29
Jan
“It appears to have been tampered with. I don’t suppose we could check it for prints?” Lynn examined the padlock carefully, without touching it. The sheriff was already on the radio.
“The crime unit will be here in 5. They should be able to get prints, even if for exclusions.”
“Good. Maybe the perp screwed up this time. It seems they were rushed.” Lynn followed a set of partial footprints. “Do any of these prints seem odd to you?”
Ransom didn’t even look. He had an answer. “The size? Yeah. I noticed that too. Someone has small feet.”
“A teenager or. . . “ Lynn began.
In unison. “A woman.”
-MRC
28
Jan
THREE MONTHS LATER
Her fridge was pretty bare and that depressed her. It had been two months since she lost her job at the library. Cutbacks. At least she still had her house. It was a rental and the landlord was sympathetic. She did some odd jobs around the property to help in lieu of rent. But even the best intentions can’t keep food on the table. Jeannie needed a break and she needed it soon. Too bad her dead uncle hadn’t left her with anything of value.
Then it occurred to her; she hadn’t listened to the cassette tape that came in the safety deposit box. Not that it would be of any value, but it might lift her spirits to hear a voice from her past.
-MRC
26
Jan
Butch hates his job. The only thing he is grateful for is his truck. He isn’t one of those “guys” who only loves his rig. He just doesn’t have many things to be thankful for. So, a good 4×4 means a lot to Butch.
He can see the circling birds ahead of him. He knows what it means. He is puzzled about their behavior.
“Why don’t they land?”
He has no choice but to investigate any sighting of the desert scavengers. These are federal lands, and as a Federal Wildlife Agent, he has to be sure it isn’t a large animal or even worse, a human. The Mexican border isn’t too far away, and that means dead bodies can and do make it this far.
He switches the differential in to 4×4 high and pulls off the highway.
-MRC
25
Jan
Johnny was a freak. Not in attitude or nature but, in vocation. He was an active member of “The Travelers” circus sideshow. His title was “The Spotted Boy.” He was albino and painted spots on his white skin. He joined the troupe with his parents when he was only 5. That was 5 years ago. Now, at 10, he wondered; what else is there? Why am I a freak? His parents tell him never to ask such questions as they are nonsense and can only lead to melancholy. He reached that state at age 6, so talking about it wasn’t going to make his mood any darker.
-MRC
22
Jan
“I always thought that farmed fish were bad for the environment.” Lynn wondered aloud. Ransom responded.
“These fish are starters, so to speak. They are born and raised here as if it were their natural habitat. Then released to their own defenses in the wild. They must fend for themselves once they leave here. Atlantic farmed fish grow in open water pens and don’t grow as hearty. They also take food from the natural habitats so wild fish can’t really compete.”
“So, what would over logging have to do with fish habitat?”
“You’ve been doing some homework eh Agent? Watershed. It is all about the watershed. When the rains come in the mountains and foothills, the water drains naturally into streams that lead to rivers and out to lakes and/or the open waters of Puget Sound and the Pacific. It’s those streams and rivers that are the breeding grounds for the Salmon. If an area near those breeding grounds is over logged, the waters could wash out the streams because the root systems are gone. They could also dam up do to mud that normally would be kept in check as top soil.”
“Which in turn makes these hatcheries necessary.” The light bulb in Lynn’s head came on.
“You got it.”
“So if there are no salmon coming from the hatcheries, the salmon could be in real trouble.” She was putting it all together now.
“Right, and therefore the fishing industry dries up.” The sheriff finished the thought.
“So, someone has a motive in killing off these fish. Who that is is a real pickle.”
-MRC
21
Jan
Squiggles and numbers.
How very strange.
The young man who caught The Buzzards locket had not stopped until he reached his home. By the light of a single candle, he carefully inspected his treasure. It wasn’t very pretty but the chain was in good shape. There seemed to be a thin crack along side of the bobble. “A locket?” He determined correctly. He pried it open and out fell a small piece of paper. It said nothing at all. Well, even if it did, he wouldn’t be able to read it. But even he, a poor street thief, could recognize numbers and letters. The paper had numbers but the letters weren’t letters at all. They were squiggles and dots and lines. “
Now what was it the dead pirate said about a treasure?”
-MRC
19
Jan
The morning light, similar to dusk, paints the New Mexico desert in pinks and purples. The difference is the bloom. At dusk the flowers hide from the darkness, almost in fear. Dawn brings hope and the delicate petals stretch and yawn, reaching for nourishing light; but not this morning.
The circling birds are the first sign that something has gone terribly wrong. But they don’t land. Something is preventing them from scavenging, cleaning the desert floor of unwanted or discarded waste. It is as though they choose not to. Only the flies are fearless. The body lies east of the main road that runs away from Otis. Nothing identifies the body as to its origin or even hints its humanity. It remains unclaimed and details of its demise shrouded in mystery, waiting to be discovered and, hopefully, liberated.
-MRC
18
Jan
It had been three weeks since I had my peculiar visit at Cora’s place. Peculiar was a perfect word to describe the last three weeks. The number of missing persons reports had more than quadrupled. The Marshal was not a patient man so the heat had been applied to my case load.
All of the cases occurred in the Boneyard at night. I wanted to set up a series of surveillance posts but we simply didn’t have man power. I needed to find a way into the darker side of the docks. Not a pleasant assignment, that is certain, but a necessary job. The most peculiar aspect to these strange occurrences was that all of the missing, are men. Just where did they go?
-MRC
15
Jan
When Lynn arrived at the hatchery, Ransom Johns met her in the parking lot.
“The current batch is fine. Nothing seems to have happened this time. The perp was scared away by the dogs.” The sheriff looked down on the ground as he spoke. “I could have used you last night.”
“I’m sorry. I was away from my phone. I made a mistake and for that I apologize. You reported this to Supervisor Hinch didn’t you?”
He looked right at her. “I didn’t have any choice Agent Kwan. We need the FBI’s help and it seems we aren’t getting it. We never do.”
“I’m here now.” She looked back at him, softly and with real conviction. “Let’s get this guy. Okay?”
He shuffled some dirt with the toe of his boot. “He gave you hell didn’t he?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Yeah. He did.” She put a hand on his arm. “It’s ok, you had no choice. It’s my fault.”
He smiled a little then. “There are some tracks near the point of entry I want to show you.”
He turned and started towards the main gates. Lynn gave a little sigh and followed.
-MRC
14
Jan
The late fall foliage in Cleveland was a burst of color. Geoff didn’t notice. His head was a swirl. He began the day with a promise of excitement and it ended in disaster.
“I should have known better. I am no curator.”
Which was true. Geoff was a documentarian. He had a remarkable ability to validate ancient documents and had access to libraries and museums all over the world. Why he even tried to curate was a mystery to his family and friends. The fact is, he always wanted to be a historical document researcher but found the monotony a little boring. After living 30 plus years, he learned about a Public Television show called History Detectives. He fell in love with it. Maybe it was time he brought his talents to the show. His resume was impressive enough. His mind swam with possibilities.
-MRC