Finding 52 (17 page)

The Lawn Mower Man

1984

E
very police department has an aspiring writer and Riverside was no different. Frank had a boatload of writing talent. He became aware of it in high school and had several short stories to his credit. Many were published in magazines and anthologies and they were all humorous to hysterically funny. Frank was an avid reader and a trickster to boot. He had a capacity for creating cartoons that were generated with the department’s newest high-tech copy machine.

His collection of nearly everyone’s picture allowed him to painstakingly crop the pictures to size and place them in advertisements found in the newspaper or in magazines. He’d then go to town with cartoons like “Naomi the Killer Whale.” The cartoon depicted Ivan’s picture superimposed on a whale’s body, and with Frank’s great skill, it wasn’t half-bad.

Ivan was livid when he saw “Naomi” posted in every conceivable place, including a courthouse bulletin board. He told Frank, “You know? We got us a smart cocksucker on the department, I think whoever is doing this is as big as he is yellow.”

Two days after “Naomi” appeared a directive was issued: Cartoons depicting officers were not allowed and violators would be disciplined. Everyone knew Frank was the culprit but knowing and proving were two different things. That directive only served as a challenge for Frank and he picked up the pace. In fact, Victor occasionally got into the act and things escalated. Several cartoons were posted daily on bulletin boards, bathroom mirrors, and the public entrance. Frank was concerned the imposter would steal his thunder, but was unsure how to proceed. He suspected Victor and possibly his good buddy Reg. Hell, it could have been a dozen others. The department was full of individuals with time on their hands.

Frank’s head collection was kept in a business-sized envelope, and he’d sometimes show Reg his Riverside P.D. compilation when they were cooped up out of the public eye. The dossiers of faces were a continual work in progress for him. He routinely updated his assortment and trimmed the pictures to size while Reg drank coffee or read books. One day he was holding a pair of scissors and editing a picture of Quentin when he said, “I think you might be spending some time around the copy machine. You did the cartoons that were posted this morning, right?”

Reg feigned righteous indignation and replied, “Have you taken leave of your senses? I got better things to do with my spare time, and besides, this is your gig!”

“Well, somebody else is out there stealing my ideas, and I don’t like it. Not even a little!”

“Who pissed in your Wheaties?”

“You think Victor might be swiping my ideas? I saw him in the station last week, slinking around and acting sneaky.”

“For crying out loud, let it go already. I’m hungry. You got anything good for lunch?”

Frank pulled out a bag of homemade trail mix. “You want some of this? I think it might be some kind of health food.”

Reg was eyeing a portion of a doughnut that was lying on the floorboard of his patrol car. He considered going for it, but figured Frank would catch him and that would prove awkward. “No thanks. I’m gonna take off and hit a fast-food joint. I’ll catch you later.”

Reg was sitting in the fast-food line when he heard Frank catch the possible suicide attempt call. He ate his two free burgers on the way to the call just in case Frank might need assistance.

When Reg got out of his patrol car he saw neighbors standing around, and he could hear the sound of a lawnmower running inside the house. He went inside and saw a man sitting in a chair and Frank was in the next room.

Reg went in the other room and Frank was looking at the lawnmower and fiddling with the controls. He shouted, “Turn the damn thing off! I can’t hear myself think.”

Frank screamed, “The controls don’t work. I can’t shut it off.”

Reg walked over and disconnected the spark plug. The lawnmower sputtered and blue smoke filled the room. “If you’re going to trim the shag carpet, you might want to lower the blade.”

“Not funny, Reg. This guy tried to asphyxiate himself with a fer chrissakes lawnmower. Who would have thunk?”

“No kidding? That’s a new one. From the smell of things in here I bet it would’ve worked. You saved the guys life. Should I put you in for an award?”

“You darn well better not! Looks like you have fresh mustard on your tie. You ate free burgers again on the drive here. Gulping food is not good for your digestion. What would Phoebe say?”

“She’d be proud of the free burger part. A lot of her relatives are still in Scotland and you just know she’s as frugal as they are. Last week I was broke and I told her it was my turn to put gas in the police car. She encouraged me to call off sick and save money by not buying cop car gas.”

“Well, that’s what you get for spending all your allowance on Twinkies, candy bars, and such. I think you have issues, Reg. Sincerely.”

Reg walked into the kitchen and spotted a leftover piece of cake on the kitchen counter. “You should go get the guy’s information for your report.”

“Don’t even think about it. You need to stop eating other people’s leftovers,” Frank said.

“But it’s cake and it looks like bakery cake and we both know that’s the best kind.”

“Knock that shit off, Reg, and help me get this lawnmower out of the house and in my trunk. The ambulance is already on the way. This guy needs medical help.”

“I think you’re being harsh; it’s his lawnmower and his house. Who are you to judge?”

“The people standing outside have a badass streak of Neighborhood Watch. If we leave things as they are, they’ll only call again.”

The lawnmower man was still sitting in the chair and he was talking to himself. He was agitated and his clothing smelled like gasoline. He asked Reg if he had a cigarette.

“I don’t think you should smoke until after you change clothes.” Reg pointed at Frank. “This guy is our police chaplain and you should tell him everything that’s bothering you, because he wants to help you.”

Frank shot Reg a dirty look just as the ambulance attendants walked in. Reg said, “You better go back and get the stretcher: The lawnmower man would like to see the doctors about the bad thoughts he was having before we got here.”

It took all four of them to strap the lawnmower man on the stretcher. He was frothing at the mouth and screaming for Jesus when they carried him out of the house. The neighbors were shaking their heads and telling him everything would be okay. A lady walked up to Frank and said, “Poor man. He lives alone and has been trying to kill himself for several months. I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to have a lawnmower or a car. At least his stove runs on electricity. The police were here two months ago and took his guns.”

“I’ll take his lawnmower into the station for safekeeping until he gets better.”

“They won’t let him have it back until then?”

“Absolutely not, this is a righteous suicide attempt and I’ll make sure my investigation report mentions what he tried to do with the lawnmower. Maybe the doctors can put him on medication.”

Frank tagged the lawnmower as property with a note telling the identification officer to contact him before releasing the lawnmower to the owner. The following week the lawnmower man was in the police station and told the desk officer he wanted his lawnmower back.

Lieutenant Chapman happened to be walking by and asked the desk officer if there was a problem. “Yes sir, there’s an issue with his request. He wants his lawnmower back and Frank has a note attached to the lawnmower. The note mentions he is to be contacted before the lawnmower is released.”

Chapman didn’t like Frank and his smartass ways, particularly the cartoons posted around the station; last week one turned up with Chapman’s face and the cartoon represented a pimp and two hookers—his face was on the pimp’s body. One more reason to get rid of the pictures of the prostitutes he once had in his desk drawer. He wondered if Frank was behind the gossip about him and the planted drugs on the two prostitutes that he was smitten with.

Chapman said, “Give him his lawn mower and make sure he signs the property slip. Officer Lamkin does not get to decide whether or not people can have property returned to them. I’m in charge and those decisions are best left to me. See that you remember that!”

The desk officer chose his words carefully. “It’s just that I read the report and..”

“I SAID GIVE HIM BACK HIS LAWNMOWER AND THEN SEE ME IN MY OFFICE IMMEDIATELY, YOU LITTLE PISSANT!”

The desk officer looked downward and said, “Yes sir.”

Three weeks later the police were sent to the lawnmower man’s house. When they arrived the lawn mower was inside the house but no longer running. It was out of gas and the lawnmower man was dead, a victim of self-induced carbon monoxide poisoning and a police lieutenant who was in charge.

The Three Stooges and Water-Based Paint

1984

R
odney Griffin was one of the best high school football prospects Riverside ever had when he dropped out of school. As a freshman he could run like a deer and throw a football sixty yards with a great degree of accuracy. He played defense as well and he hit the ball carrier so hard there were several injuries before the season even started.

He dropped out of high school after the sixth game. He was already a sure bet for all-state first team honors and college scouts travelled to Riverside to watch him play. Rodney didn’t care for school; he never learned how to read and was flunking every subject. He retained little and head injuries were already beginning to take their toll. He was addicted to cigarettes, alcohol, and ready to move beyond marijuana by his sixteenth birthday. Those cravings would last his entire life and by the age of forty, he’d be dead. Until then, he was a constant pain in the ass as far as the cops were concerned. It was bad enough having to deal with someone like Rodney and his physical strength and agility, what they really didn’t like was the paint sniffing.

He was partial to huffing spray paint. Not just any paint…he preferred blue paint and he was usually spotted downtown with all manner of blue paint on his face, arms, and clothing. For Rodney it was intense euphoria and the brain damage inertia was worth the jubilation, or so he thought. People were shocked by his appearance and he was good for several calls a month and every one ended up with an arrest.

Calvin was working alone and the other cars were tied up on various complaints. He was sent to an abandoned motel on the east side river’s edge to check on possible suspicious activity inside. When he arrived he saw Rodney walking out of the motel and he was as blue as Calvin had ever seen him. Calvin radioed for backup and got out of the patrol car.

“Hey Rodney, what’s up? You doing alright?”

Rodney could barely focus. The sunlight was blinding and his head hurt like a mad bastard. The paint was only a minute or so old and it was everywhere. His pants were only pulled up halfway and he even had blue paint on the cheeks of his ass. He was higher than a kite and didn’t see Calvin for what he was; someone paid to keep the peace and even help crapheads like him.

What Rodney saw was a running back going for a first down, which was strange because Calvin had never played football a day in his life.

Rodney began shouting defensive plays to his invisible teammates, “Riverside Purge, Runner Emerge; Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Moe. Where the heck did Curly go?”

Calvin said, “He’s with Larry and you can see all the Stooges next week at the Bijou. They’re running a Three Stooges festival; nyuck nyuck nyuck nyuck nyuck!” He was smiling at Rodney. Was it possible they were kindred spirits? Who would’ve thought an American Vaudeville act chock full of physical absurdity and slapstick would help him deal with Rodney and his despicable ways.

Calvin’s hopes were soon dashed when Rodney put his head down and charged the runner. He hit Calvin in the gut with his head with all the force he could muster. Fortunately, Calvin was wearing a bulletproof vest and Rodney’s pants were down to his kneecaps and that really slowed him down. Calvin was still lifted in the air and knocked on his ass a good fifteen feet back.

Calvin screamed, “Ha! First down. I made the first down, and I think it’s first and goal. Time’s running out. Maybe I’ll kick a field goal!”

Calvin charged Rodney, who was still down, and kicked him squarely in the stomach, jumped on him, and began punching his face. He gave Rodney everything he had and was trying to handcuff him. Rodney looked at Calvin and smiled, “You’re gonna need some help…”

The next few minutes didn’t go well for Calvin. By the time it was over, Calvin was blue. Everywhere. The paint had even covered his eyelids, his Casio watch was drenched in paint, and the mechanism was beyond repair. He hurt all over. Three other cars arrived and the officers went to work. It took all of them several minutes to restrain Rodney and get him in the car. He was eventually carted off to jail and the correction officers hosed him down.

One of them said, “Hey Rodney, thanks for using water-based paint. I love it when you clean up so well.”

Rodney never heard a thing. He’d passed out minutes before and was dreaming of endless possibilities; perhaps a career in football and big money. He’d retire and buy paint stores that specialized in spray paint.

Playing Clubs

1963

T
he year was 1963 and it would be more productive for Harley than the previous year. He still had the Eight of Clubs in his pocket and wondered who his next prospect would be; he was growing impatient.

Now more than ever, he wondered about Nixon. The phrase, “He’s like a bad penny, he always turns up,” came to mind when Harley thought of Nixon. He liked the way President Kennedy put the boots to Richard Nixon in the 1960 televised debates. He thought that without the first televised presidential debate Kennedy would never have been elected president. The sixty-minute duel pitted the handsome Irish-American senator against Nixon’s sickly haggard countenance. Kennedy appeared relaxed, vigorous, and fit while Nixon sported a five o’clock shadow and his pasty skin was covered with sweat.

As far as all the bad business in Dallas; Harley wished he could have met Jack Ruby, a nightclub owner who had the cahoonas to walk into a cop shop and kill Lee Harvey Oswald. Not only in front of the police officers, but in front of an entire nation that sat spellbound in front of their television sets watching the events unfold.

Harley was able to deal the Eight of Clubs in March of 1963. He and several other students were on a field trip and they visited Greenville, North Carolina. Harley liked the architecture of Greenville’s buildings, especially the Third Street School and the E.B. Ficklen House, an elaborate Queen Anne-style dwelling. The students were allotted free time to visit other landmarks and eat lunch.

Harley grabbed a quick bite to eat before visiting the Pitt County Courthouse. The courthouse was built in 1911 after the previous one was reduced to ashes by one of the most horrific fires in Greenville history. Harley wandered the hallways, and when he left the courthouse he found himself in the heart of Greenville. He looked across the street and was amazed at what he saw—a woman who appeared to be thirty-something, and he thought she was beautiful. He immediately knew what she was and what he had to do.

He followed her until she stopped in front of the State Theatre. Alfred Hitchcock’s new movie was playing.
The Birds
featured Tippi Hedren and the poster in front of the theatre was full of birds attacking a woman, presumably Tippi’s character, and it also showed Alfred Hitchcock promising this could be the most terrifying motion picture he’d ever made. The left side of the poster showed Hitchcock saying, “...and remember the next scream you hear may be your own.”

Harley was standing next to the woman, who was wearing a red wool flannel puff-sleeved dress and her hair was the same color as Tippi’s. She didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Do you think what Mr. Hitchcock is saying might be true?”

She looked at Harley and said, “What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Hitchcock is saying the next scream you hear may be your own. Is that possible? Could it be true?”

“How old are you?

“Twelve.”

“Your parents would let you watch this movie? I’m curious to see it, but would probably be too terrified to see the whole movie.”

“My parents are dead. I’d like to see the movie. Evan Hunter wrote the screenplay, and I like his work. I read Blackboard Jungle twice. It’s a story about hostility in a New York high school. The teacher is determined to do his job at the disruptive inner-city school despite opposition from both students and faculty. Did you read the book or see the movie?”

“I don’t read much, but I did see the movie. It was pretty good. Anne Francis is one of my favorite actresses.”

“I was actually born in New York City. That may be a reason I liked the book so much. New York probably is violent, although I haven’t been there in a long time,” he said.

They visited for several minutes and the woman told Harley she had to meet her husband at a local diner. Much later, when Harley and his classmates returned to the academy he went to his room and pulled out his deck of cards. He took the Nine of Clubs out and placed it in his back pocket as he smiled from ear to ear. Mr. Hitchcock was right, he thought.

News items from
Greenville Daily News
, March 9, 1963:

Local Woman Found Dead in Downtown Greenville

Police sources have confirmed the body of a woman was found in an alley behind the State Theatre. They declined to release the name of the Greenville woman, believed to be in her thirties. The body was discovered late last night. Police detectives are still looking for a weapon and possible motive. Greenville Police Chief Potter told reporters, “The victim was bludgeoned to death. We believe her murder to be the act of a deeply disturbed individual. We’re asking the public to contact us in the event they may have information from yesterday’s heinous crime.”

Harley purchased a gun that same year. It was easy. He kept a couple thousand dollars in a small safe hidden under the floorboards of his closet in his room at school. In 1963 a Smith and Wesson, Model 15, K-38 Combat Masterpiece Revolver cost seventy-four dollars brand new. The six shot .38 Special revolvers came in a two-inch or four-inch barrel. Harley preferred the four-inch barrel, but was unable to simply walk into a store and purchase a gun at the age of twelve. He was, however, able to buy a gun illegally.

In early autumn, Harley took a bus to Fayetteville, North Carolina. He walked into Eaton’s Gun Emporium and was looking at the revolvers in the locked showcase. He struck up a conversation with the owner. “I want to start target shooting with a .38 revolver. Would that Smith and Wesson Model 15 be suitable?” Harley asked.

The guy behind the counter said, “It would be if you were old enough to buy one.”

“I’m thirteen. I have cash.”

“Sorry, I’d never sell a handgun to a thirteen-year-old. If you were four or five years older you could buy it. Seventy-five bucks is a bargain, because I throw two boxes of bullets and a cleaning kit in the sale price.”

Harley took three hundred dollars out of his pocket and set it on the counter. He didn’t say anything, because he thought the money probably said it all. He stared at the clerk.

The guy smiled and said, “The bullets and cleaning kit are extra. Do you have another fifty bucks?”

Harley purchased four boxes of bullets and the cleaning kit for another sixty dollars. The brand-new gun, cleaning kit, and bullets were placed in a brown paper sack.

Harley took the bus back to school. He was eager and couldn’t wait to begin target practicing. He looked at the dog on the side of the bus and wondered if he’d be able to shoot the dog while the bus was moving. There was a local dump near the academy and he’d start with tin cans and hopefully move up to an occasional rat. With any luck a stray cat or dog would walk by and he’d have larger targets. He went to the dump on Saturdays and was soon able to hit tin cans from fifty feet away.

He was on his last box of bullets when he saw his first rat. Harley shot the rat and it gave him a great sense of pride.

He went back to the dump in early November. It was a beautiful day with temperatures in the lower seventies. He liked having his handgun when he walked to the dump; it gave him a sense of superiority and power. When Harley arrived at the dump another boy was there and he was throwing rocks at a rat. The rat was cornered between two mounds of dirt and the boy was laughing as he threw the rocks. Harley walked up behind the boy, pulled out his revolver, and shot the rat.

“That’s how you kill a rat.”

The boy turned and said, “Wow! Is that your gun?”

“You bet! I can hit a tin can from fifty feet. What’s your name?”

“Richard Denby, but my friends call me Richie. Can I try? I bet I could hit a can.”

“Have you ever shot a handgun?”

“Not yet, but I wanna try.”

Richie was fifteen years old but shorter than Harley. He appeared dull-witted; he was easygoing and trusting—too trusting. He told Harley he was familiar with rifles and shotguns. He hunted with his father and knew all about gun safety. He promised to be careful with Harley’s revolver.

Within a few minutes, Harley had recognized things about Richie—dark, evil things. He was certain Richie wanted to get his hands on the revolver to turn the gun on him and kill him. That made Richie a REAL person and someone who was very dangerous.

“Let’s get a tin can and set it up for you. You should probably start at twenty-five feet, that’s what I did. Handguns can be tricky; tricky like people, if you take my meaning.”

Richie walked to an area of the dump that had a few tin cans. He picked one up and said, “This one’s perfect. Where should I put it?”

Harley pointed at a large mound of dirt and said, “Just prop it on that tree branch that’s sticking out of the dirt.”

Richie walked over to the tree branch as Harley bent down and picked up a baseball-sized rock. Harley followed Richie to the tree branch and as he was wedging the can on the tree branch, Harley hit him on the back of the head with the rock. It knocked Richie unconscious.

Harley wasn’t sure if the blow to the back of the head would kill Richie or not; either way it was a win-win for Harley. He’d soon rid himself of another playing card and one more enemy in the bargain. He dragged Richie to a more secluded part of the dump and decided to wait awhile. If Richie was still out cold in another half hour, Harley would finish him off with the rock. But if he woke up…

Richie began to stir twenty minutes or so later, and Harley thought he heard him moan. Harley hummed a childhood tune as he began his task.

Beaver, Beaver sitting on a wall

Harley looked down at Richie…

One called the other a dirty son of a

He laid the card on Richie’s forehead…

Cocktail, Ginger Ale; five cents a glass

Harley pulled out his revolver…

If you don’t like it, shove it up your

He spun the revolver’s cylinder for effect only as all six bullets were already in place.

Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies

Richie was coming around and his eyelids fluttered. Harley waited until they were fully open. When they were Richie said, “Huh?”

Harley smiled at him and he held the card so it wouldn’t fall off Richie’s forehead. He held the revolver in his other hand and then he placed the gun dead center on the card…

Richie got the Nine of Clubs right between the eyes!

Harley pulled the trigger and the deafening roar was music to his ears. For Richie there was nothing but darkness.