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House Detective |
| Written by r.e.potter | |
| Saturday, 09 August 2008 | |
The shot was heard even next door at the neighbor's house. At that instant, Marge Brown shot up in her bed. A woman in her late fifties, who thrived being involved in other people's business, a women who spent countless hours reading ‘who done it' books and watching crime shows on television. "Harry", she shook her husband, who was fast asleep next to her. "Harry," she shook again, "wake up."
"What's goin on Marge?
"I just heard a gun shot," Marge replied.
"A what... gun shot, go back to bed Marge, you're dreaming again," Harry said as he fluffed the pillow beneath his head.
"I tell ya it was a gun shot; I bet the next door neighbor shot his wife. They're always arguing, just the other day..."
"Will you just please go back to bed, and what time is it? I gotta get up early," Harry interrupted her in mid-sentence.
"It's three in the morning, and how can I go back to bed when a murder just took place," Marge insisted.
"You're a real Sherlock Holmes ain't cha Marge," Harry mumbled with his head now buried beneath his pillow.
Harry was slightly older than Marge in his mid sixties, and didn't share in his wife's interest in reading or watching television. Harry was an old fashion kind of guy. He referred to soft drinks as soda pop and spent most of his retired time in his shed out back tinkering. At night, when Marge is sitting in front of the television watching show after show, Harry is sitting in his favorite chair listening to sounds from the big band orchestras of the forties on his record player. He even kept the tradition from when he was a child in wearing a stocking cap to bed, something that Marge would always giggle at.
It was a cool summer's night and Marge had the window to their bedroom opened to enjoy a bit of freshness the night air was offering. She had the reputation as the neighborhood busybody, and gladly accepted an unofficial role as the ‘neighborhood watch cop', a title she had more than happily given to herself. With a detective's spirit, she rose out of bed and went to the window and started peering into the night, observing the neighbors house. She noticed a light on at the house next door which she believed to be their bedroom, and with the shade up, she could see Danny, the neighbor, walking back and forth across the room.
"Harry," she yelled, "Get up, I see him. He just walked past his window carrying a large sack or something... there he is again," Marge spoke as she nudged poor Harry who had just begun snoring again. With that, Harry knew he wasn't going to get much sleep this night. So he too got out of bed, grabbed his robe from off the hook and walked over and started looking out the window as well.
"I just know he's done something wrong Harry, did I tell ya I heard a gun shot," Marge excitedly exclaimed.
"Marge honey, you need to stop watching so much damn television, it's not good for ya." Just then, the front porch light came on to add to their curiosities enjoyment.
"Look, someone's coming out of the house," Harry said, also excitedly. "And what's that he's carrying over his shoulder, Looks like a rug or something," Harry added, unknowingly scratching his head.
"Where's your binoculars Harry, I bet he's got his wife rolled up in there. I'm calling the police."
"Now hold on Marge, we don't know that."
"I tell ya I heard a gun shot Harry... now I'm calling!
"Now just hold on a sec, what if you're wrong, what if he's done no wrong at all. We gotta live next door to these folks Marge; now you need to think about that."
"I don't need to think when common logic is staring you right dab in the face. First the gun shot, and now he's over there doing only God knows what, and doing it with no business being up this time of night. Heck Harry, I can't even think about what he's done to his poor wife, and besides, how they gonna know if we call the police anyway, that's confidential."
"I just think we ought a... Wait, what's he doin now," Harry said pressing his face up against the window screen.
"He's putting his dead wife's body in the trunk of his car is what he's doin now Harry."
The neighbor was Daniel Baxter, whom with his wife Carol had lived next door to Harry and Marge for almost two and a half years. Rather quiet in their ways, the Baxter's more or less kept to themselves. Never once during the past two years had the Baxter's attended the neighborhood block party held yearly at the end of their road, and never once making any attempt to be friendly at all. Just an occasional wave when they saw each other out in their yards, or a half-heartedly nod when they passed each other during an evening stroll through the neighborhood, was all anyone knew about them. Marge always had her suspicions about them. But then again, Marge always had suspicions about everyone.
"I tell ya I heard a gun shot... now I'm calling the cops," Marge said as she reached for the phone.
Marge dialed 911 and told the police all that she had witnessed, starting with the gun shot she heard all the way to that exact moment. She told the police that she saw her neighbor carrying what looked to her like a body to the car, rolled up inside a carpet. That Daniel Baxter then opened the trunk to that car, and shoved what he was carrying inside that trunk, he then wiped his hands, looked around suspiciously and drove off. Marge even mentioned though she wasn't sure, that she could have sworn he also tossed a shovel in to the trunk of his car as well. Marge had a history of embellishing the truth to get her point more dramatically across. Something Harry knew she had picked up from all the books and television she would watch. She then gave the police a description of the car he was in, and what direction he appeared to be heading. After giving all the information to the police she had known up to that point, she hung up the phone, and along with her husband Harry, continued staring into the dark night... imagining the unimaginable.
Forty minutes later they saw headlights coming from down the street. They assumed it was their neighbor Daniel arriving back home already having disposed of his wife's body, but they were wrong... It was the police; a police cruiser was pulling into Harry and Marge's driveway. Within minutes, two officers were inside the house talking with Harry and Marge about the night's events. Sergeant Sam Evans, the senior of the two, had been on the force for twenty five years. With no desire for college, his father, a high ranking detective at that time, had given Sam the opportunity with the force. Although he started out filing papers, Sam was a hustler, and quickly climbed the ladder to his status of Sergeant. The other officer, Bill Wingate, was an eager rookie with high hopes as well. Sam Evans began asking questions in the direction of both Harry and Marge, even though Marge was more than willing to speak for both of them.
"Did you know Daniel Baxter, your neighbor very well? The Sergeant asked.
"Why, did he do something wrong, did he kill her...I just knew it," Marge answered back.
"Did he kill whom? The sergeant asked.
"His wife of course, insisted Marge."
"No ma'am, I'm sure his wife is fine. But I need to know if you or your husband has ever noticed any other suspicious activities from your neighbor in question? The sergeant asked, looking at both of them.
"No, not really," said Harry.
"They're always fighting, I can hear them from over here," Marge blurted out.
"With all do respect ma'am, it's not their fighting we're concerned with, Bill Wingate answered back as he nonchalantly glanced at his partner Sam with a humorous smile at Marge's enthusiasm."
"What exactly do you mean officer," Harry asked.
"We spotted the vehicle in question about ten miles south of here. Checked out the tags, and knew it to be the man you and your wife called in about."
"Did you stop him? Did you pull him over and find out what he put in his trunk at this ungodly hour officer," Marge asked the Sergeant.
"No ma'am," the sergeant responded. "We decided to follow him with an unmarked cruiser to see just exactly where he would lead us."
"Did he lead you to the river? I bet that's where he was planning to dump the body. You know, I saw an episode of CSI on T.V... Marge offered as the two officers again looked at each other in amusement.
"Marge please" Harry interrupted his annoying wife, "let the officer finish telling us what it was he was saying."
"Thank you," the sergeant nodded in the direction of Harry.
"As I was saying, we followed your neighbor Daniel Baxter about five more miles. He stopped at the local home storage facility on West Twenty Third Street.
"I know that place", Harry said as if it would help the officers in any way.
"Anyway," the Sergeant continued, "we approached him at that time, and asked him to step from his vehicle.
"Oh my, did he give you any trouble? Marge asked. "No ma'am he didn't, in fact, he was quite polite, and he gave us permission to search his vehicle. You were right on one thing, there was in deed a carpet rolled-up in the trunk, but that's not what caught our attention. Inside the carpet, rolled up were six priceless paintings that were stolen from the exhibit at the museum last week..."
"I heard about that," Harry jumped in with a look of knowledge on his face. "They said it was the biggest heist the United States has ever had," he also added.
"It was in deed," I assume your neighbor thought that if he were polite and cooperated, we'd ask him a few questions as to why he was out so late and then let him carry on with his business," the Sergeant said. "It's estimated the total price of those paintings is well worth more then twenty million. We had a vague description of the man we were looking for, even the color of the vehicle used in the heist, but nothing more to go on. I believe that's why he chose to move those paintings at this hour of the night; he knew we were getting close."
"But what about the gun shot I heard," cried Marge to the sergeant?
"I'm not sure ma'am," the sergeant said. "Perhaps you heard a car backfire."
"Backfire! Listen, I know a shot when I hear one, and I heard a gunshot I tell ya," Marge persisted. Just then, a noise across the room disrupted her blathering. A book had fallen off the shelf onto the floor making a loud thud sound. The sergeant went over to the area and discovered that the book end that should have been holding all the books in place was missing.
"Oh dear, I've been meaning to get that replaced," Marge said.
"The other day it fell on the floor and broke, I guess I'd forgotten all about it." The sergeant then noticed another book lying on the metal air vent that was part of the wood flooring. He picked it up and said, "Perhaps ma'am, this is your phantom gun shot, nothing more than a fallen book." He took the rather thick book and lifted it shelf high, then dropped it onto the metal vent below. It crashed down with a loud bang that could easily be mistaken for a gun shot in the quiet, and stillness of the night.
"That's it," Marge yelled. "I'm sure that's the sound I heard."
"Now hold on a sec; you mean to tell me, I'm up at this God forsaken hour with the police standing in my living room, and a neighbor soon to be going to the big house, all because a damn book fell off the shelf," Harry was asking anyone who would listen.
"Mr. Brown; Because of that fallen book, we have just apprehended a criminal responsible for the biggest Art Caper this country has ever seen. We might never have caught him, and quite possibly Mr. Brown, will now apprehend the others who were also involved in this crime."
"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle," Marge said, "if that don't beat all, a book of all things." The Sergeant then, before leaving the house, bent over and picked up the book he had just dropped on the vent moments earlier, and noticed something even more bizarre then the night's unfolding mystery. "Ma'am, I beg your pardon, but I'll be the monkey's uncle tonight." He then held the book up, the book that had started it all, the book that was mistaken for gun fire, and the book that had solved the crime of the century; was titled ironically enough, ‘To Catch a Thief.'
"Well... if that don't beat all," Marge said as she fell back down on a chair. And Harry could only stand there, staring with tired eyes at his red faced wife, mumbling under his breath, "a real Sherlock Holmes you are Marge...a real Sherlock Holmes.
R.E.Potter Copyright 2008 r.e.potter |
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