Finding 52 (13 page)

The young boy waited until the bus driver was gone and he walked up behind Evelyn and said, “Heads up!”

She’d been taking a picture and before she could react, Harley gave her a shove. Evelyn fell to her death and was still holding the camera when she landed and broke her neck.

“Serves you right,” he said. “Say hello to Hannah when you see her. You both have a few things in common.”

When he boarded the bus the driver asked him where the other passenger was, Harley said, “She left with her boyfriend. He picked her up in his car. She asked me to thank you for the really nice job you did today.”

A few hours later the driver was cleaning out the empty bus. He was picking up litter and saw a playing card on one of the seats. He threw the Seven of Clubs in the trash with the rest of the garbage left behind.

Simon spent the last three days of vacation searching for Evelyn. He had a spare key to her room and when he went in it was obvious she had never checked out. The manager said she was still a guest. Simon was afraid to contact the local police.

The last night of their Hawaii trip, Harley enjoyed his meal but relished Uncle Simon’s appearance even more. His eyes were distant all during dinner and he was so preoccupied, dinner conversation with him was impossible.

“Everything okay, Uncle Simon? You haven’t eaten a thing. Are you feeling under the weather?” Harley asked. Simon only looked away and all thoughts were on Evelyn and the things she did to please him. Where was she?

They left the following morning and Simon appeared worried all the way back to North Carolina. Caroline took Harley aside in the airport and said, “Uncle Simon is worried about business. He’ll be all right.”

Harley said, “I sure hope so Aunt Caroline. Maybe he got into some kind of trouble?”

“Not at all, Harley,” she said. “He just worries about the business.”

“I never really knew what business he’s in. What does Uncle Simon do?”

“Well Harley, he handles money for people. Some people need his help because he’s so smart.”

Harley smiled at her and said, “I’ll bet he is.”

Harley returned to school while Simon Benchley hired a private investigator. The search for Evelyn Gale finally revealed news. The private eye went to Honolulu and investigated for a couple of weeks. He found all the things he needed within a day or so, but the island really was pleasant and he knew Simon could afford his expertise.

The detective finally returned and shared his discovery. Evelyn had been sleeping around…with the fishes. The tide kept her busy it seemed.

He said, “At first it was difficult to be sure it was Evelyn, but the body was still fully clothed and the hotel staff remembered her face and the maid even remembered what she’d been wearing. It’s believed she was on an island tour and fell to her death. The driver of the tour bus was told by a young boy that Evelyn had been picked up by her boyfriend at the scenic overlook. The bus driver believed the boy and he went on without Evelyn.”

Simon was angry. He asked, “The police didn’t investigate this?”

“They rarely do. It’s far easier to simply say an accident occurred. I guess it’s better for tourism. If it weren’t for me, you never would’ve known the truth, which in this case really was an accident.”

“She fell to her death?”

“Yes. I eventually found her camera near Halona Blowhole, her last stop. I think she probably stood near the edge taking pictures. It was very windy that day and she probably lost her balance.”

Simon paid him handsomely, and with that he was told the entire matter would be completely confidential.

The private eye said, “If it’s any consolation, the only man she was with while she stayed in Hawaii was you. At least that’s my conclusion. You do fit the description of a man seen entering her room, I didn’t pursue that, but it did come up.”

“An accident, that’s all it was then. Forget we met.”

He smiled and took the money. “Yes sir. We never met.”

Saving Face

1982

L
es Swanton was an asshole. Bona fide! As a teenager he managed to get in a horrific accident. Four passengers were in the car with him and they all died. Because God protects drunks and fools the rest is easy to figure. Les Swanton was guilty on both counts. He was born a fool and learned the fine art of drunk driving as soon as he had a learner’s permit. He walked away without a scratch and the kids all perished in the spectacular crash. Les did jail time.

When he got out of jail, having done less than a year in the county facility, he managed to stay clean for thirteen hours. Upon his release from the Riverside County Jail, he was able to posse up with his buddies and they shoplifted two cases of beer. They had enough money to pay for the beer, but swiped it out of habit. Besides, the money was earmarked for drugs. Les figured the best way to celebrate his release was drinking stolen Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoking dope. That and the fact the alert clerk was on duty at one of the local all-night convenience stores.

The alert clerk was celebrity. Maurice Buchwald had been on the job for a little over a year at Spunk’s. He loved his job, but customer service was not his strong suit. Maurice kept the hot dogs fresh and always stocked the beer cooler and, unlike all the other employees, he didn’t embezzle funds, not even the occasional lottery instant scratch-off ticket, but he was easily distracted and before long word got out.

Les Swanton was parked in front of Spunk’s with Duane and Donald Dunham. They were identical twins and because of that it was their belief they had immunity. When Duane broke the law he blamed Donald and when Donald did the deed he blamed Duane. Because they were identical twins they believed their fingerprints were the same as well. They were both feebleminded and actually possessed identical sixty-seven IQ scores. In many states that was good enough to keep anyone off death row. While their cognitive ability was nil they were both clever enough to swipe beer, smoke pot, and hotwire cars, even an average burglary was within their reach when luck was on their side. The cops thought it was all an act, but sadly, Duane and Donald were both dumber than a box of wood. The twins adored Les and would do anything he asked.

Maurice was reading a
Hot Rod
magazine when Les and the two dolts walked in. Donald avoided eye contact with Maurice. He didn’t want to be identified later on. He wore a red shirt and Duane’s shirt was green. Their plan was to switch shirts later on. That way if the cops stopped them they’d be confused by the different shirts. Les wasn’t concerned enough to even develop a plan, he understood Maurice’s reputation. The alert clerk could easily be tricked.

“Can I use the bathroom, sir?” Les asked.

Maurice looked up and only saw Les. The twins were only a few feet away from Les and Maurice still hadn’t seen them. “Go ahead,” he said.

Les headed for the bathroom and the twins were at the comic book rack. Donald farted real loud and Duane giggled. Before long they were pushing each other and laughing. Donald stuck out his finger and Duane pulled it and he farted louder. Duane laughed out loud and then picked up a candy bar and opened the wrapper. He ate the candy bar and Maurice still had no idea they were even in the store. Donald cackled and then ate two candy bars while Duane stuck several comic books down the front of his pants. The Dunham twins were having the time of their lives. Les walked out of the bathroom and winked at the twins and then walked up to Maurice.

“What are you reading?”

“
Hot Rod
magazine. A brand-new issue.”

Les said, “I think your toilet might be broken. The flushy thing probably fell off the chain. You should go fix it.”

“I guess.”

Maurice grabbed a flashlight and screwdriver and walked toward the bathroom. As he walked past the twins he finally noticed Duane. The alert clerk liked Duane’s green shirt. The design had race cars on it and they were colorful.

While Maurice was working on the toilet, Donald grabbed two cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer from the cooler. Duane had an armful of munchies: potato chips, nuts, candy corn, packages of candy bars and ice cream treats. Les swiped three cartons of cigarettes, a package of pretzels and a roll of scratch-off lottery tickets. He was unable to open the cash register, but managed to grab a few adult magazines that were always kept behind the counter.

The crew threw their loot in the backseat and Les hotwired the car…again. He was backing out when Maurice ran out the door and screamed, “Hey Mister! I fixed the toilet; you can use it if you want.”

“Fucking alert clerk. He slays me,” Les said as they roared off.

They were headed down Belfour Street, all three of them, living life to the fullest. Duane wondered out loud, “Anybody wants some candy corn?”

Within a few hours the beer was gone and the lottery tickets were rubbed clean and Les was pleased there was a hundred-dollar winner halfway through the roll. Donald actually scratched the winner, but Les soon convinced him it was a losing ticket and stuck it in his pocket when Donald lit another joint.

A week later Les went solo. He broke into a church and was performing some kind of a black mass when Calvin responded to the silent alarm and strolled in. Les was arrested for burglary and desecration of a venerated object. To wit? He did crazy shit on the altar of the church. One of the responding officers was religious so he hit him across the mouth with his Kel-Lite. Most of Riverside’s finest were partial to the six-pound flashlight. Les was missing all of his front teeth before he was even booked for the crime.

Many found the desecration offensive. The judge was a Bible-thumper and everyone knew it. Donald and Duane were in court when Les was sentenced. Duane tried to give him some of his comic books for the ride, but the judge ordered him out of the courtroom. Les Swanton went to prison for the burglary. The twins never saw him again.

******

A few years later, Les got out of prison and moved to Florida where he promptly killed someone else while driving drunk. This time both drivers were drunk. The Florida detective that investigated the accident was pleased. He told everyone that would listen how they’d bury the loser and send the winner to jail. Les went to prison in Florida for a year or two before returning to Riverside. Then he was an even bigger asshole. All of the Regulators agreed and most everyone that crossed paths with Les Swanton felt the same way. After the Florida fiasco his own mother disowned him.

On a warm summer evening Reg was leaving the police station when the call went out. The dispatcher said there was a possible accident on the bridge and Reg was the first one on the scene. Les had been riding a bicycle and a drunk driver hit him. The bicycle went airborne, travelling a good seventy-five feet after being struck by the car, a broken-down Toyota pile of rust. Upon initial impact, Les did his best Evil Knievel impersonation and literally flew through the air over a hundred and sixty feet and hit a large cement pole that was designed to light up the bridge for people’s safety. Unlike Evil Knievel, Les Swanton was not wearing a helmet when he gave the pole everything he had. He assaulted the pole face first and bounced directly back several feet before falling twenty feet to the sidewalk below.

The driver of the Toyota shouted, “Far Fucking Out!”

Reg walked up to the body that was lying face down. The accident victim was wearing a faded t-shirt & blue jeans. His arms and legs were situated in a sickening position and all four limbs were badly broken. His belt was fashioned out of a motorcycle chain. He had one motorcycle boot on while the other one was knocked in the river. His hair was long and greasy. Reg rolled him over and he had no face!
His entire fucking face is wiped off his skull
, thought Reg.
It’s like someone told him, “Hey stupid, wipe that smile off your face.
” Les Swanton did that and plenty more.Reg already knew it was Les because of his long greasy hair and build. The clincher was his motorcycle chain belt. The accident investigator arrived and said to Reg, “Whatcha got?”

“It’s Les Swanton and he’s finally learned drinking and driving don’t mix. Another thing, I think he lost face this time.”

The accident investigator looked at the body, and when he saw what Reg just described he made a funny sound. Bile rolled up the back of his throat as he reached into Les Swanton’s motorcycle-style wallet (another chain) and pulled out the picture state identification card and saw it was Les. When all of the other cops heard what they had they stopped by for peek. Calvin decreed, “That Muhfuh is DRT!” Dead right there.

Frank said, “Looks to me like he might be in stable condition.”

Victor was perplexed. “Stable? Are you nuts? The dink’s dead!”

“Exactly. He isn’t going to get any better and he sure is shit can’t get any worse. This is the most stable Les Swanton has been in his entire sorry-ass existence.”

That was the night Reg figured out that saving face really could be a life-or-death sort of deal. The driver who hit Les was drunk and some felt it was intentional. Les and the driver knew each other and had been quarreling a day or so before the less-than-tragic accident occurred.When Reg brought the driver into the station for the Breathalyzer he wanted his one phone call, so Reg passed him the phone. The driver of the Toyota called his girlfriend and said, “Yeah, I hit the fucker and he’s dead. Fuck you!! You can suck my pickle.”

The shift lieutenant said, “That’s enough,” as he grabbed the phone from him. He looked at Reg and said, “Book this asshole.”

There were no tears shed for Les and the fact the autopsy revealed he’d had no drugs or alcohol in his system hadn’t been lost on Reg. He shared his views with a few of the other unholy ones when he opined that Les Swanton’s time came up because he was stone sober. Everyone agreed.

Seeing-eye Rat Assists Blind Colostomy Guy

1982

I
t has often been said that Lady Justice wears a blindfold. In theory the blindfold represents neutrality and fairness. That justice would be doled out objectively and without preference or trepidation, in spite of money and influence. Statues of Lady Justice can be found worldwide. From Japan to Tennessee and certainly in Iran as well as Switzerland; the statues are legion in their numbers. They appear outside courthouses and they titivate courtrooms as well. The Regulators understood blind justice, but for them it was on a far more nascent level. They were hopeful that their brand of justice would suit the needs of Riverside and by gosh and golly it did…sometimes.

Blind justice found humor in Riverside. Leastwise, Quentin and Calvin thought so when they were sent to check the well-being of Ryan Bensslenick. Calvin was driving and Quentin was about half-asleep in the passenger seat. He’d just returned from vacation at his deer camp.

The only deer Quentin had seen were on picture postcards prominently displayed in the local tavern some fifty miles from home. To his credit, he didn’t even bother taking his deer rifle out of his truck and he immediately drank his cares away on a daily basis.

A week later he was back home and his wife spent a great deal of scrutiny as soon as Quentin pulled in the driveway and unpacked his hunting gear. When he opened the door on his truck, dozens of empty beer cans fell to the ground. He told his wife that he picked them up during the ride home. The world was full of thoughtless individuals who littered. He wanted to beautify America and he could use the extra money to get his wife a really nice gift for Christmas. Nellie Bunning was not buying his latest act and Quentin spent that night (last night) on the couch. Here he was; in addition to being hung over, his back hurt.

Ryan Bensslenick was a maddening creep, to say the least. He loathed most everyone and was a safety hazard to the others who lived in his apartment building. Tonight’s complaint was more of the same. Neighbors smelled smoke and feared they’d die in their sleep as the building burned to the ground. They’d gone the usual route of social services and when that didn’t help they even took the Fire Chief out to lunch in the expectation of getting a fire truck parked in front of the building at night.

Ryan was a smoker with cigarette burns on all his clothes and bed sheets. It was to be expected, because, after all, he was blind. He lived on the third floor and all of his neighbors were afraid to go inside his apartment, as if he’d allow such a thing. The seven-unit apartment building was a showcase of no less than fifty-three smoke alarms. There was even a smoke alarm on the front porch. Fifty-three alarms and the Bensslenick residence didn’t have a single smoke detector.

Calvin patiently knocked on the door, but when Bensslenick didn’t answer, the knocks turned into pounding and eventually Calvin was yelling at him to open the door. Ryan eventually cracked the door a little and Calvin peered inside and saw a rat on the kitchen table eating what appeared to be Ryan’s dinner.

Ryan shouted, “Get the fuck out of here!”

“You talking to me or the rat?” Calvin asked.

“I’m talking to you cops. Get lost!”

Calvin continued, “You should know that rat was eating your dinner.”

“The hell you say.”

“It’s true. You have rats in your apartment and bats in your belfry. You are one fucked-up dude, seriously!”

Calvin and Quentin were both inside the apartment and Quentin saw several rats scatter toward the back. The Bensslenick living conditions were shameful. In Riverside cop-speak it would be deemed a shithole. It made Quentin’s couch look like the Taj Mahal. He decided he needed a drink. He should’ve taken more vacation time.

Calvin couldn’t believe the number of lit cigarettes. Apparently, Ryan lit one off the other and strategically placed them in several areas of the apartment. Either that or the Surgeon General of the United States was doing his own case studies; the effect of cigarette smoking on rats as well as on Ryan Bensslenick. It made sense to Calvin. He thought science could learn quite a bit from a craphead like Ryan. He wasn’t sure what they’d learn about the rats. There were actual rat footprints in his mashed potatoes and gravy and Calvin thought he could see rat-size bites out of the leftover fried chicken.
The colonel’s not going to want that on a commercial
, Calvin thought to himself. There were cigarette burns everywhere, even on the junk mail that was lying on the floor.

He had a dozen or so cigarette-sized holes on his shirt and a couple were still smoldering very slightly. There were colostomy supplies on the table and one of the pouches even had a cigarette burn in the center. “How in the hell are you even able to take care of yourself? You’re fucking blind for Christ sakes,” Calvin said.

“I get by just fine. In other words…get the fuck out of my house!”

Quentin spoke up, “Gladly! Let’s do what he wants, Calvin. Most of the cigarettes are out and I hid all of his lighters. As for the rats? Who knows?”

They left him to his own devices and told him he should consider moving to a group home. Before slamming the door Ryan Bensslenick told them both to go to hell.

A few minutes later they were safely in their squad car. Quentin said, “I wonder how that guy takes care of himself, a Seeing-eye Rat? Holy shit...We’re on to something, huh?”

“Absolutely. Seeing-eye Rat assists blind colostomy guy. They eat lunch together and the blind guy brown bags it!”

“Wow! Good one, Calvin! Looks like you’re the one who’s smoking.”