Month: June 2024

Bear the Great – Chapter Twenty-Five.

<Placement? TBD. Numbering can be adjusted.>

 

The deceased blogger. Gosh how he hated to hear himself referred to this way. It sounded so final. But facts were facts. And there was no getting around it:  He was dead. His blog was kaput. And whoever had killed him was still out there someplace, either plotting, or biding their time, he wasn’t sure which. Since he’d been struck from behind, he still wasn’t 100% certain, though he had his suspicions. No shortage of candidates when it came to those wishing him ill. But the still-living had at least this much right: When it came to murder, it took all three of “means, motive, and opportunity” to garner a conviction. And that was still true on both sides of the River Jordan.

There was one misconception about the afterlife that had been immediately dispelled when he crossed over. Unlike the Big Guy Himself, you didn’t automatically become omniscient or omnipresent when you got to heaven. It’s true that time and space became a whole lot less of an obstacle. But you couldn’t be everywhere all at once. Sequential and spatial reality still mattered. Who knew?

Einstein certainly had gotten a few things right, the most important of which was that The Almighty didn’t play dice with the Universe. In fact when it came to games of chance, He definitely preferred Texas Hold ‘Em to craps. And the only sort of roulette He cared for was the Russian variety. Yep. Believe it or don’t: Those bloodthirsty ancients had a leg up on most moderns. The penultimate scene in The Deerhunter, the one where Christopher Walken and Robert DeNiro are sitting at a table, a revolver between them, with one in the chamber? Divinely inspired. I kid you not.

The other thing that quickly became apparent after death was that The Almighty had very few hard and fast rules. I mean, what good is Paradise if you have to be always looking over your shoulder worried about who’s watching or listening in? But the few rules He had, He stuck to with a tenacity that was startling. For instance, imprecise language seemed to really bother Him. Take the phrases “beyond grateful” or “beyond ecstatic” or “beyond” anything:  If such extravagance was your intent, then find the correct word and use it to convey your exact meaning. Otherwise, sit down and STFU.

Speaking of which… since arriving at the pearly gates, the blogger had been working on cleaning up his foul language. Turns out that expletives, though perhaps conveying a certain emotional depth, were examples of the kind of scattershot linguistic imprecision that the Almighty especially abhorred. In fact, swearing seemed to be one of His biggest pet peeves. Go figure.

The blogger remembered his grandmother’s regular substitutions for commonly uttered epithets: “Sugar!” “Jiminy Christmas!” “Dog it!” She was already way ahead of the game by the time she got here. He figured after he settled in he’d have to look her up. His guess? She probably was leading discussions in the Golden Age class up near the front during Sunday School, just like she’d already done on the earthly plane.

He was also pretty sure Bear was up here somewhere too. No shortage of pets wandering around the place. But none of them seemed to be attached to an owner, so he didn’t hold out much hope of finding him on the end of a leash. As for heavenly misconceptions, here was another one: The dogs still liked to sniff each other’s butts. Perhaps he should keep an eye open for a well-coiffed poodle. If one were around, he was pretty sure Bear wouldn’t be far behind. But without the aid of bacon, he doubted Bear would even bother to give him the time of day here in the Great Beyond. Staying true to oneself was Bear’s strong suit, but loyalty? HA! Think again.

 

Operator? Give me information. Give me long distance.

Get me heaven on the line… (two three four).

Gotta love Manhattan Transfer.

 

********

 

The Pet Psychic had tried to reach him any number of times, but he didn’t pick up. The fact was, she was probably already on the right track as far as sleuthing went, and she certainly didn’t need his help. Besides, he was having way too much fun watching over all those who’d wished him ill during his lifetime. He chortled every time they stubbed a toe. Petty? Sure. But if you thought the departed were beyond all that, then you had another think coming. Yet another cherished mortal misconception to flush down the celestial drain.

His better half, however, he did feel the need to send good vibes to. The police raking her over the coals like that was totally uncalled for. I mean, 20% of murders committed by “intimate partners” still meant 80% weren’t. Didn’t these people have any appreciation for the details of basic statistics? Watching her give what-for to the detective who interrogated her made him proud. And when she turned the tables, inviting him over for a little “warp and weft?” He wanted to stand up and cheer. You go, girl.

 

********

 

Posts on DEWConsulting.net fit into one of five main categories, each represented by a hashtag. Of these, #Miscellaneous was by far the most important. That’s because miscellany included not only snark, humor, and memes, but also New Yorker cartoons. The centrality of wry wit and cartoon tomfoolery to the mission of his blog just couldn’t be overstated.

#ThisDayInHistory had been the blogger’s main area of interest when he first started out. In fact, early posts were nothing more than cut-and-pastes straight from History.com which sent out a daily email summarizing what had happened on each date down the years. And there was nothing wrong with that, not really. Well, not if a little casual plagiarism didn’t bother you. The problem came after about a year or so when it became abundantly clear that the editors of History.com weren’t interested in updating the range of their selections, so things began repeating themselves. The blogger was pretty much compelled by that point to look further afield for content.

#CurrentEvents came next. The blogger had absolutely zero interest in “fair and balanced” when it came to the news. He didn’t watch Fox, he didn’t read NewsMax, and he never once listened to the likes of Sean Hannity, Tucker Carlson, or Laura Ingraham. That being said, he did realize that the NYTimes and CNN were skewed in their own ways, so he always read the Denver Post first. And  by-and-large he completely bypassed NPR: “Commercial-free” my ass. The Lila Wallace Foundation may have given support freely, along with “listeners like you,” but that didn’t mean it was unbiased. Far from it.

#WordOfTheDay reflected his love of linguistics and his penchant for doing crosswords. Outside of his better half, few of his blog’s readers felt the same way, but he didn’t care. Language mattered. And exploring word origins and associations pleased him. If others felt differently? Fuck ’em. Grandma never had a euphemism for that one, so he retained it. Cherished it. And used it often.

#Literature was added late in the game when he realized he’d been putting an awful lot of stuff like book reviews and poetry under #Miscellaneous. And when the time came later on to write his Magnum Opus – or even just a humble murder mystery – he could use it to keep track of Chapters and so forth. WordPress’ word-count feature was an additional bonus here. A thousand words a chapter times a hundred chapters equalled a hundred thousand words, or the average length of a published book. Never underestimate the power of the tried and true.

#RoxHikes was his favorite. It gave him a chance not only to catalogue trail descriptions, but also to accumulate wildlife and nature photos.  Tramps through Roxborough State Park inspired the name, but he kept track of treks from all over, even ones from faraway California on the Sacramento River levee or along the spine of the Pacific Crest Trail. The non-hiking segment of his readership probably had to grit their teeth, grimace, and just bear down to get through it all. But that was alright by him. Because at bottom this was not about them. It was about him. And if some folks didn’t like that? Well, then they could pony up the annual registration fee for their own domain name and write their own dang blog. It was a free country after all.

 

********

 

He was pretty sure somewhere along the line he’d offended somebody who had a screw loose. There was no shortage of loose screws in this old world, or of people prone to taking offense. But that was OK: He’d keep watching the steady stream of humanity down below moving like pedestrians viewed from the top of a skyscraper. Or like ants on the trail. Eventually someone would tip their hand, and then he’d know. He was seeking neither retribution nor even justice. All he had ever wanted, no matter which side of Jordan, was to know the truth. And the truth would set him free.

Just need your help picking which of these pics to use on the book jacket to go along with the author bio below.

 

 

 

 

Author bio for book jacket.

 

This is a first novel for Elliott Daniels, MD. After being Editor-in-Chief of “Wild Onions,” a literary magazine of the Milton S. Hershey Medical Center, he had a very brief career at UCLA’s Neuropsychiatric Institute, followed by a very spectacular flame-out from medicine in general and psychiatry in particular. He then embarked on a lifelong odyssey of self-discovery that included stints as an LAX shuttle driver, a factory worker in South Central LA, and doing mainframe computer programming for various commercial and government clients in six different states across five different decades.

Being a first-time novelist, the author has not yet won an Edgar®, Macavity, or PEN/Faulkner Award. But he remains hopeful. He is happily married to AVW, a textile artist and long-time educator who specializes in catering to the needs of gifted-and-talented neuro-divergent students on the autism spectrum. The couple makes their home near Roxborough State Park in Colorado, where the author is not deceased, preferring instead to hike and do CPW trail maintenance. They have no pets. You can follow the author’s ongoing exploits @DEWConsulting.net/blog where his untamed sense of snark is still alive and well. Thank goodness.

Bear the Great – Chapter One-Hundred-One.

 

As police detectives went, he was not what you might expect. Sure, he was overworked, and that made him a little gruff. But he was no Jerry Orbach. He prided himself on keeping a neat appearance, all the way from his carefully barbered brown hair down to the carefully applied black shine on his wing-tips. “Careful” was exactly the right word for him. He cared about doing his job the right way, with all the “i’s” dotted and all the “t’s” crossed. What he didn’t care for was this shitty coffee. Somebody musta left the pot on to burn again. He’d had battery acid that tasted better.

Today’s docket included the couple from Ohio who’d discovered the body in the blogger murder case. And later on, the wife. “Widow” would be the proper term. But right now, she was still a suspect. So, “wife” would have to do. He’d already interviewed the Park Ranger and found her attention to detail refreshing. Somebody like that might make a decent detective some day. You know, should they ever decide to get deeper into the law enforcement side of things and move beyond giving tours to grade school groups and doing trail maintenance with the retiree volunteers.

The interview room wasn’t quite as spartan as what you’d see on CSI, but close. Straight-back chairs and a rectangular wooden table? Check. Camera up near the junction of wall and ceiling? Yeah, sure. But no two-way mirror for the peanut gallery to watch the proceedings out-of-sight. And no blood stains on the linoleum either. Also no ash tray full of cigarette butts. Nobody had smoked in here since the Reagan administration. But there was an old “Take a Bite Out of Crime, McGruff” poster tacked to the wall. Somebody’s idea of a joke. Ha-ha, very funny.

 

********

 

They were doing the couple together to save time. Solid citizens, both of them ex-military. No prior connection to the deceased. Just out hiking and stumbled on a human corpse buried trailside. Yikes. Not exactly the kind of publicity CPW liked to put out there on social media, but you take the good with the bad I guess. Get their statements and let them be on their way. Headed for China, so they said. Must be nice. The detective hadn’t had a vacation in more than a year. Ah well. Let’s get this thing over with.

“Thanks for coming in, folks. I understand you’re traveling overseas, so we’ll try to make this as quick and painless as possible.  Maybe you can get another flight out tomorrow. Or the next day?”

“Appreciate that. Happy to help. The Great Wall’s been standing for 3000 years, so I guess it’ll still be there next week.”

“Ha. Right. So. Just describe what you saw, what you did, who you spoke to, who else was around….”

It was the kind of evidence that might be introduced to connect the dots should it ever come to a trial. But it was unlikely, in and of itself, to lead to anything as sexy as an arrest, or contribute much in the way of solving the crime. Dotting “i’s” and crossing “t’s” was a detective’s bread and butter. It wasn’t filet mignon, but it kept the lights on.

 

 

********

 

The deceased’s wife? Now that was a different story. Not a slam dunk by any means, but the stats didn’t lie: Over 12% of all murders ultimately turned out to be committed by a spouse. Those numbers went up above 20% if you expanded it to include all “intimate partners.” And she’d already been ID’ed by the Park Ranger as having been near the scene at the time of the crime. Never a good look. This woman looked like she’d been through the wringer. Dark circles under her eyes like she hadn’t slept much. The faces of guilt varied from stony to distraught. This one was closer to distraught.

“Yes I was there. But I left shortly after I got there. And I have no idea who’d want to kill my husband. Why aren’t you people doing your job?”

“I’ll worry about doing my job if you tell me what you were doing there in the first place.”

“I already told you. I was checking up on him. Making sure he wasn’t stepping out with Aelin. After I saw him head up South Rim, I went straight home.”

On a first name basis with the Park Ranger? Hmmm. A little follow-up there might be in order. But for now, a skeptical look was as good as another question. He could wait. He had all day. Well, that wasn’t technically correct. He had more to do than he had time to do it. But sometimes just getting them talking was half the battle. He cocked an eyebrow.

 

********

 

“Alright, I went in and used the bathroom. Then I went home. Look, I’m no detective, but I think you should be looking for someone with something to gain from having him dead. He wasn’t always the easiest person to live with, but no way did I kill him.”

“Tell me more about him not being easy to live with.”

“I didn’t mean ME. But he did get into it with the neighbors sometimes. And they’ve got security cameras. So maybe you should go do something useful and see what they’ve got on their backup tapes.”

“That I certainly will do, and all in good time. But for the record, you’re saying you didn’t follow your husband up South Rim Trail and smash his head in with a hammer?”

“NO!”

“OK. We’ll see what we see. And in the meantime, don’t go anywhere. We may need to talk with you again.”

“Sure. Be glad to. And next time? I’ll be sure and bring my own coffee. That crap you guys have here tastes like battery acid.”

“Tell me about it.”

 

********

 

“Oh, just one more thing, ma’am.” He hated sounding like Columbo, but he really had forgotten to ask this up front. “What is it you do for a living?”

“What do I DO for a LIVING? Jesus. What could that POSSIBLY have to do with anything?”

“Just dotting the “i’s” and crossing the “t’s,” ma’am. You never know what’s relevant until you see the whole picture.”

“Teacher.” At first it sounded like a non sequitur. But she was actually answering his question.

“Ah. Got it. Is that like teaching Trancendental Meditation? Or Basket Weaving? Quantum Physics, perhaps?”

 

********

 

She glared at him. Her face suddenly transformed from guilt to grief, then flashed the unmistakable heat of naked rage. After two beats, she let out a sigh, deflated. “If you really need to know, I’ve got a masters from USC in Curriculum and Instruction. With a specialization in Gifted and Talented. My current claim to fame is, I take care of that portion of the K-thru-8 population who are known as “twice exceptional.” That means that, in addition to testing out as gifted, they carry a secondary diagnosis on the autism spectrum.”

“Wow. Sounds like a lotta work.”

“Yeah, keeps me busy.”  Something subtly shifted in her face. She turned to face him full on. “You know, these kids, they don’t get much support in the regular classroom. Most teachers are too busy dealing with all the day-to-day stuff to spend much quality time with a kid who is bored outta their skull by fractions when they already understand Quantum Mechanics. It’s not only overworked detectives who are underappreciated, y’know.”

That got his full attention. He sat up a little straighter.

“The fact is, I DO teach them weaving. I bring my loom into class and everything. And those kids, they eat it up. The whole wide world consists of a helluva lot more than just parts of speech and American Civics y’know. And if you play your cards right, mister, I could invite you over and show you all about warp and weft.”

What the HELL? Was this lady actually HITTING on him?

“Um. Well. No, that won’t be necessary, ma’am. But thanks for your candor. And my condolences on your loss.”

********

 

Notes to self: Follow up AGAIN with the Park Ranger. Interview the neighbors. And DEFINITELY get hold of those security tapes. She was right: Whoever had something to gain percolated straight to the top of any suspect list. Lucky for her there was no life insurance. Otherwise he’d be sweating her a whole lot longer and a whole lot harder than he already had done. His gut told him she was not a murderous spouse. That she was just a grieving widow who was frustrated, anxious, and angry. But keeping a wary eye open to all the possibilities? That’s what he did for a living. And he was good at it, too.

Bear the Great – Chapter One-Hundred-Eight.

 

The killer had always been a little dyslexic. Sometimes when working on a particularly thorny coding problem, he’d transpose variable names. It was maddening, but not something he couldn’t overcome with a little persistence. And patience. He was, after all, exceedingly persistent and patient. Two of his finer qualities, if he did say so himself.

The question now was this: What to do with the shovel? This was a problem like any other, and he had great faith in his own abilities as a problem-solver. For instance, it was a bit of a hike to get up to the top of South Rim, but doing the deed on site rather than transporting a body wrapped in a tarp stowed in the trunk of his car eliminated all sorts of potential problems with DNA and fiber evidence. And disposing of the hammer in the lake? Well, he’d not thought of that solution right away, but it came to him soon enough after he’d observed her heading out to Chatfield with her own kayak strapped to the roof of the car. Thanks again for that, btw.

 

********

 

The shovel had been sitting there staring back at him in the garage for a good long while now. And he wasn’t interested in another long night sitting out on the reservoir getting stiff and cold under a hoodie pulled up to obscure his face. New moon only came once a month, after all. The solution presented itself like a gift from God after he opened his email and saw yet another annoying communique from @RampartsBob about the goddamn siding project. Sheesh. This thing was gonna be expensive. But then, almost as if manna from heaven had come raining down, it became immediately clear to him how he could dispose of the shovel.

He waited for full dark, then went out and unwrapped the black electrical tape from wires leading to each of the four security cams. No sense leaving a permanent record for any potentially prying eyes, right? The shovel would be the agent of its own elimination. He used it to dig a trench about 4′ long and down as deep as he dared without potentially hitting a gas or water line along the foundation of his own house. Then he threw the damned thing in, pushed the dirt back into place with his boot, and stomped it down more or less flat. If anybody ever said anything, he could always blame it on the wife-next-door. She’d already been a big help so far, in ways she probably could never even have imagined. But in any case he couldn’t imagine it ever coming to that. He was, after all, the consumate problem-solver.

 

********

 

Bear’d gotten out of the yard again. His early-morning sniff and pee sessions were getting longer and longer. Ginger hoped this pet psychic stuff was going to help, but she wasn’t 100% sold yet. And she wasn’t about to try and raise the top of their fence any higher. The HOA probably wouldn’t allow it anyway.

She found Bear digging in the dirt alongside Chris and Julianne’s house. Man, that dog really was going to town too. She clipped the leash onto his collar and led him reluctantly back home. Maybe an earlier-than-usual trip to the dog park was in order today. She’d smooth things over with the neighbors later if it came to that.

Come to think of it, though, that dirt looked like it had been recently disturbed even before Bear got into it. Ah well. The dog certainly worked in mysterious ways, that was all she could say. “Humpf,” was all Bear himself ever said, this as he plopped himself down on the mattress in the living room, there to await whatever the rest of the day might bring. Hoomans: Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Whatcha gonna do? Nothing for it but to go with the flow. That was Bear’s mantra, and he was sticking with it.

 

Dog is my co-pilot.

Also: Bacon!

 

********

 

The Pet Psychic had always thought of herself as “spiritual but not religious.”  In spite of how she now made her living, nobody could ever accuse her of being a flake, She was the consumate pragmatist. And that’s what she liked best about dogs. Say what you will about “man’s best friend” and all the rest, they basically stayed true to their own natures and didn’t dissemble. If they tore up the furniture or tracked mud in the house or tipped over a garbage can, you could always count on them to look guilty as hell. The trick to the “psychic” gig was to stay still enough, and attentive enough, that you could get down on their level and really listen to what they wanted to say. Some breeds were dopier than others, of course. Some of the higher-strung Irish setters, for instance, were flaky as hell. But then again, you could say the same about some humans too.

As for religiosity, she simply couldn’t abide it. Man, the stuff people did under the guise of their version of God. If dogs had a religion, the tenets were very simple and straightforward: Feed me. Walk me. Pet me. And devil take the hindmost. If dogs had a sacrament, it almost certainly involved bacon.

As for loyalty and fidelity and Lassie sitting faithfully by the well after Timmy fell in? That was Hollywood, not real life. Dogs as a group were no more loyal than humans as a group. Which is to say, “sometimes.” And “maybe, if you’re lucky.” But only after trust had been established and all basic needs were met. Anything beyond that was pure BS.

There was a saying in the dog-training community, and the Pet Psychic took it as an Inviolate First Principle: “There are no bad dogs, only bad owners.” The pit-bull who snapped and snarled and strained against the leash?  It was never an altar-boy on the other end of that leash. You could count on that being true 100 times out of 99.

Bear the Great – Chapter One-Hundred-Eleven.

<One Year Later.>

 

To: Autism Society of America

From: Estate of DEW

Re: Bequest

 

Dear Sir(s) and/or Madame(s):

Enclosed herewith, and in accordance with the wishes of the Estate of DEW, please find a check in the amount of Twenty-Five Thousand Dollars (US). To be used for furtherance of the goals of your Society. Specifically, for the improved diagnosis, treatment, and support of those on the Autism Spectrum.

Sincerely yours,

AVW, Executor of the Estate of DEW

 

<AVW missed her better half, but life went on. She took up weaving, and her work became much sought-after in crafting circles. She turned their rental place in California into a studio that was full of light and was not-too-bad, considering. Well, with the air-conditioning running full blast when summer temps in the Central Valley soared into the triple digits it was at least tolerable. She sold their old place at a tidy profit, and found that, after a time, she didn’t miss it at all.>

********

 

To: CPW District Ranger Search Committee

From: Aaron Lodge (formerly Aelin Logue)

Re: Thanks, but no thanks

 

I am deeply honored by your offer of promotion to District Ranger upon the untimely death by heart attack of the current holder of that office.  I will, however, be unable to continue in the service of CPW, as I am hereby tendering my resignation in order to pursue other interests.

Specifically, I will be principal owner and proprietor of LodgePole Services, a trail guide and support organization serving those attempting to hike the Colorado Trail. Based in Denver with a satellite office in Durango, LodgePole will provide not only water/food caching, but also medical, athletic, and other logistical support for those attempting the 567-mile one-way traverse of the Colorado Trail. I myself hope to complete the trek at least once each season.

It has been a great pleasure serving @RoxStatePark.  I wish you all happy trails.

Yours very truly,

Aaron Lodge, LodgePole Services

 

<A chance conversation with Voxdoc was the kernel of Aaron’s idea behind LodgePole. Cacheing was key to success for Colorado Trail thru-hikers. And bike-packing was a good way to get that job done just-in-time for each trekking party instead of letting supplies sit all season long for bears to break in and plunder. Voxdoc even invested start-up seed-money in the project, and volunteered to do proof-of-concept on the trail that summer. Although it was perhaps not a marriage made in heaven – Aaron still couldn’t help but think of the doc as a pompous little twerp – it was at least an alliance that promised to be fruitful over the long haul.>

********

 

To: @RampartsBob

From: Julianne Acosta Rodriguez

Re: Green Acres Groomers Boarders and Breeders, LLC

 

Dear Bob,

After we moved out east to our beautiful new home on the plains – a home surrounded by 4 acres of wide open spaces with no HOA, I might add – we decided to expand our pet services to include not just grooming and boarding but also breeding. Should you ever find yourself out this way, do drop by and say hello. Although we don’t miss either you or chapter 47, paragraph 6 of the Ramparts HOA bylaws, we just wanted you to know that we’ve decided to let bygones be bygones. No hard feelings?

All the best,

Julianne and Chris

 

<The siding replacement project was almost fully funded. And @RampartsBob, for one, couldn’t have been happier. Being HOA Board Chair was getting to be a real grind. When this current term was up, that was it. He was done. Of course, little did he know what workmen would uncover when they dug down to get to that last bottom row of siding off Chris and Julianne’s old place. But at this point, all that was still in the future. Hitting <delete> after selecting Julianne’s email from the long list in his inbox was going to be the high point of his day.>

********

 

From: Ginger Watts (Bear’s mom)

To: JLB Pet Psychic Services, LTD

Re: Bear’s passing, and other news

 

Dear Jacqui,

You were always so kind to us. I apologize for waiting so long to send this. But last week when Bear passed away peacefully in his sleep at age 11, it reminded me that none of us are getting any younger. It also reminded me that “thanks” were long overdue. 

Bear’s last year was so much better thanks to you. By the end he was slowed by arthritis, as is true for many big breeds. But he always looked forward to getting outside for a little fresh air, and to see his favorite poodle over at the dog park. His anxiety never went away entirely after the untimely events in our neighborhood, but it was much more manageable after our sessions together with you. For that we are most grateful.

You should know that the neighborhood has changed, a lot. In fact, nearly everyone has moved away, including us! Yes, we’ve moved downtown to be closer to the grandkids. The blogger’s widow moved to California, so I hear. And the groomer lady and her husband moved out east to a bigger place on the plains where they now do dog breeding. In fact, we’re going out there next weekend to pick up Ursa, our new Great Pyrenees puppy. We’re very excited.

With much gratitude,

Ginger (and Ursa)

 

 

********

 

From: A concerned citizen

To: Open/Unsolved Unit of the State Police

Re: Blogger murder case

 

Hi guys,

It has come to my attention that, after more than a year of mystery surrounding the so-called DEWConsulting case, there has been little to no progress, with no arrests being made, and no new leads turning up. At what point do you throw in the towel? Or maybe you’ve already done so? I don’t know. But here’s a suggestion: Why not try using a psychic? It couldn’t hurt. And you never know what a little empathic curiosity might uncover. Just sayin’.

Anyway, give it some thought. And if you need any help going forward, I’m only a phone call or an email away. What have you got to lose?

Regards,

JLB, concerned citizen and proprietor, JLB Pet Psychic Services, LTD.

 

<Squints came and squints went at the Open/Unsolved Unit. So the one who first opened the strange email from the Pet Psychic was not as familiar with the blogger murder case as he might otherwise have been. Still, he had enough time left before heading home to re-open the cold-case file and have a quick look. Reviewing, he was intrigued. There were a few holes that might need plugging there. Most of the principals had moved away, making his job that much harder. But as he picked up the phone to give @RampartsBob a follow-up call, he was hopeful. The wheels of justice grinding slowly had never really bothered him all that much. That was just the way the game was played. But it was the “grinds exceedingly fine” part that gave him hope each day when he came to work. This job could be fun if you kept an open mind. Nose to the grindstone and all that jazz. Gotta be worth a shot, right?>

Bear the Great – Chapter Eleven.

 

The blogger had a friend, let’s call him “Big G,” who liked to send photos of almost-underage redheads in panties and bras that looked uncomfortably small based on the depth of their cleavage and size of their butt cheeks. As a group, redheads did absolutely nothing for the blogger, but what the hell: He was a live-and-let-live kinda guy.

Big G was an ex-marine who in his younger days had done construction work in Arizona and liked to race dirt bikes. Alas, one day he attempted a jump that landed him on his head, nearly severed his spinal cord between C-7 and T-1, and left him – after an incredibly long and painful rehab – with a limp, the need for a cane, and a left arm that was basically useless. His left hand was permanently curled in what has become known in TBI circles as “the fencing position.” This was not what either he or his wife had imagined life would be like at age twenty-six.

Big G’s wife was a red-head. Maybe that had something to do with it? She worked as a QA manager for J&J and traveled the country reviewing clinical trials to make sure the company would never again suffer a financial hit as big as the Baby Powder Fiasco. Big G worked from home as a programmer for the Feds, the US Dept. of the Interior to be exact. It was a cushy gig. That’s probably why he had enough free time on his hands to surf the net searching for almost-underage-redheads every day. And often, more than once a day.

 

********

 

“Hey brother. Do you like watching porn?”

The blogger liked reading murder mysteries, not watching porn. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There was one particular video he could always access by Googling “Russian Brunette Proves Her Outstanding Sucking Skills” on a site called blowjobs.pro – yeah, that one was a keeper. But it wasn’t like he was addicted or anything.

“Not really. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just wondering. You get the itch, you let me know.”

Christ, in this day and age. When the day came that he needed porn advice, that was the same day he’d need another hole in his head.

“Thanks anyway, Big G.”

 

********

 

When it came to murder mysteries, the blogger was a real connoisseur. But when it came to writing a good sex scene, authors in the mystery genre who could pull it off might be counted on the fingers of one hand. Dana Stabenow’s Inuit heroine Kate Shugak could steam up the windows pretty good when she settled down by the fire on a cold night with her partner, Alaska State Trooper Jim Chopin. But beyond that…? He really had to rack his brain to think of somebody that could get the blood pumping. Wonder why that was? Maybe in the Freudian landscape of Eros and Thanatos – Sex and Death – there really was only room for one or the other? Hmmm. Could be.

The blogger’s wife was always reading bodice-rippers. Maybe he should ask her. He couldn’t see the appeal of some Fabio-lookalike with six-pack abs and his shirt off doing the dip with some fair young maiden with a lace-up-top in the early stages of coming undone on the cover. But then again, he was clearly not the target audience. Ah well. To each his own.

 

********

 

The blogger had a different buddy – a college ex-roommate in fact – with whom he could never discuss sex. That’s because the ex-roommate, who had gone on to become a psychiatrist, ended up losing his medical license because he’d had sex with a patient. The moron had actually posted close-ups of his erect penis on the Internet for his would-be patient/lover’s perusal. This was right around the time of the Anthony Weiner sexting scandal, or maybe a little before, but still. Some people didn’t have the sense God gave a dog.

In any case, the ex-psychiatrist was now big into Zen Buddhism and, as one might imagine, a bit gun-shy when it came to discussing details about sex acts, preferences. or peccadillos.  The blogger for his part was happy just to let it be. There was always sports to discuss instead. The Celtics were #1 in the NBA’s Eastern Conference, well on their way to their 18th championship. The Bruins were making a decent run in the NHL playoffs, though of course they’d be destined to fall short of the Stanley Cup Finals yet again. And the Red Sox? Baseball was nothing if not the quintessential embodiment of the old maxim “Hope springs eternal.” Go Boston.

 

********

 

Also, the Paris Olympics were coming up this summer. Truth be told, the blogger thought the Olympic Games were little more than a thinly disguised marketing ploy for Big Cola, Ford F-150, and the McRib. Well, that plus an opportunity for the worst kind of America First jingoists to trot out the National Anthem without actually doing a zeig-heil salute. Also without having to apologize too loudly for this country being a post-colonial late-capitalist hellscape. The last Olympic shining moment the blogger could remember watching with any sort of pride or pleasure came in Chariots of Fire.

“Hey, we’re going to Paris!”

“Good for you. Whatchagonna do, climb the Eiffel Tower? Stroll down the Champs Elysees? Watch Nathan Lane in Moulin Rouge?”

“No, you moron. The Summer Olympics.”

“Ah. Got it. Well, have fun.” The blogger couldn’t imagine any of it being anywhere remotely close to fun. But hey, it takes all kinds to make a world. This he knew as surely as he knew his own name.

 

Zen, it’s way better than sex? You make the call.

 

********

 

“Hey hon?”

“Yeah?”

“Meet me under the covers tonight for a deep discussion of Dana Stabenow.”

“Deep, huh. Sounds kinky. What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

“Okay then, it’s a date.”

 

********

 

“Where were you today? More volunteering at the State Park?”

“Yeah, I had a three-way for corridor clearing on South Rim with Ranger Aelin and Ranger Janee.”

“A WHAT? With WHO?”

“It’s a trail-building term. Honest. Trim back the scrub oak with loppers. Cut down the grasses with a weed-whacker. And smooth out any rough spots in the trail surface with a McLeod tool. A three-way.”

“Is that a real thing or did you just make that up?”

“It’s a real thing for me.”

“I guess. But just for the record? I prefer North Rim to South Rim.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

He wasn’t sure who invented these new lubes. But whoever it was, he hoped they had gotten rich off of it and were now sitting on a white-sand beach someplace warm sipping a Mai Tai. They deserved it.

“There?”

“Slower. And softer. But you’re getting close.”

“Gotta love North Rim.”

“Mmmmmm. Shut up.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

********

 

She ran one fingernail up the base of his shaft agonizingly slow. But then she stopped just shy of the glans. Hmmm, “shaft.” That was definitely a Dana Stabenow word. Not sure about “glans,” though. Maybe a little too technical for backcountry Alaska? Then again… wordplay was foreplay. She started back down, even slower. Just to remind him that, although the joys of wordplay could be overstated, this joy never could.

“You like?”

“You bet your ass I like.”

“Wouldn’t want you to feel… taken advantage of.”

“Trust me, that’s the furtherest thing from my mind.”

“Sure am glad you thought to bring along your loppers. Or was it your McLeod tool? I always get those two mixed up.”

“Honey, if you keep doing what you’re doing, everything’s gonna be just fine.”

“Is that so?

“Yep. Trust me. I’ve been down this trail before. And when it’s all over?”

“Yeah?

“You’re gonna have your corridors cleared but good. Maybe your sinuses too if you play your cards right.”

“Oooo, I can hardly wait.”

Bear the Great – Chapter One-Hundred-Ten.

 

Eleven years separated the brothers. In that time, the whole world had shifted. On one side of the divide stood DDE and the military-industrial complex. The sound track was Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons singing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.” Late night commentary was Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. On the other side? Well, RMN and Watergate, for one. The sound track was Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones belting out “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” Late night? That was Jay Leno.

Then too there was Vietnam. The older sibling got drafted, served honorably in Southeast Asia, came home, and never once talked about any of it in public. The younger came of age after the draft had ended. But he was much affected as a 10-year-old by events unfolding at Kent State when National Guard troops opened fire on student protesters, killing four.

Not surprisingly, one was a Democrat, the other, a staunch Republican. Both of them had one son and two daughters. One family called Texas home, with a vacation place on Hilton Head. The other lived in Colorado and kept a short-term rental property in California. When they went to the beach, one headed East, the other, West.

Both worked in the same industry: Computer services. And both shared the same upbringing. They had common early experiences, identical core values, and spoke roughly the same dialect. But circumstance had driven them in differing directions, with radically different outcomes.  It was a crying shame. They no longer spoke to each other.

 

********

 

The police got interested in the brother from Dallas after all their other leads had run dry. This was going to be a long shot, but at the moment a long shot was better than no shot. It was, sad to say, about the only thing the cops had left. The lead came to light after a review of Internet data on the deceased’s website – DEWConsulting.net – turned up a curious anomaly. Hosted on the dinosaur platform called “WordPress,” stats on each and every site hit were saved and stored, seemingly forever. Every IP address that had ever visited was recorded, date-time-stamped, and squirrelled away on a server somewhere in San Jose. Score one for the tried and true.

The website had been up for nearly 7 years when DEW got himself conked on the head with a hammer and buried beside South Rim Trail @RoxStatePark.  After that point there was complete radio silence of course: No DEW, no posts. By this late date the case went cold and had been shuffled off to the State Police’s Open/Unsolved Unit. That’s right, the same outfit that Michael Connelly’s fictional detective Harry Bosch worked in L.A. after he retired from active duty as a homicide dick. But this was not fiction. And it was also not L.A. The Douglas County Sheriff’s Office didn’t have the same resources that a big city police force had. It was probably unfair to say they couldn’t even catch COVID at the height of the pandemic. But maybe it was close?

 

 

********

 

The squints at the Open/Unsolved Unit included a lot of recent Computer Science grads from Boulder and DU who were just glad to be employed by a government agency with relatively deep pockets. Well, that along with good health and dental plans. So they were always happy to run their algorithms late into the night on various datasets mined from the deep recesses of the Internet. One such search yielded a finding that raised eyebrows on the DEWConsulting case as it was now known.

The deceased was a blogger who put something out there nearly every day on his site. He also was a smart-ass, posting commentary and memes that some folks found, well, objectionable. In certain instances it was downright offensive. You know the type: Always a wise-crack but never an apology. He was the kind of guy who might tend to get under your skin if you found yourself on opposite sides of a digital divide.

As it turned out, the deceased’s Dallas brother was just such an opposite number. While the deceased was progressive to a fault, his Dallas kin played golf with Dubya back in the day and ended up working for Ross Perot, if you can imagine it. He was employee #66 at EDS. The stock options made him rich. Not Bill Gates or Warren Buffet style rich. But rich enough that he could retire early and enjoy the good life with his buddies down at the local country club.

 

********

 

The thing that caught everybody’s attention in Open/Unsolved about all this was the fact that the elder brother had stopped regular visits to DEWConsulting.net exactly a week prior to the fateful day when all blogging – and blood-flow – came to an abrupt halt for the unlucky half of the pair. Based on a gut hunch, one particularly enterprising squint pushed his boss to seek a judge’s subpoena to open up the blogger’s email accounts posthumously. To everyone’s surprise, the court order was granted, And that is where they struck paydirt.

DEW posted a long rant on his blog about some unwelcome guests who trashed the Airbnb he owned in California. They actually painted psychedelic murals in fluorescent green and orange on the white interior walls. Worse, they rewired the entire house to install hidden cameras in each of the bedrooms, the better to film pornographic videos for sale on the dark web. What some people won’t do to make a buck, eh?

The elder brother wrote an email to DEW making jokes about “Hunter Biden’s artwork” and “only in California do you get such degenerates.” The blogger took exception, calling his brother “a fat fucking pig wallowing in hogslop.” The Texan said he’d better be careful about the things he said or he just might end up being sorry. The blogger replied that regional and political bias was a very ugly thing… “and so are you.” “Bite me.” “Fuck you.” “I hope you die a painful death.” The discourse went rapidly downhill from there.

“Take me off the distribution list for your daily BLAH-BLAH-BLAH BS. I never wanna hear from you again.”

“Gladly. You will not be missed.”

 

********

 

As it turned out, the Texas brother was at loose ends. His wife had died unexpectedly during COVID, and his only son had recently fallen over dead of a previously undetected aortic aneurysm at age 32.  At the second of the two tightly-spaced funerals, one of the remaining daughters was concerned enough to remark publicly, “Daddy just seems so angry all the time. I’m worried he’s going off the deep end. There’s no telling what he might do next.”

“But why didn’t you tell us she was sick? We only hear about it NOW?”

“Well, we thought she was going to get better.”

More like “It doesn’t comport with your inflated sense of self-regard.” But that part was left unsaid.

 

********

 

The police ticked off the check-box for “motive.” And a hammer was certainly pretty non-specific as “means” went, readily available at any Ace Hardware. But what of “opportunity?”  In a post-9-11 world of TSA checkpoints and tight airport security, this was a sticking point in their theory of the crime. Gone were the days when you could pay cash for an airfare and hop on a plane same-day without providing plenty of traceable ID – and indenturing your firstborn – up front. Absent the air route, it was a very long drive from Dallas to Denver. Maybe you could do it in one long day, but is that what really happened?

Nothing conclusive ever could be proved one way or the other. Certain of the squints had their suspicions of course, but it was never going to be enough for police to make an arrest. So the case would remain Open/Unsolved. Justice for the dear departed would have to be put on hold until a later date. Yeah, sure, “The wheels grind slow” and all that jazz. But this was starting to get ridiculous.