The Colossal Crutch
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ssal Crutch: The Second Case
Karlis Kadegis
Copyright 2015 Kārlis Kadeģis
To begin with, I want to say that when I cracked this little puzzle, I realized that I might have made sure that the man I talked to will return back to his prison cell. Essentially, he would have returned anyway, so I don’t feel any remorse about it, but I feel that it might be important to note that before I go ahead.
The man I am referring to is called Dāvids, but everyone here calls him the crutch. I can’t really give a logical explanation as to why or how he got the nickname, but I figured it is because he looks like he could use a crutch. From talking to him, I gathered that twenty years ago he broke his ankle by jumping off a tree and landing on a pile of rocks. Initially the injury healed, but as he began to put on some weight, it turned out that the injured ankle could not hold all the fat the crutch was carrying around. Thus, his gait included an awkward sidestep whenever he put his right leg on the ground. Despite his health problems, however, he chose to ignore everything the doctors were saying.
Personality wise, he was surprisingly pleasant (except when his choice of words made me cringe), generous and with a rather cheerful attitude for life, which is probably why he still has a wife. He used all the money and valuables he stole from kids and elderly on the streets, to buy things for his family. I can’t say we are friends, but we don’t mind eating on the same table either. Because his crimes were relatively minor, his stints in jail were relatively short: he spent roughly half of the year on each side of the fence. Just like many others, he could not find a good, stable job once he got out because of his criminal past.
“I didn’t recognize you at first. You have lost quite a bit of weight since we last met.” He said as he sat next to me during lunch. I hadn’t seen him for about six weeks.
“Yes, well… It’s hard being a vegetarian and spend life in prison. Actually, that just means half of your plate always ends up in rubbish.”
“Rubbish? Pass me your pork then, or I’ll break you in half,” He laughed. “But seriously, you’ll die from hunger if you keep this up. That pig is dead anyway.”
“What are you in here for today, crutch?” I wanted to change the topic because I had no desire to discuss my principles with someone, who needs two chairs to sit on. Yes, he was that colossal.
“Assault,” he groaned. “Hit a wanker with a tire lever.”
“Not your usual cup of tea…”
“Yeah, wasn’t even the bastard I was looking for.” He had stuffed his mouth with potato porridge and I could barely make out what he was saying.
“Why would you want to hit anyone anyway? And how could anyone not dodge your attacks?!” I laughed.
He starred at me with a look that could only mean that he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or to throw back an insult at me. “Someone in my neighbourhood is vandalising cars, including my wife’s, okay?”
“And you thought you got him, yes?”
“Right.”
“But you said that he wasn’t the bastard you were looking for. How would you know?”
Crutch put his spoon on his plate, straightened in his chair and looked at me.
“Because while he was spending the night at the hospital, another car had been vandalised. The cops told me.” He said.
“But how did you come up with the idea that this particular guy might be the vandal?”
“I was investigating,” Crutch proudly said. “I talked to people, other victims, potential witnesses… like they do in ‘Midsomer Murders.’ I quite fancy watching that show when I’m at home. My lady, though, thinks it’s idiotic. “How many killers can there be in one tiny British county?” She always asks… Anyway, I put together a profile of the suspect: Bloke with ragged, baggy clothes and white sneakers.”
“That is quite general and hardly anything at all.” I said.
“No one has actually seen his face. That knob does this at night and with a mask on.”
“And let me guess: The poor man you beat up matched that description of yours?”
“Yes. I saw him sitting at a bus stop not far from my home. The tire lever was the first heavy, metal thing I could get my hands on. I asked my wife to stop the car, got out and went straight for it, no questions asked.”
His poor attempt at piecing together a crime puzzle felt a little amusing. Mostly because I know that I had, essentially, done the same thing, but, unlike him, had achieved quite a bit of success. Furthermore, I have never said that I consider him even remotely smart. As a matter of fact, I am more inclined to state the opposite. With that said, I was curious what the clues he had gathered in his inquiries were. I wanted to prove that I can squeeze out more than the outfit of the vandal.
“Tell you what. Give me everything you have on the perpetrator and I will tell you who the bastard is.”
It seemed like the crutch was amused by my statement and didn’t quite want to believe it, but I didn’t care. If I fail, somehow, I’ll turn this into a joke. I thought to myself.
Since lunch was over, and I needed to get to my new job, we agreed to discuss his problem later that day when we all have free time outside.
Recently, I was offered a job at the prison’s newly created library. It was a rather tiny, not more than fifteen square metres big, windowless room with spots of mould near the ceiling. It seemed like nobody had been using the room since the nineteen-fifties when the prison was built. Now, however, the prison staff had brought in a few shelves and stacked the torn, old books that were either donated to the prison or left behind by other inmates. Pretty much none of them had any genuine literary value. Aside from huge piles of outdated magazines and newspapers, there were two hundred and forty-four titles: Hundred and fifty were works of prose and collections of poems, but out of the remaining ninety-four, twenty-one were about changing your life around, plus seventeen that concentrated, specifically, on how to do that through God. The rest of them were either outdated eighth or ninth form textbooks, encyclopaedias and practical, “do it yourself” type of volumes. Apart from three boxes of Bibles donated by a nearby Catholic church, the most copies the library had for a single title were six Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
I knew all this because I was appointed as the library administrator. My job was to sort and arrange the books alphabetically and according to genres. I was also responsible for logging who took what and for how long and then submit the log book to the prison administrator at the end of each week. The greatest benefit of the job was that I could get my hands on the newest books before everyone else. The salary was meaningless since I wasn’t getting out anyway. In addition, this was also the perfect time to read on topics I previously had no interest in whatsoever, like gardening.
“The guards have gotten themselves busy arguing about the migrant crisis,” Crutch began as I approached him during our free time outside. “It looks like they are storming through Europe despite all the obstacles. The Hungarians have even put a fence up, still no good.”
“Nature does not acknowledge our perceived singularity. That is why our politics, culture and morals work only as long as people cooperate. When there are enough individuals who say they have had enough, our current imaginary borders, ideals and identities won’t hold. If there are enough people, who wish to migrate, our political and cultural arguments are not going to stop them. The physical and rational world is much stronger than the abstract, inner world, which is why swords are, in fact, mightier than pens. Yet, I feel that a person, who could manipulate the abstract world in such a way that it leaves physical marks, would be the most powerful individual on earth.”
“So, you don’t like them too? The migrants?” He asked.
“That is not what I said.”
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br /> “Then what are you saying?”
“I’m explaining the events as I see them.” I smiled.
“All those books around you have made you dumb.” Crutch waived his hand, signalling giving up.
“It’s not like they will try to get in here, right? Therefore, as far as I’m concerned, I care only for the sake of debate.”
“If you hadn’t promised to get to the bottom of my problem, I’d punch you for saying all of this shit. Imagine your children and grandchildren having to bow and bend to their demands!”
“Yes,” I was unmoved. “But now do the best job you can in describing your trouble or I will be the one punching you.”
“Right,” he grinned. “Don’t stand there, sit down.”
I did as I was told.
“It started about two months ago,” Crutch began. “Our neighbourhood is quite large. In the middle, there is a yard that’s surrounded by four six-storey buildings. You know, the grey soviet ones.”
“Many cars, very little space. Grass and rusted playground in the middle.” I added.
“Exactly. Though, recently the houses collaborated and we reconstructed the yard so that it’s now a parking lot, so we have enough space for cars.”
“Okay.” I encouraged him to go on.
“In the first week it was just one car, a VW Passat, which had its front right indicator smashed. Nobody