by Chris Bauer
“That was a wonderful reading today, Pastor. Thank you, and may you rest in peace.”
Before turning away, she reached into his front shirt pocket for the jeweled pen she noticed during his sermon. A trophy, or it would be, as soon as she wiped off the blood.
The police found her six days later.
Teresa Larinda Jordan, in jeans, track shoes and a loose pullover sweater, sat in a holding cell waiting for someone to post her bail. The charge for now was possession of prescription drugs in other people’s names. She no longer considered herself a Teresa, answered instead to Larinda, not a saint’s name, because she was no longer worthy of a saint’s protection. She made the change when she was twenty-one, not long after agreeing to the decision that could send her soul to hell: to abort a child, an abominable wrong. There had been intense pressure from her grad student boyfriend, but this was no excuse. For her, the impact of terminating the pregnancy had been overwhelming. The impact to her boyfriend: nothing whatsoever, far as she’d been able to tell, that is until she killed him for being so cavalier, and fed his body to her parents’ hogs. Her first execution.
It stank in the jail cell, pungent as urine-soaked rotting meat. Most of the questions they’d asked her were about Pastor Beckner’s murder, her arrest prompted by statements from the boy in the Shoebox Methodist congregation who’d taken an interest in her. That Indian kid. In an interrogation room, her court-appointed attorney read her the boy’s statement.
“He said to the detective, and I quote, ‘You don’t wear white after Labor Day.’ He busted in on his mother and the detective interviewing her at home, did the whole finger wag, no way girlfriend urban thing for emphasis. Then he added, ‘I don’t care what Emily Post says is acceptable now. Wearing white after Labor Day is abhorrent. If you take notes on anything, Detective, take a note on that.’ The kid’s a little different.”
A twelve-year-old Indian kid who sounded like a queer socialite from Manhattan. Where did these kids learn this behavior? From the atheist liberals, of course.
No evidence could place her at the pastor’s car, and no murder weapon had been found yet. They knew what it was, the police told her attorney. A knife or some other sharp projectile, based on the puncture wound to the neck. The cops did have an interest in the back of her hand and her palm, which showed scabbing in both places. They took a blood sample.
“From a nail gun,” she’d told them. “I’m a journeyman carpenter.” Closer to the truth than they needed to know.
All interesting stuff, her attorney had commented to her accusers, but how did any of it attach his client to the pastor’s murder?
The connection: she was a non-church member who picked that Sunday to check out the church’s service as a potential new parishioner. A coincidence, and detectives didn’t like coincidences. That, plus the odd kid who identified her also knew where the white-on-white embroidered skirt could be purchased on summer clearance, the kid had emphasized, which led the cops to a certain women’s clothing store, which produced a corroborating physical description from a sales clerk. Store video footage gave them their “person of interest,” and local news stations blasted the airwaves with it. Anonymous tips brought the police to her doorstep.
Fingered by a crossdressing Indian kid who knew his women’s clothing stores. She couldn’t have planned for this.
The search of her apartment produced no incriminating evidence regarding the homicide. What they did find were fourteen filled prescription bottles of OxyContin, all current, only one with her name on it, some open gauze packages plus, oddly enough, a novice nun’s habit, complete with a white wimple. The murder case remained open but there wasn’t enough evidence to hold her. The charge for illegal possession of a controlled substance was the only charge that stuck. But this would allow them to keep an eye on her. The judge assigned bail and scheduled her hearing for tomorrow, Monday.
As a transplanted Tulsa, Oklahoma Catholic schoolteacher turned cloistered nun turned itinerant Dallas carpenter, she’d never been arrested before, this despite three executions she’d committed in the eighteen months since she’d pledged her devotion to the cause.
“Your bail’s been posted, Larinda,” her attorney told her, his Texas drawl thick. A turn-on if she were still into sex, but only if he were a Christian; he looked like a Jew. No different than the moneychangers Jesus cast out of the temple.
She had few friends in Texas; friends were distractions. She had The Faithful, and they had arranged her bail. Regardless, whenever and wherever her hearing would be, she decided she wouldn’t be there.
“Thank you for the information, counselor.”
She’d now find the mouthy little faggot Indian kid and his mother and kill them both.
THREE
Judge Drury left Shreveport twelve hundred bucks richer and rid of his bounty, a bail-jumping child pornographer-pedophile from Philly now in the hands of the Louisiana state cops. A short chase outside a Starbucks near a playground, no shots fired, dog bites to the bounty’s face and arms from his deputies and, unfortunately for the bounty, three fingers shredded by canine teeth, both thumbs included. Not a planned outcome, but Judge loved the karma. If his bounty ever decided to get back into child pornography, pleasuring himself would be a challenge.
He arrived a little after eight p.m. in Arlington, Texas, at AT&T Stadium, home of the Dallas Cowboys and this week’s Monday Night Football game. Two hundred miles, Shreveport to Dallas, in less than three hours. His Marine buddy LeVander Metcalf had called in a favor and scored a game ticket so Judge could see his Eagles play Dallas. He’d already checked into a pet-friendly B&B on a Texas farm, but it was always a risk leaving his two deputies somewhere. Not a risk for them, they were well trained; the risk was to him. For this reason they were with him in the stadium parking lot, resting in the van before he headed inside without them. A cool night, the late summer heat not a consideration. They had their orders, were well fed, watered and walked, with the windows cracked; they would be fine.
Well-fed, watered, walked, with the windows cracked.
Too many w’s. Unintentional, the alliteration, but Judge’s subconscious rarely missed it. He powered the windows up and gripped the steering wheel tight with both hands, an episode coming on, white-knuckle tight, tighter than a frog’s ass, tighter than a…
“Wombat wiener, winkin blinkin nod your noggin, donkey dicking daisy duck, cluster fuck, flop your jock, jackbooted jiffy-lubed, snipper snooper SNIPER SNOT…”
Maeby, his brindle boxer terrier deputy, nudged his hand with her nose, for his comfort, not hers. His German Shepherd J.D., short for Judge Drury, stayed relaxed in his large crate in the back, unimpressed by his master’s X-rated rap. Yes, he’d named his German Shepherd deputy after himself; Judge’s Marine narcissism had gotten the better of him. J.D. was a shelter puppy that was now a highly trained attack dog.
The Tourette’s tirade eased, then it powered off. He ran his hand over Maeby’s smooth coat then her silky ears, then he patted her head. She retreated to the floor in front of the passenger seat. Dogs situated, windows ajar, and Tourette’s episode number five thousand or so behind him, he was overheated from the rant but otherwise good to go.
The football game sucked as far as Judge was concerned. His seat was in the nosebleeds with the drunks, so high up his shaved head got color from the intense stadium lighting. A jungle up there, just like the nosebleeds in Philly. Noman’s land for a visiting team’s fans, and for him especially, if something stoked his disease.
Judge’s afflictions: coprolalia and copropraxia. For the uninformed, this meant compulsive profanity and obscene gestures, respectively.
Respectively. A word he had little use for in his vocabulary other than to describe these subsets of Tourette syndrome simmering just below the surface. Proof that God or whatever other supreme being out there did have a sense of humor, considering Judge was fifty-seven years old and a Marine, and having TS had, so far, not been a picnic. Thirty p
lus years and out. Such hilarity at his expense, living with this affliction for every one of those years in the Corps. Back at you, God. As hilarious as fuck.
Ten minutes left in the game with no issues so far, Judge was just another white face in a section loaded with them, all except for the one guy in the seat behind him. Judge’s Eagles were stinking up the joint, and this Dallas fan was verbally wailing on them big time. Black guy; a little shit. Seriously little. A midget, decked out in an outfit from the Old West. Brown leather children’s chaps, leather vest with fringe, a black sequined ten-gallon cowboy hat. Small body, big mouth, with one of the tallest hats Judge had ever seen. And drunk, with no idea that the guy in front of him, Judge, was an Eagles fan, and Judge wanting him to remain ignorant of that fact. This Dallas fan’s glee at the game’s lopsided 37-17 score made Judge want to puke.
Black midget: “Nice arm, Ramsay! You a gopher killer, boy? The gophers here in Texas are really big, son. Not like the ones in Philly. Gotta throw harder’n that to kill a Texas gopher, boy.”
The object of his derision was a rookie Eagles quarterback with a strong young arm that could throw bullets. With the tough Cowboy pass rush, too many of his bullets had misfired and landed at his receivers’ feet or were intercepted. Judge needed to stay in control, except, in his head.
…gopher dwarf, hogwart smurf, nigger nigger suck my trigger…
The midget was shouting now. “How’s that, you Philly cheese-shits! I got your cheez-whiz hanging, right…” a crotch grab, “here!”
…gopher-fucker, stiffytucker.
Judge kept it together, thoughts only, nothing verbalized, stayed tight, his meds and him on top of it, no fallout, everything okay.
Judge Drury hated the Cowboys, which made the beating his Eagles were taking particularly painful. He’d hated them since 1967, when the Cowboys’ Jock Fucking Jordan cheap-shotted Timmy Brown, a star Eagles running back, in a lopsided Cowboys’ home game like this one here. An elbow from Jordan under the faceguard, after the whistle, fractured Brown’s jaw. Judge was eight years old when that happened, and he never forgot the Philly newspaper stills of the hit. Timmy Brown’s head went one way, and Judge swore the photos showed bits of his teeth go another. Fuck you, Jock Jordan. Going on fifty years of fuck you, you cheap shot Cowboy SOB.
Judge’s phone buzzed. A text message from LeVander, an Iraqi War Two vet like himself, and Judge’s closest friend from the Corps. LeVander became a bail bondsman and Judge became a fugitive recovery agent. A perfect match made in each other’s respective hells:
—Yo Judge. Jarhead buddy laid off some money. A bounty skipped her hearing today. Drug charge.
—Not interested. At the game.
—Here’s her info. Not a hefty reward but easy money. You can bring her in tonight.
The next text message showed her mug shot. Attractive face. Brassy blonde hair. Some freckles.
There was always a catch, taking favors from LeVander, with him a persistent SOB about it.
—Negatory. Go Away.
—Dude. A woman schoolteacher from Oklahoma. Piece of cake.
—You greedy fuck. You picked it up because I’m down here & you think I owe you. Answer’s still no, I’m busy.
—Eagles are getting mugged. Game’s a dog. Avoid traffic, return my favor, earn some $. Ticket wasn’t cheap.
Always about the favors.
—Screw the favor. You gave me a bogus ticket.
—Wtf you mean bogus ticket?
—Eagles are losing. You gave me a losing ticket.
—Fuck you Judge you wiseass. You have a trust fund, I don’t. I need to earn a living.
In his text returning frenzy he almost didn’t hear it, someone screaming “Cowboys bite it” in an infinite loop. Quick lip work, fast and irritating, like the fine print disclaimer for a car commercial. Soon, more of the same…
“Cowhumpers DALLAS SUCKS bite it bite it bite it…Texas wieners, lonestar boners, boner eaters, E-A-G-LE-S, EAGLES!”
God damn it, the screamer was him. Shit.
He shoved the phone into a shirt pocket so he could free his hands to find and stroke the rabbit’s foot talisman he kept on his belt loop for times like this, then he readied himself for whatever blowback that was queuing up from surrounding Cowboy fans.
What he got were arms around his neck in a chokehold, someone going for a takedown from behind, already airborne and on his back…kid’s arms that jerked up against his windpipe in a sleeper-hold wrestling move, then a fist to his cheekbone, then snarling, snapping teeth in his ear.
…beer, he smelled beer on his breath, not a kid…
The little black guy in the cowboy outfit bit him, sank his teeth into his left ear, ripped at it like it was a turnbuckle, went all Mike Tyson on him, was now screaming.
“People…from Philly…SUCK. You…SUCK…”
If he was shouting, he wasn’t biting. Judge’s move.
He ripped him off his back with one hand on his shoulder and whipped his little body forward until they were face-to-face. Judge snarled back at him. “Calm…the hell…down, sport. My bad. I got carried away. Sorry. My Tourette’s…”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Judge spat out more verbal diarrhea as his latent mind-fuckery arrived in full force, spraying the little guy’s contorted face and ending with:
“…smile and say midget. Middd-jettt! Nigger nigger midget trigger…”
Stadium Security descended on them from both sides of the row. Judge’s mouth quieted. His attacker was drunk and Judge wasn’t, so he knew better than to resist the guards wading through the fans to get at them; they had tasers and shit.
Judge raised his arms straight up, readied himself for a full surrender. The attacker took advantage with a leveraged punch to Judge’s balls. Nothing small about his hands, damn it. Judge doubled over, felt his stomach lurch, but was able to suck the pain back so it didn’t explode out the top of his shaved head.
“You! Stop!” a guard barked at the sneak-punching little SOB. “Don’t. Move…”
The guards advanced, tasers out. The closest one spoke to the attacker in a calming voice. “Relax. We get it. You hate mouthy Eagles fans. Relax, son…” He reached the two combatants. “Easy there, son, easy…”
Words to soothe the savage beastie. The little drunk was having none of it. He nailed the guard in the chin with a short, jack-in-the-box right. The punch sent the guard onto his ass into the next row. Three other guards pounced, and they all commenced stunning the pint-sized cowboy in his neck and chest, the high voltage jolts whipping his small body into spasms bad as a writhing flounder on the end of a fishhook. When the spasms stopped he curled into the cramped space under a now empty stadium seat while Security reached in again and zapped him repeatedly, so many times Judge expected his hair to ignite. He was taking a beating, and he wasn’t so drunk that he wasn’t feeling it.
“Please, guys!” he pleaded, his hands up, his words staticky, “n-no m-more. Owww. Stop…sorry…”
The shocks his compact body took, he’d have permanent damage if they didn’t stop, so Judge waded his batshit-crazy six-three self in, went ballistic on their asses, ripped them off the little guy with a flurry of body slams, head and body shots, trying to keep them from killing him. An impressive burst of adrenaline and machismo on Judge’s part, but it didn’t last. A taser laid him out against some empty seats, then he dropped onto the sticky stadium concrete floor and twitched uncontrollably next to his semiconscious miniature assailant.
In the stadium’s “police room” located on the event level, Judge still tingled from the taser with a bad headache, a bloody lip, and some bruised ribs, plus his balls still hurt.
“You. Mister Clean. Stand up.”
When Judge didn’t get the reference, a security guard, this one upwards of six-five, assisted him with two meaty hands under his arms and a swift clean and jerk move that lifted Judge onto his feet. The guy behind the desk was on a power trip, barking like he was a
courtroom judge. At best he was a cop sergeant.
“I see from your IDs you’re an ex-Marine, Mister Drury.”
“Former,” Judge said. There were no ex-Marines. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
“Yeah, well, whatever. You’re lucky there were witnesses to Chigger’s assault. You’re also lucky none of those witnesses didn’t go after you the way Chigger did, hearing how you bad-mouthed our football team.”
‘Chigger?’
“I’m sorry, your Excellency,” Judge said, meaning no disrespect. Well, maybe meaning some, knowing what his thugs had done to the guy who jumped him, juicing him up so bad he could have powered the stadium scoreboard. “The other guy, Chigger, he okay?”
The official’s glare said the sarcasm had earned him no favors. “‘Your Honor,’ to you, son. Chigger is sobering up. We’ll process him next. He’s a local sports writer with nine lives, although he’s drinking most of them away. I’m gonna give you a break, Mister Drury, you being an ex-Marine and all. You gave the Security team a good workout. Charges won’t be filed. You’re free to go.”
Not an ‘ex,’ Bozo. USMC Former Enlisted, you pointy-headed fuck. A grip of the rabbit’s foot helped Judge let it go. “I want to see the other guy. Your Honor. Please.”
“Not going to happen. We’re busy. Albert, escort our Eagles fan friend here to the nearest stadium exit.”
Albert was the six-five, plus-sized giant whose acquaintance, and that of his taser, Judge had already made. Albert gestured at him with an after-you and Judge complied.
Judge checked on his canine deputies, gave them quick walks and returned to the stadium exit where Albert and another security guard had deposited him. The cloudless, starry autumn night wasn’t getting its due, losing out to blazing stadium lights that blasted the heavens at two in the morning with searchlight-equivalent candlepower. Judge seated his ass on a chilly aluminum bench, leaning away from the tender spot where the taser probes had connected, his headache almost gone. Ten minutes later, his eyes still on the stadium exit, he played with his phone, starting to think this wait was a waste of time. He read texts queued up from LeVander during the game: