Almost Perfect Crime

4–6 minutes

spwilcen

It was late fall.  Harvest season was in full swing.  A moneymaker for farmers, their families, and employees.  City folks were drawn to farm and field to snarf-up the year’s last farm-fresh fruits and veggies.  Enterprising marketers added hayrides, corn mazes, bonfires, s’mores and weenie roasts, apple cider and doughnuts, and cutesy home crafts. 

More commercial farms had all the goodies. That included a modest building showcasing produce and ready-made seasonal snacks.  Largest farms even had sit-down eateries for coffee, doughnuts, pie slices with ice cream, popcorn, the whole harvest megillah, and carnival grade heart attack eats.

How much is that garden gnome? Kumbaya and yes, I’ll have a Polski Kielbasa in a whole wheat bun.

I’d just arrived at the Sheriff’s Detective Bureau office starting Saturday’s second shift. Depending on your need to stay active or your preference for boredom, second shift was a gift or a curse in Hicks County.  Saturdays, maybe a little livelier, but still yawners. You might field an occasional burglary follow-up, but fireworks before third shift were unusual.

I got the call from the dispatcher just after nine. Rescue was dispatched to a local mega-farm.  Someone passed out in the parking lot at closing time.  Or suffered some kind of seizure. No prowl cars available, I was dispatched. Tri-County rescue was thirty-five minutes away.

When I pulled into Carson’s Cornucopia’s nearly empty parking lot, ten or so folks were gathered fifteen, maybe twenty yards from the building entrance. Mostly Lookie-Lous, I had to flash my credentials to get them to let me pass.   

A frantic young lady on her knees was working on a young lad lying on the asphalt.  He was out of it, not enjoying the frontage afforded him as the lass bent over him trying to revive him with gentle slaps on his cheeks.  

“Miss, is he breathing?”

“Yes. I mean I’m not sure.”

“Let me have a look.” 

Kid, no more than a kid, fresh out of acne school, had a pulse. Just entirely out of it. I’d’ve been in his shoes, I’d’ve been paying close attention.  The lass showed classy frontage.  I snickered accounta I thought maybe he was angling for some mouth-to-mouth. Some guys will try anything.

But it was serious. The lass so young it was easy to slip into cop attitude.

“Is he dead?” asked one of the crowd.

“No. Unconscious. Everyone want to move back? Make lots of room so when rescue gets here, they can get right to work?”

No one ever listens. 

The lad moaned. Began to stir. I gently restrained him in case his collapse broke something important.

I asked the lass, “What happened?”

“He came right at closing. Nice fellow. Had two bags of candy. Offered to share while we talked. He was cute. He suddenly got all flustered.   I guess maybe I came on too strong. Like I said he was cute. It was closing time.”

“I doubt this is because you flirted. Whyn’t’cha get something to elevate his head off the asphalt? Maybe a blanket?”

“Sure.  A’right. Okay.”

“Got one here?”

“What? Unh. No.”

“Maybe something from inside?”

“Oh. Yes.”  She flirted off. I didn’t consider it a dangerous flirt.  She was maybe twenty years from making my tangle tingle.

I took off my suitcoat.  Folded it under his head.  Impressing Lookie-Lous I cared for his comfort, I was gonna have a nice dry cleaning bill.

The boy was breathing okay. Eyes fluttering. Nothing broken. No blood.  Bump on the noggin. The lass came back.  No pillow but a ratty old throw rug. It would do for a blanket.

“You okay, Miss?” She was pale even under the lot lamps.

“A little shook. Never seen no one dead before.”

“He’s fine.  Passed out.  Whyn’t you sit on that bench over there and breathe?”

She went to breathe.

The kid mumbled, “Wha, what, wha, where am I?” 

“Parking lot of Culver’s Cornucopia. Can you tell me your name, son?”

“David. David Bostain.”

“Good Davie. I’m Detective Turner. Folks call you Davie?”

“Unh, yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Groggy. Sleepy. Wha, wha, officer? Um, what happened?

“Hoping you could tell me, son. What do you remember?”

“Oh!” Davie struggled to get up.  I had eighty pounds on him.

“Girl working the register inside saw you pass out walking from inside to your vehicle.”

“Oh that. Didn’t work out like I planned. You gonna arrest me?”

“Don’t see’s you’ve done anything calling for that, son. Is there someone we can call? You’re probably gonna go to ER.”

“No. I’ll be okay. It was the candy.”

“The candy?”

“Ate from the wrong bag, see?”

“No, I don’t, son.”

“I was gonna rob the market.”

“With candy?”

“Two candy bags. Black and red.  Knockout drops on the red ones.”

“Sorry son, that’s not robbery.”

“It was perfect, see. I offer the red candy to the clerk. I nibble on the black candy. Social like. The clerk eats the red. Passes out. I grab the cash and beat it.”

“Young lady did mention candy.”

“Well. She’s cute. She held the bag and talked, never ate any.”

“You flirted.”

“Yeah. I got flustered.  She held the bag out to me. Chatting away, I forgot and ate the red candy.  Only maybe three.”

“Then?”

“Felt woozy. Knew what I’d done. Hurried to get to the car.”

“You didn’t make it.”

“Guess not.”

Rescue hauled the lad off to Hicks ER.  I interviewed the young lass. None of the Lookie-Lous added anything.  I headed back to the office to start filing a PCIS. Figured to let the Prosecutor’s Office sort things out. Division of labor. They’re better at legalling things. I’m better at detecting.

On the way back to the office, I was re-routed to an armed robbery at The Olde Mill Tavern. Perps dodged a rock salt shotgun blast from the barmaid and fled on foot empty handed. Tracker dogs were at the scene. So far, not a good night for robbery. And an early start for County gendarmes.

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exposed by spwilcenwrites “Recent Fiction – April 8, 2024”