fun loving grandchild dived on top of it and slid over it, onto the floor, taking the table cloth and everything on it with him.  Oh, my wife was in tears, crying out, ‘Why me?  Why me?’ ”  His dramatic recreation, made him laugh uproariously.
    John was laughing too, although not as much as Roger.
    “So she resets the table and the guests are all sitting down and Mark, this ambulance driver is keeping them in stitches, telling them this funny story, while they’re waiting for their meal, saying, ‘I was on this call, where we had the body loaded up on the stretcher and a turd rolls out and lands on the floor.  Can you believe that?  And they’re all laughing and serving themselves dinner.”
    John was disgusted.
    Inside the hospital, Dan Murdock, chained to his bed, couldn’t move if he wanted to, black and blue all over, in a gown, nearly unconscious.
    The defense attorney followed them in and they all stood around Dan’s bed, facing him.  Josh turned to the ADA and said, “My client wishes to be put in the witness protection program.  If this is done, he will tell you everything you want to know.”
    “Personally, I don’t care what he has to say; you see, evidence has recently come to light that proves your client was in that house on the night of the murders, so I don’t need a statement from him, but if he is willing to tell me everything he knows, I might consider knocking five years off his sentence.”
    “What evidence?”  Dan’s lawyer, Terry asked.
    “Evidence that was collected from under Mary Donovan’s fingernails: hair follicles were a match to you Dan… just one question: where did she scratch you, because an initial examination of your body revealed no scratch marks?”  He paused, but the suspect had no response.  “We know about Blair Thomas.”
    Dan had an expression of recognition.
    “He was in Nigel’s home that night too and a witness puts you two together, the day you got out of prison, the day you went to see Nigel at the insurance company, where he worked.  Connect the dots Dan.  We have all we need to put you away for life.”  Pleased with himself, he leaned toward him and spoke softly.  “You’re going down for this.  It’s just a question of how much time you get.”
    Dan looked seriously worried.
    “Okay, here’s the deal,” the ADA sat back, confident he made his point, “for every name you give me Dan, I’ll knock five years off your sentence, but if I have to hear what you have to say from someone else, you could be paying for someone else’s crimes and doing a life sentence, or worse.  Now twenty-five years to life sure sounds a lot better than the death penalty don’t you think.  You could still get out of here and have a life.  It’s possible.”
    “Are you kidding?”  Terry said, “People want to kill him in here. You have to put my client in protective custody, or next time someone will kill him.”
    “That’s not my problem, however, if he said, something like, Blair Thomas committed those murders, I might have more of an interest in his welfare.  Listen Dan, eventually I’ll find out everything you know and then it will be too late for you.  I’m thinking seriously of seeking the death penalty in this case.”
    The convict was ready to kill again.
    Terry was astounded, “Are you actually trying to extort a confession out of my client?”
    “He’s free to apply for protective custody himself.”  John turned to Dan and said, “Think about my offer.  I’ll give you 24 hours.”

    Standing at the urinal, Woodman was being watched, as he pissed in a cup, his nerves on edge, after his wife sent him a large amount of money to pay off the guard and get a clean urine sample.  He palmed the clean specimen cup in his right hand, sweat on brow and underarms, stealing sideways glances at the… piss inspector.  Then he capped the cup and it disappeared in his hand momentarily, as he switched cups, replacing the clean sample for the dirty one.  Only, on the slick surface of his skin, the cup of piss squeezed out of his fat fist and landed on the floor.
    A quick look at the inspector and Woodman said, “I’ll get that.”  He bent down to pick it up, when the inspector noticed a glint of plastic in his other hand.
    “What’s that?”  He asked.
    “What?”
    “That,” clearly pointing at the hand that was hiding something, cupped unnaturally as it was over his knee.  “What have you there?  Let me see that.”  He had his hand out for the cup, he just knew Woodman was holding.  “Give me that!”  The inspector shouted.  “You might as well.  You’ll just have to take the test over again anyway.”
    Woodman was about to do that, when he turned a one-eighty and moved around a partition, locked himself inside a bathroom stall, while the inspector called for backup on his radio and tried pulling the stall door open.  “Assistance required,” he shouted, then pounded on the door.  “Let me in there!”
    Woodman flushed the dirty urine cup down the toilet; the plastic cup resurfaced.  He hit the flush handle again, but it wouldn’t go down, so he reached into the toilet to pour the contents out, just as the stall door burst open and three men in white put their hands on him and pulled him down on the floor and out of the toilet, where they restrained him.

    As this was happening, Carlos was in to see his councilor, something he was looking forward to all day, thinking about how he was going to rub against her firm young body.  Only, when he got in to see her she was unreceptive and unresponsive to his advances.  He pulled her close to him.  “What’s the matter baby?”
    She pushed him away and told him to sit down.  They had a problem.
    Taking a chair, he seriously asked her, “Brenda, what is it?”
    Pacing, she thought how to put this, then sat down herself.  “I’m pregnant,” she said.
    “What?  You weren’t on the pill, or something?”  He was aghast.  This was terrible news.  “What do you want to do?”
    “I’m married.  My husband will know it isn’t his child.  If they find out you’re the father at work, I’ll loose my job.”
    Carlos was aghast.  “You have to have an abortion.  It’s the only way.”
    She turned away, facing out the window.  “It goes against my principals, everything I believe in.”
    “Well, if you don’t, you’re going to loose everything.”
    She was crushed and couldn’t believe one small indiscretion lead to such problems; she wanted to blame him, although, as she said to herself, “I should have known better.”  She knew the decision was her’s too.  Why did she let him… ?
    Carlos put a hand on her stooped shoulders, but his hand was of little comfort to her and she wished he would remove it.
    “You know, I’ll support any decision you make,” Carlos said.
    She was feeling so stupid.  How could she…

    On Saturday, the Home Secretary of Great Britain issued a warrant for Blair’s arrest.  And all out search was made to locate him in that country, especially in the Whitechapel area, where Blair was known to have relatives.
    One constable, driving a yellow and blue police car, was on patrol in Whitechapel, looking rather glum in uniform, wearing the yellow and black cap.
    “Tell us the news then dearie,” said the constable in the passenger seat.
    “My oldest has gone and become a Mason.”  His partner said, taking a left.
    “Jacob?”
    “No, Simon, belonging to the United Grand Lodge, can you believe that?”
    The passenger seat constable scoffed.  “Ah, that Baal worshiping cult?  Evil, they are, I say, the devil take them.”
    A silence followed, the driver felt uncomfortable with his comments and said, “Jahbulon.”
    “Jha-Boo-You-Having a laugh on me matie?”
    “Jahbulon is a Masonic God, a combination of Yahweh, the God of Israel, Baal, a pagan god/demon and On or lin, meaning strength.  Jah - Baal - On, or  Jahbulon.”
    The passenger seat constable gave his partner a long strange look, thinking he sounded like a dictionary.
    They drove up Whitechapel Road.  Near here, Mary Anne Nichols was murdered in 1845, the first victim of Jack the Ripper.  They both knew the hair raising stories and the accusations the Masons were behind the crime and neither wished to bring it up, focusing their attention outside the window, when the call came over the radio.
    “Whitechapel Church, Cleckheaton, West Yorkshire.  All cars in the area respond immediately.”
    Apparently, someone spotted Blair and called the police.
    They arrived at the Whitechapel Church, a quaint brick and mortar affair, with a grave yard out front, in a country setting.  A number of police cars parked at odd angles in the road, bobbies rushing the church entrance, guns drawn.
    They ran up to the church entrance way, when someone said, “There he is,” and pointed out Blair Thomas.  He was the groom and his bride was walking up the center isle.

    Back in the states, Elaine was walking through the parking lot, when she was approached by two men in black suits from behind her.  They whisked her away with them and she found herself in the back of a black limo again.  Weiss was coolly sipping an ice drink, asking why George Moore was still alive.
    She was trying to get to it.  Actually, she was hoping Moore would die on his own.
    “All I hear are excuses, Elaine.”  He seemed distraught.  “What do I have to do to impress upon you… the importance…   Words alone will not convey my meaning.  It is obvious, I need to show you.”  He pressed a button and said to his driver…  “Let’s go with plan B.”
    The vehicle started to move.
    Elaine was alarmed; “Where are we going?”  She felt threatened and reached for her gun, that was strapped to her ankle.
    A man in black, facing her right side, gripped her hand.
    She struggled to get it back, but he held firm.  She was about to swing her other arm around, when another man, sitting to her left, put a gun to her head, and the guy on the right took away her weapon.
    She said, “Anything happens to me, they won’t stop until they find you and put you away for life.”
    The billionaire leaned back and stared at her, smiling, “Care for a drink?  We have a long drive ahead of us.”
    She looked at him, like he was trying to poison her.

    Standing along side a protestant priest at the altar, Blair, dressed in a tuxedo, was looking sharp next to his best man and all their relatives in the pews smiling at him, as his lovely wife to be was walking up the isle, her father by her side.  Blair blanched when he saw the yellow and blue cap on the man in uniform behind the pews, along the back wall of the church.  He knew the bobby was there for him and there was only one way out.
    “The bastards running,” said a constable, who couldn’t believe it.
    The bride heard that and she was astonished to see Blair flee from the ceremony, the altar and the priest, as a constable ran past her toward the front of the pews, Blair ran into one dead end after another, his path blocked by wooden pews and horrified spectators, while the police were closing in on him.
    Shocked, the bride cried, “What?”  … as she saw her precious day turning to shit.
    Her daddy was shouting, “What’s the meaning of this?”  He asked a clueless constable, who was trying to protect them from the escalating situation, by moving them over to safety.
    “Please, if you will,” the constable said, “give us room to proceed.”
    “Tell me the meaning of this,” demanded the father of the bride.
    Jumping over a few pews, forcing people to get out of his way, Blair skirted by others, stepping on toes and banging into knees in a mad rush to get out.  Once in the aisle, his way was clear.  He made a crazy dash for the door, getting maybe ten feet before the bobbies tackled and shackled the fugitive.

    By time Weiss and his men in black brought Elaine to their destination, it was dark.  The wind was howling in the trees that were bending over the sea cliff, as if they were reaching for invisible angles.
    A black SUV parked ahead of them, far from the highway, where they couldn’t be seen.  Four men in black got out of the car.
    They forced Elaine to walk a narrow dirt path, stumble over root and stone, peer over the edge, the ocean waves crashing against the rocky shore 30 feet below.  Helplessly, she looked from one cold hard face to another.
    The men in black held onto her arms, forcing her closer to the edge, while Weiss watched.  Her face pressed against the wind, blowing her hair back, her feet so close to the edge they caused some erosion, Elaine turned to the rich man and told him to get his men to stop.
    Standing four feet away from her, Weiss was laughing, then yelling over the thunderous noise.  “You see?  You see what I have to do, Elaine?  The lengths I have to go, to get through to you, to show you I mean business, that this is no joke?  Do you think I want to do this?  You think I like this?  I don’t want to do this to you Elaine, but you give me no choice, if this is what it takes to get through to you, so you understand the seriousness, of what I’m saying,” coming in close, to speak in her ear, “I’m watching you Elaine and if you think I won’t go through with it, then you don’t know me at all.  I’m a man of my word.”
    “Ahhh, please God, don’t let me die!”  She cried out repeatedly, her feet sliding over the edge, as two men held her by the elbows.  She turned to Weiss, true fear and horror in her eyes and he knew she understood.
    “Next time we won’t be having this conversation!”  He turned and walked away.
    Scared to death, Elaine felt as though she were slipping toward her doom, even when she was on safe ground again.



 Copyright 2016  William Leslie