I Witness Crime Report

     They couldn’t have been more blatant, operating in broad daylight over a period of about three weeks. I watched with binoculars, curious of the process, utterly ignorant of the evil deed underfoot. How was I to know?

     It started over a year ago when the property next door changed hands. The new owners bulldozed an abandoned almond orchard and, I was told, planned to put in walnuts. All last summer I saw tractors plow and condition the soil, to my wonder the work finished up with seeding for a field crop. Orchard development is a lengthy process, planting a one season harvest brings income off of the land while the work continues.

     Over the winter the seeds sprouted and a grassy field emerged. The grower was lucky, even with the drought, somehow enough water got to this one crop, other neighbors weren’t as fortunate, planted too late and nothing grew—agriculture is a gamble.

     But with the start of the merry merry month the harvest came around. First mowers did the cut and after a week’s drying the baling machines rolled around, finally the stackers and loaders got it all upon double trailer big rigs and hauled it away.

     Like I said, I watched the entire operation through binoculars. To be honest, writing novels is a business that leaves one open to distraction, with all of the activity right next door, I had the perfect excuse for not working.

     Yesterday afternoon, while I was doing my thing I received a visit from a young man driving a Hummer. He looked every inch the modern farmer, with a phone clipped to his ear and a female companion far too influenced by the weight-loss industry. He explained that the crop next door was his, and that the harvesters were not authorized agents but were in fact dastardly thieves—they stole his hay.

     I do not wish to belittle this phenomenon, agricultural theft is a big enterprise that seems to happen under the radar—as if somebody were getting a payoff.

      But I had a front row view to the crime of the century.

Gray is a Color, Too

Heavenly Father,

On this blustery, rainy, winter morning

Remind us that gray is a color, too

Of  dawn

Squirrels

Clouds that bring needed rain

The breasts of doves

The fur of kittens

Rail fences along country roads

Smoke from chimneys

A favorite coat

Remind us that gray is the color, too

Of wisdom

Reflection

Life’s mysteries        

Difficult choices

Father of us all, help us to remember that gray is a color, too

As we face our individual winters of the soul

Times when the warming sunshine of your love

Doesn’t penetrate our clouds.        

ah

A Crime of Violence

           “I’m sorry, Synoveh. He’s unmanageable this morning. I can’t run a class—will you watch him?”

She knelt to her son’s eye level, he evaded the look: “Luvin… ” In his papoose Sunrah smiled at his older brother.

Achen elaborated: “None of the kids want to sit near him, he won’t keep his hands to himself.”

Still looking for the boy’s eyes: “What is bothering you?”

Luvin looked down, around, everywhere except at Mother, muttered: “Nothing.”

“Is school boring you?”

“I’m tired of sitting and talking.”

“What do you want to do instead?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have chores and you can’t bother me, it’s gonna be real dull with me, too.”

“I’m okay… ”

Synoveh sighed with exaggerated weariness, rose and addressed Achen: “I’ll take him. How are the other kids?”

“Fine—I left Rajin monitoring them. He’s a very serious boy.”

“How is he doing?”

“He understands about Brenda—Suthra and Taralisa are really there for him and he’s accepting them. He believes his Mom died for something good.”

“He should be proud.”

“He is.”

“I’m glad.” Another sigh, an unintended glance at Luvin, he saw an eye of disappointment. Synoveh took his hand from Achen’s. “We’ll be in the kitchen.” She led her son across the cabin circle.

Outside the cookhouse Luenda split firewood with a maul and a wedge. She was stripped to her short pull-over tunic, yellow braids tied up into a turret-like formation, leather chaps protected legs from splinters. Muscles worked smoothly, sweat ran, heavy metal tools rang and cracking logs snapped. She scarcely paused to nod greetings at mother and child going by.

Dirtiest chore at Branch House was the monthly cleaning of the huge stove and it was Synoveh’s turn. A cold breakfast morning warmed only by tea brewed on hearths in the separate cabins.

Achen, Luenda and Cardomon

      “Knock-knock… ”

      “Achen!” Luenda set mallet and chisel down atop her workbench, peeled safety glasses off, hung them on the pegboard and stepped away from shaping staves for a new drum. “This is a welcome interruption, I should get up a fire and make tea.” She brushed wood shavings from her leather apron before giving the visitor a hug.

      “Don’t bother. They filled me up at the Hearth.”

      She made a silly chuckle: “Thanks, it’s too warm to light the stove anyway.” She led the way out of her shop and they sat on a log bench that viewed the little mesa and the Hall.

      “Where’s Edzelian?”

      “Peter took him up to Taralisa and Suthra’s. He has his own cabin there. Close to his new babies. Did you go by Branch House? How is Sunrah?”

      “He’s doing great. I’ve moved there—I’m the lead teacher. That new two room cabin? My billet now: classroom in front, office and bed in the rear. I have the boy full time, Synoveh drops by for the feedings. I think Marcus is a little jealous.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous. He knows that you aren’t a threat.”

     “Not for his wife,” Achen smiled. “Marcus is really fond of Sunrah, doesn’t want to see him go.”

     “Marcus has Luvin. And the boy should be with his Dad.”

     “Yeah—but I’m not his Dad, not anymore. I will always call Sunrah Gardul’s son—not mine. We mixed the semen, and I never want a blood test. I don’t want Sunrah to forget his father just because he never got to know him. I’ll have him call me ‘Uncle’, not ‘Dad’.”

Catman and Sparrow Wednesday

Midnight passed, Wednesday:

Catman’s initial thought was that he could go to Bradley Wayne’s downtown office but he realized that his keys and his wallet were in his other uniform. He turned the cart around, meandered the alleys and side streets for a while in confusion, then decided to go up Kanes Ravine, he kept a spare Catcave key in a hollow stump.

The cart ran out of gas a mile from downtown, five miles from Kanes Ravine.

An hour into the hike his phone buzzed. He pulled it from a boot pocket and looked at the incoming number, “Hello Miss Strehli. It’s rather late.”

“This is the same hour you visited my apartment last night, Mr. Wayne.”

“I guess it is… How did you get this number? Not even Albert knows this line.”

“I did my research, Mr. Wayne.”

“Why are you calling?—I’m rather indisposed at the moment.”

“I know. I’ve been watching the news. Willie Wilson is offering a one million cash dollars reward to the person that turns you over to him. He wants to unmask the Catman live on global TV.”

“And you want to collect?”

“My only concern is for Richard’s welfare, Mr. Wayne.”

“This is not a good time to talk.”

“There was another story on the news, Mr. Wayne. The police went to Wayne Manor and arrested your butler Albert. They traced the High School bomb threat to his telephone.”

Catman stopped in his tracks, “Albert?”

End of the Brothel--Updated

   Another tiring night, the men were in a poor mood and took their pleasure roughly, made bruises. Then the guards did their flush fueled sadism and left the entire crib exhausted. When the red pills came around the babes all dosed eagerly, anxious to get away from the waking World.

   In dreams Salyanna always went blank, nullified reality completely until the drug wore off.

   A harsh sound intruded, pulled her to a state of grogginess and she sat up. The noise buzzed and brayed—on-off-on-off-on-off—and moving light entered the crib from the window, chased shadows around the wall above her bunk. Mabutu stood next to Kreesha, Honi got out of bed and joined them, they watched the scene outside. Salyanna wobbled to her feet and went to the crowd.

   Past the window guards ran, they carried guns and elevated them. She heard rattling and popping sounds, the gun barrels sparked. Other sparks returned from the darkness at the horizon.

   The window shattered, glass came flying inwards around their heads, a row of holes appeared in the opposite wall. Everybody screamed and ducked, Kreesha pulled the covers over her blue hair.

   Salyanna crawled for her bed and struggled to get underneath. Her girth was too wide, she couldn’t get past the bottom rail. She pulled the mattress down and wedged herself into the angle of wall and floor with the bed pad on top.

   Her cheek to the ground, she saw through a small gap under the mattress, watched Mabutu crawl to the door, his fingernails clawed at the edge and desperately caught it. He pulled it open and scrambled for the hall, away from flying glass.

Catman and Sparrow

On a Monday:

Pretrial conference in the chambers of Judge Chester Gould, Department Nine of Superior Court, in and for the City, County and State of Gotham:

Defense attorney Dickie Welles spoke, “This is an absurd travesty of justice your Honor. My client has a Fourth Amendment right to confront all witnesses against him. You can’t offer up a statement from a self appointed masked vigilante—this Catman. Even if you can produce him in Court we have no assurance that he is the witness he purports to be, anybody could be under that mask—he looks like a Mexican wrestler! We have no method to effectively cross-examine an anonymous witness. Therefor I insist that all charges be dropped forthwith.”

The Judge gazed over the top of his glasses at the prosecutor, “I’m surprised this challenge hasn’t come up before—I’ve expected it for years, haven’t you, Bonny?”

“Your Honor, the Jester has a lengthy criminal history, he is a hardened social deviant and extremely dangerous. It is unthinkable for you to order his release—the Catman’s statement is fully supported by all the forensic evidence.”

“His statement initiated what amounts to unlawful search and seizure, none of that evidence is admissible. I’m sorry Bonny. Case dismissed.”

Meanwhile, in the large estate atop Gotham Heights the telephone rang:

“Wayne Manor, this is the butler, Albert, speaking. How may I be of assistance?”

“This is Aretha Strehli, of Gotham Child Protective Services. Is Mr. Bradley Wayne available please?”

“I’m sorry, Master Wayne is indisposed at the moment. May I take a message?”