Crime and Coincidence
by Jeff Scott

The whole business was bizarre. I found it astounding, really. I’ve seen many murders in my career, but the boldness and audacity of this particular killer was unparalleled. Why would anyone want to go through the trouble of killing the lead singer of a band that was going nowhere, in the middle of a performance? The sheriff was ready to lead me through the specifics of the crime scene, as I waited and sipped hot tea. Hot tea with just a dash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar is the best way to relax when you feel stressed. And man, was I feeling stressed.

“From the trajectory of the shot, it looks like the shot was fired from somewhere over here,” the local sheriff said, indicating a section near the front and to the left. I nodded, digesting the information as he continued his dictum.

“Our man used a silencer, and the weapon was probably a .22 pistol, semiautomatic. There were no shells, and we’ve already interviewed everyone that was in the theater… Spectators, maintenance men, ticket checkers, even the people that were bringing the drinks during intermission. Everyone said the same thing… Joe Hippie’s up there singing one of his dove tunes, and all of a sudden blood’s spattering all over the walls and our favorite reefer-smoking flunky has sang his last melody. Tragic.” He chuckled, and I couldn’t help but smile. With a job like this, you need to be able to joke a little. I decided to get back to business.

“So it’s pretty much the same type of job as the one over in Klinesdale. The local comedian gets iced in the middle of his redneck routine.” I thought for a moment, and remembered I was in a different county. “You heard about that one, didn’t you, sheriff?”

“Yea, I heard about it,” he said. “But it’s interesting. I had a few hours to think about it before you got here, and if I have my facts straight, it’s almost the same thing. A local hotshot performer’s up on the stage just doing his thing, busy ripping off some classic material from the professionals, well, not in flower boy’s case over here, but you get the idea… And then suddenly the show’s cut short.” He shot me a comical glance. “Sounds to me like our man was trying to cheat these good people out of their money‘s worth.”

“Sounds to me like our man was trying to give them their money’s worth. ” We both chuckled. “I can be witty too, you know.”

“Yea, I know, I know.” The sheriff considered. “So where do you think this one’s going to lead you?” he asked. I sighed.

“Well, I’m pretty sure the two killings are connected. Same apparent weapon, only two counties apart, no shell casings either time, and though the places were packed both times, no one saw a thing.” The sheriff nodded as I continued. “And I think we can probably rule out political reasons as a motive. I mean, you saw this guy, and you know those redneck comedians… They’re completely opposite ends of the political spectrum. Our musician was so obviously left leaning it hurts, and from the sounds of things the comedian in Klinesdale could hardly take a breath without throwing in something about the gays and the Iraqis, so I don’t think this is exactly a political crusade.”

"So what are you going to do?” the sheriff asked with genuine interest.

“I’ll start with the guest lists and look for a common theme. There are literally no other leads, no one saw a thing… Maybe we’ll get lucky when we look them over. Both places have a list of who had tickets, who was working, and everything like that…” I could feel my voice trailing off. “We’ll see what we can do.”

“O.K., good luck, Jim. Take care of your self,” the sheriff told me. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”

“You got it, Bill,” I told him, the sheriff, my friend. I walked out of the theater to my car, and prepared to drive back to the station. Those guest lists were going to come in on fax, and I had to be there to compare names. The work was scintillating. I groaned, and started my car. It was going to be a long evening.

By the end of the night, I had determined that there was one person that was, in fact, at both shows. His name was Dakota Waters. I had my first suspect. He lived a few streets over, and I had a few hours before work ended, so I decided to go over and have a chat with my new friend.

I drove to his address and parked my nondescript car in front of his house. He would not know that the police were coming knocking until I flashed my badge, and this was important to me. Walking up to his door, I tried to get into his head a bit. If this was our guy, chances were that he would be pretty suave and professional. He had left no witnesses, and somehow I suspected he was expecting me. Then again, for all I knew, this guy could’ve been an incredibly unlucky person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, twice. I would question him, assess his demeanor, and then decide what to do later. Looking at his residence, I noticed it was not in the best of shape. It looked like a real rat hole.

I knocked three times on the door, and he responded with twice on a pipe somewhere within his residence. I stared at the ruddy looking door, and I could feel my jaw simply drop. It was just great. A comedian. Someone was a fan of sixties pop music. Still, I managed a smile. At least this wasn’t going to be boring.

Suddenly the door burst open, and to my shock I was pulled inside. I found myself in the passionate embrace of a man smelling of cheap cologne, and much to my chagrin soon his lips were attacking my neck. With a jolt I pushed him off me, and for a moment he looked shocked. Then he smiled coyly.

“You don’t look like Gary,” he declared with an impish smile and a twinkle in his eye. “But you’re not bad, either.” He appraised me as I shuddered.

“I could have you on sexual assault charges, Mr. Waters. This is the police. I have some questions for you,” I dusted myself off, and tried to say this authoritatively, but to be honest I was quite shook up. I knew my intimidation wasn’t working, and, shaking, I surveyed the man who had just assaulted me. He was a thirty-something man with an impish smile. To put it mildly, he looked extremely creepy. He was dressed in a lime green sweater that was far too small, and light blue jeans that had seen better days. I noticed his tan work boots, with a flap hanging off the end. These, too were worn. His eyes danced as he greeted me more properly. The previous episode seemed to bother him not at all.

“Hello, Mr. Officer. What brings you to my-” he burst out laughing, then continued “-home!” Dakota said it not as a question, but with vigor, excitedly and full of vitality as he hopped up and down. For a moment I could say nothing, for I was incredibly taken aback. The only thing that could have made him seem more loony would’ve been a bugs bunny suit and a rubber chicken.

“First of all, I’m not an officer,” I said uncertainly, not sure how to approach such a capricious character. “I’m a detective. I would like to ask you a few questions. I presume you are Mr. Dakota Waters?” I gave him a shifty glance, and it only seemed to fuel his insanity.

“Oh, INDEED!” he said with a cackle, flailing his right arm above his head wildly. Then suddenly, calm seemed to descend over the man. “Come right in.” He said it almost nonchalantly. I entered his home, and took off my shoes.

“You have very pretty feet,” the man said with a sinister grin, as he leaned in close to me. “Do you… soak them?” He stuck out his tongue, and pointed it like a snake. I cringed.

“Please, Mr. Waters, control yourself. I have some serious questions to ask you. You went to see Ichabod Knolls play at the theater on Eight Avenue the other night, correct?”

Dakota looked me in the eye coldly, and his whole demeanor changed noticeably. “Yes, I did.” He sat still in his chair, an almost eerie calm, and his eyes bored a hole through my forehead. “It was a very good show.”

“Oh, is that right? So you must have a taste for hippie blood,” I remarked, trying to provoke a reaction. He simply looked at me thoughtfully.

“I’ve been to many of his performances, and I must say that was one of his best.” He was completely serious, a real discriminating critic of music.

“It must’ve been rather short,” I offered. I began to relax a little bit, pushing the misguided greeting from my memory for a moment.

“But the quality was there.” Dakota smiled in his chair, and shivers ran up my spine.

“What about the comedy benefit over in Klinesville? Doesn’t that strike you as just a little bit odd?” I studied him, and he gave away nothing. It was impossible to tell, this man was obviously an odd duck.

“Tragedy happens,” he said casually. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I think I should let you know that you’re a suspect in the murders.” I tried to say it icily, in a fear invoking voice, yet I obviously missed my mark. He chuckled.

“Why? Because I went to both shows?” He smiled ever so innocently, and craned his head towards me. “Or do you just not like me?” I looked across the table at a very, very sick man. He needed help. I knew that if we nailed him, he would get off on insanity charges. I just hoped they would require he get treatment.

“Mr. Waters, do you own any weapons?” I studied his eyebrows. They did not move a millimeter.

“No.” He smiled sweetly, cackled, then appeared to regain composure.

“Do you mind if I search your residence?” I asked expectantly, not entirely sure of what I would get for an answer.

“Yes.” His demeanor changed again. “I think it’s… Time for someone to leave!” He smiled, bounced to the door, opened it, and motioned for me to get out, very cordially. I blew air out of my lungs, exasperated and confused, picked up my hat, and left. What a long, strange day it had been. There was still some time to try to get a search warrant, but I would put it off until tomorrow. It could wait… First I had to let the day settle for a while.

I slept pretty well that night, and the next day I did go get that search warrant. I went with them as they tore that house apart. Dakota wasn’t home. He was off doing who knows what, and that suited all of us just fine. We didn’t need some lunatic throwing Jell-O at us or something while our men tried to search the house. They searched through every imaginable square inch of that house, and they found nothing. No .22 pistol, no silencer, no live rounds, no spent shells, no nothing. In fact, only two things of interest were found. One of these was what appeared to be a ruined greenhouse in the basement. I didn’t quite know what to make of that, whether Dakota was some sort of gardener, or whether it had just been something the previous occupant had left behind. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if Dakota had ever looked in his own basement.

The other thing was much more interesting, and slightly disturbing. Our officers found that Dakota had advance tickets for a play at a local college this very evening. A tight knot formed in my gut, as I wondered if again tonight blood would be shed. I decided that, knowing this information, it was the responsibility of me and me alone to tail Mr. Waters and see what, if any, connection he had with the murders. He was certainly audacious enough.

I had a strong feeling this nutcase was our killer. The lack of evidence notwithstanding, he was the only one that was known to have opportunity for both, and though we did not have motive, we did have the fact that Mr. Waters was a complete basket case. You can’t get an arrest warrant on strange behavior without any hard evidence, however, so we had no choice but to watch and wait. Dakota being our primary suspect, I had no choice but to spend my evening taking in some not-so-quality theater.

I waited in my nondescript parked car for Dakota to come along. There was only one place where tickets could be taken, and the best way to get a seat behind the target was to follow him in. After waiting for an hour, my man walked right by my hiding place, turned, and waved with a smile. This shocked me, but not as much as his appearance did. Dakota, in short, looked rather normal. He was wearing khaki pants, a stylish black long sleeved shirt, and a very upper-middle class looking pair of sneakers. His hair was combed, and he looked strikingly average.

I waited until he was a short distance ahead, ignoring the wave completely, and followed him into the building. I picked a seat three rows behind him in the already crowded theater, and paid close attention to all of his movements. He cradled a bag of cheap popcorn and ate gingerly, one kernel at a time. If he kept that up, the paltry amount might actually last him the play.

The play was “Our Town”, by Thornton Wilder, and I could not bring myself to watch it. Having read it already, I knew it would not get interesting until at least the third act. I focused on the back of Dakota’s head. I didn’t take my eyes on him for a moment, and halfway through the second act, he turned around abruptly and stared into my face. Our eyes met, then locked. He began to smile. I could not take my eyes off him.

Suddenly, a great pandemonium erupted. The lead actor, the one playing the character of George, was laying motionless on the stage. Everyone was gathered around him, and I searched the catalogue of my memory. There were no dead people in this play until the third act. I could not believe my eyes. It had happened once again, and once again Dakota was in attendance. I knew all the facts of the murder before the first police officer was called. I knew that the actor was shot three times in the chest with a .22 caliber pistol, and that the killer probably used a silencer. I knew that no one had seen a thing.

I sat in my chair dazedly as people screamed in panic and jockeyed for position by the door. My mind was blank. I was waiting for the police to arrive, and as soon as they did, I planned to tell them exactly what I saw, and I would leave. To be honest, I was in a complete state of shock. I was completely baffled and felt totally helpless for one of the first times I could remember. I sat and stared straight ahead as the action took place around me. In minutes, the police were there.

I approached the first uniform on the scene, and told him what had happened. I told him about our suspect, and how we had searched his house and found nothing useful but a ticket, and how I had watched him for the entire play and had not seen him move away from his seat once. I told him how Dakota had turned around and smiled so knowingly at me seconds before the shooting occurred. The cop brought over his supervisor, and I told him the same story. After grilling me on a few details, the chief let me turn in for the night. I was grateful, yet I drove him in a daze. My brain was not working clearly.

I had barely walked in the door of my home, twenty miles away from the play, when my phone rang. I picked it up vacantly, and listened to a barrage of sound through the receiver.

“What the hell do you think you were doing, going and playing detective on your own? Don’t you know that all decisions go through me?” It was my supervisor, and she was pissed. I thought for a moment.

“I didn’t want to bother you at home,” I finally said unconvincingly, and she probably smelled blood. The wheels were starting to come off, and I knew it without having to think. I braced for the attacks.

“If you had communicated a little bit more with the people who pay you, we would’ve set up a perimeter instead of just having one person walk in and watch one audience member. You’ve been at this job for a long time, Brian. You know that things like this are always just a little bit more complicated than one person. How could you have been so stupid? As far as I’m concerned, that poor college boy’s blood is on your hands. When you find out about a pattern like that, you TELL someone, you don’t keep it to yourself and play the hero. He had a family, you know, and if they find out about this they’ll sue. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking.” When Linda got going, she didn’t stop for a while. Still not thinking entirely straight, I didn’t say a word. I simply placed the phone in the receiver, and a smile crossed my face as I thought of a dial tone blaring in my boss’s ear. Two minutes later, the phone rang again. I picked it up, and knowing precisely who it was, hung up. I promptly unplugged the wire to the only phone in my apartment, and went to bed. I pulled the covers up over my head, and crouched into a fetal position.

I stayed there for five hours, without sleeping. I remember feeling little; I felt as though I was watching myself lay there with open bloodshot eyes. Eventually I got up and replaced the wire back in the phone. I was sure at this point if it rang, I would not hear it anyways. I crawled back in bed and drifted out of my mind into a sleep that was completely black… In other words, exactly what I needed.

Twelve hours later, I awoke, and to tell the truth I almost felt O.K. I stretched, and fortunately the severity of the events of the previous evening seemed diminished. Still, I was feeling pretty depressed, and when I saw that my message machine was blinking I didn’t really want to put it. It was hard to ignore the optimistic feeling of pre-consciousness, so finally I walked over and pushed the little blinking button. I knew it would probably be from my supervisor, but really, what was the worst she could say?

I listened to her message, and found out. She spent at least half of my tape informing me that I needn’t come to the office until I received another phone call, which could come in a week, a month, or never. She made sure to let me know that they were going to put a competent officer on the murder cases, which were now being called terrorism. I chuckled at the mention of the word; it was all to true. No one was going to want to perform in any sort of stage show in this state for years to come. I chuckled even harder as I considered taking up poetry. I could perform it effusively onstage and sell tickets. Better yet, I could be a mime. I knew hundreds of people that would love to watch a fat old man with white face paint trapped inside an invisible box. I wondered if Dakota would come watch me play. Strangely, I somehow hoped he would.

My department never did call me back. My days ran into one another, but I did see on the news the other day how they apprehended the urban terrorist leaving the scene of the crime after his 5th kill. I smiled as I heard his name. It was Gary Marshfield.

For a moment, I considered calling up my department, and miraculously winning my job back by telling them about my trip to Dakota’s house and what he had sad, nailing him as an obvious accomplice. I even went so far as to pick up the phone. But then I smiled, and replaced it in the receiver. Screw the assholes.

 

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