With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  Her frame was ‘thick’, not unfeminine, but just thick and sturdy; however, this was not to say that she was in poor physical condition. Every Wednesday night she and her husband taught, as volunteers, a free self-defense course for anyone that wished to learn a thing or two about the art. She excelled at chokeholds and groin kicks where Dave, her husband, was the boxer.

  Today, ‘Pink’ had her hair in the traditional ponytail but wore an Atlanta Braves baseball hat with the ponytail dangling out the back. Her countenance was pleasant but focused.

  “I trust you each had a good weekend and are ready to get back to work. Mr. Rickert, I saw your rugby game on Saturday, you played well, need to learn to avoid those elbows.”

  Mr. Rickert replied in the affirmative with a very nasty looking swollen, black eye and bruised cheek.

  “Let’s put aside what we were dealing with last week to take a closer look at this newspaper report that had you all abuzz this morning,” she said, turning to the overhead which she illuminated, projecting a copy of the newspaper article onto the wall.

  “What’s your first impression?” There was a long minute without any volunteers. “Come on now, surely there is someone brave enough to express their opinion.”

  Seymour slowly raised his hand. “There was a follow up to the first article this morning, don’t know if you’ve seen it yet, but the police are playing it down and saying that it was just a prank. I don’t know if I’m buying that but they said Mrs. Riddle was back in her home and there have been no further problems. But it did say she’s sleeping with her shotgun.”

  Laughter drifted throughout the classroom and brought a smile to Ella’s face.

  ”Rightly so, rightly so!” she said. “Son of a bitch better not try the same thing in my bedroom!” she barked, bringing more enthusiastic laughter from the students. “So Seymour, what’s your take on this guy? Is he a deviant? Is he a prankster or is he just a really bad thief?” she questioned, moving across the room to stand in front of her student.

  “Well, I’m not really sure, my gut feeling is he’s a trickster just trying to get his jollies. Obviously has a thing for wearing women’s clothing so I would think that would place him into a deviant category, but the fact that he didn’t take anything, even left behind the underwear, is kind of weird. I guess it’s possible that he’s actually a student or someone that was dared to do it, like a frat thing or something similar.”

  “Good thought, let’s expand on that.”

  “Mrs. Wild, it doesn’t sound like the police department is going to pursue this any further. Why aren’t they sending the underwear or other possible clues to the state crime lab or the FBI?” a young female piped up from the back of the room.

  “Let me turn that around on you. How many of these little ‘victimless’ crimes take place in Valdosta, Lowndes County or Georgia for that matter every single day? Any takers?” Pink wandered back to the other side of the room, tapping a pointer in her palm.

  “Nobody? Well I’ll tell you,” she quipped, returning to the projector, she removed the initial image and placed a transparency on the overhead.

  A chart of numbers and titles covered the opposing wall.

  “All right, these number are for 2005 alone and were provided by the GBI. You should all know what that stands for. Who can tell us?”

  Mr. Rickert raised his hand.

  “Yes,” aiming the pointer in his direction.

  “Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” he said.

  “Thanks, correct. They have a statistical division that generates this database every year. So let’s take a look,” and she pointed at each column and read aloud:

  “Murder - 526, Rape - 2086, Robbery - 13,800, Aggravated Assault - 22,409. Bringing the total violent crimes in the state of Georgia for one year to 38,821. Anyone surprised?” She paused then continued. “Okay then, let’s take a look at the property or more victimless crimes. Burglary - 79,834, Larceny - 234,436 and yes that comma is in the right place, Auto Theft - 43,411, Arson - 1130, Total Property Crime - 358,811. What do you think of those numbers?” Without waiting for anyone to answer, Pink questioned, “Do you think the GBI or the FBI has time on their hands to process DNA on every case that involves some pervert taking pictures of a sleeping woman in little old Valdosta, Georgia? Don’t think so. Nope don’t think they’ll be wasting thousands of your taxpayer dollars to track down every two-bit peeping tom or night crawler that makes the paper. I could be wrong, does anyone else have an opinion?”

  The same young lady that posed the initial question asked, “But what if he does it again and someone gets hurt or even killed?”

  Ella’s face almost appeared a bit sad when she replied, “That’s the heartbreaking part, isn’t it? So often these types of people do a harmless little ‘prank’, if you want to call it that, but they get hooked on the adrenalin rush and can’t stop. They’re always looking for the next opportunity to fulfill some inner need, some fantasy, and unfortunately we know from experience that it often escalates and someone does get hurt. In the event that there is substantial property loss and certainly physical harm or death, the state is then obligated to get involved and put forth their resources. But in cases like this there aren’t enough dollars to go around and the local police just have to do the best they can with what they’ve got. You just gotta know hindsight is always 20/20 so if this 'nut job' does hurt somebody down the road, you can sure as hell bet there will be those wanting to know where CSI was. Sadly, that’s just the reality of the job. Often times, someone does have to get hurt before anything gets done.”

  Pink turned off the overhead, the whir of the fan still going as she addressed the class.

  “I’d like you each to look a little more carefully at this case as a way of understanding deviant behavior. Perhaps it was just a prank, at least this incident, but do some research and see what you can dig up on individuals that started their criminal careers with similar events and see if you can document any patterns or known profiles. In the few minutes we have left today I want to introduce the topic of deviant behavior and brain dysfunction.”

  Having completed her thought, she started into a brief lecture, explaining chemical imbalance, learned behavior and the road to deviant criminal behavior. Seymour was pumped about the assignment and as the instructor droned on in the background he put pen to paper and was quickly writing down all the things that came to mind and the possibilities that he could explore. The library would be a great resource for the assignment both in terms of material available at hand, the time he could put into researching while getting paid, and the prospects of roping Blanche into helping him. It had been a few days since they’d worked together and he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Granted, she was a decade older than him but there was something about her that he couldn’t shake. She had filled his dreams the past few nights, where he had been so debonair and self assured, sweeping her off her feet with his style and charm.

  “Why can’t I be that guy for real?” he thought, as the period ended and the students gathered up their things and exited the classroom. Seymour sat for a few more minutes jotting down his last minute thoughts, then stuffed his backpack full of his belongings and hurried out the door.

  Forensics would have to wait; first he’d hit the school library before his classmates cleaned it out. He didn’t think he could rely solely on the public library for insight but the idea of asking Blanche for help was both exciting and nerve racking for the young man, who needed the hours between class and work to build up his courage. However, courage would not be the only thing he would need to win over the strawberry blonde’s heart.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Over the sound of an audience alternately chanting ‘Jerry, Jerry’ and ‘Take It Off’, he could just barely make out the sound of a ringtone cutting through the melee.

  “Shit, where did I put that frickin’ cell phone?” he cussed as pillows; newspapers and a pizza box flew across the room as he searched.

>   Grabbing the remote he muted the TV to help in his search. The sound drew him to the bookshelf lining the wall adjacent to the entertainment center. Grasping a volume of the Koran on the upper shelf, he pulled, but the book did not budge instead the entire unit began to pivot away exposing a hidden room. He pulled until the opening into the small inner room was big enough for him to pass through. Inside, a makeshift plywood desk lined one wall with a bar stool as a chair. The pictures he’d taken at Thelma’s still neatly arranged on the rough surface, a ringing cell phone laid nearby. On the wall above the desk he had carefully pinned a map of Georgia with some areas circled in red, and Moody Air Force Base deliberately outlined in blue, with the area directly south of the base crosshatched in green. A single yellow-topped pin was stuck in the map on Cat Creek Road. In the corner of the room sat a backpack that appeared to be full, with the metal buckles covered in black electrical tape.

  Picking up the phone he flipped it open and lifted it to his right ear knowing that if he placed it to his left he would not be able to make out the muffled voice of the caller.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” he pulled the phone closer to his ear and closed his eyes to help focus his attention on the needed sense.

  “What do you mean? I thought it went pretty well. Looked like she was scared shitless in that interview.” Again listening intently as the person on the other end spoke and relayed the message.

  “I had expected that, lazy stinkin’ cops!” He paused and listened, then reached for a pencil and notepad sitting on the table.

  “Hold on, hold on, I’m getting a pencil, (paused) okay, give it to me.”

  He wrote an address on the pad and asked, “Same as before. The information will show up in my mailbox sometime this week?”

  A response in the positive came from the other end.

  “You want me to be creative? Just how creative are we talking? I told you from the start that there’s just some shit I won’t do regardless of how much you’re paying me.”

  The tone and volume of the caller noticeably increased and he pulled the phone away from his good ear.

  “I know a stupid photo op is not going to cut it anymore but,” he was cut off with the terse interjection at the other end. He waggled his head back and forth and shook his finger in the air as if mocking the unseen caller.

  Rolling his eyes and running his fingers through his unwashed hair he finally replied, “Yeah, Yeah, I get it. You won’t be disappointed. Just watch the news.”

  Before he could say goodbye there was an audible click at the other end. “Well, that was rude,” he said aloud.

  Looking back at the notepad he read aloud, “412 Big Buck Circle,” and drew a dark line around it. Flipping back a page he found the list he had prepared earlier and across the bottom he added:

  Trip to library!!!

  Then he underlined it twice with bold, menacing strokes of the pencil, breaking the tip of the pencil off with the last exclamation point.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Having a couple of days off had done wonders for Blanche’s spirits. She had spent most of the time lost in the Deep South, fighting deference and finding passion in the arms of forbidden love. When not reading she napped periodically, enjoying the dreams that floated on the clouds of her imagination as her unconscious mind filled in the details of her dream lover. Not forgetting the events of the day before and the bathroom scramble, she had done her best to avoid the other guests and the awkward conversations that were likely to ensue.

  By noon on the second day, she could take it no longer and she made her way to the bathroom, showered and snuck back to her room without anyone being the wiser. She could hear Ms. Carmichael in the kitchen whipping up some of her ‘to die for’ rolls which would accompany some Southern delicacy that she was preparing for dinner. Blanche was well aware of the rule of the house, ‘There is no food except at breakfast and dinner prepared by the proprietor’, but she was hoping she could talk Caroline into making her another one of those incredible peanut butter sandwiches just to hold her over until dinner.

  The kitchen was littered with pots and pans', taking up most of the counter space and the marble topped island was covered with flour and a large lump of dough sat in the middle of it. Caroline wore a vintage apron pulled over her head and tied in a smart little bow in the back with two large pockets in the front. Ruffles trimmed the edges and pockets giving the apron a very feminine, finished look. The cook lifted her head and eyes from the task at hand as Blanche entered the room, a smear of flour across her forehead, where she had attempted to wipe her hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

  “Was just about to call the police and have one of them cadaver dogs come over here to see if you were still alive,” she joked, with a wink of her eye.

  “Very funny!” Blanche said. “Just needed some time to myself and it was wonderful. Sounds like my neighbors must have moved out?”

  “Nope, they’re still in the room next to you but I ‘spect you and Mr. Unger put the fear of God into ‘em yesterday morning, so they’re being a bit more discreet, if you know what I mean.”

  Caroline couldn’t help but smile as she filled Blanche in.

  “You might have a chance to meet them this afternoon, don’t think they’ve left the house yet today.”

  “No, that’s ok; I think I can manage with the informal pleasantries that we exchanged yesterday morning and the night before. Do you know when they’ll be checking out?” Blanche inquired.

  “Not sure, they had said something about staying on for a couple more days. I think it has something to do with my fruit salad and collard greens.”

  Blanche was quite sure it had more to do with the feather pillows and foam top mattress.

  Caroline returned to her rolls, punching the middle of the dough ball with the heel of her hand, and then pulling the prolapsed dough back to the middle of the lump only to be smacked down again. Blanche watched this process for a few minutes trying to determine what it was about the punching that made the rolls turn out so delicious, but she remembered watching her mother and grandmother do the same thing.

  Not wanting to be a pest she asked, “Um, Ms. Carmichael do you think it would be okay if I made myself a sandwich or something?”

  The landlady shook a playful finger at Blanche, “Now Ms. Delaney, you know the rules of the house. I don’t do any food preparation ‘cept for breakfast and dinner but if’n you were to find some bread and a smattering of peanut butter and my jam laying about, guess there wouldn’t be anything I could do to keep you from fixing yourself something.” And with that she returned to the dough and slammed it down again against the hard surface.

  “Thanks, you’re too kind.”

  Pulling up a chair at the small kitchen nook Blanche watched Caroline roll the dough up into a large, round ball and drop it into a metal bowl which she placed on the window sill to accept the sun’s warming rays.

  The sandwich was yummy and the chocolate milk she’d scrounged from the fridge went down with an audible, “Oh yeah!” followed quickly with, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “What was that dear, what were you talking about?” Ms. Carmichael asked, not really paying attention to what was going on at the nook.

  “Oh nothing, just an expression. This milk just tastes really good to me this afternoon. Anything interesting happen at breakfast earlier today or yesterday?” Blanche questioned.

  “Well, the talk at the table yesterday was your crashing the bathtub party with your buddy. Thankfully the newlyweds hadn’t dared leave the bathroom until everyone had left for the day. Today? Wasn’t much to talk about. Oh no, wait a minute. There was some discussion about the weird thing that happened to that unfortunate lady out by the military base, Mrs. Kittle I think her name was,” Caroline said, as she brushed her hands off against the sides of her apron and took a seat next to Blanche at the little table.

  “I think her name was Riddle, Thelma Riddle, as I recall.”

&
nbsp; Blanche was very good with names, dates and events; just part of the many skills that one acquires as a trained librarian.

  “What was said?” she asked.

  “Well, you know how Mrs. Muir likes to know all the gory little details about everything. Apparently she has a friend of a friend who works as a dispatcher at the police station and they didn’t find anything all that unusual about the incident. Guess there was an article in the paper said they weren’t going to pursue it any further. No solid evidence or leads, something to that effect.”

  Caroline shrugged her shoulders and ran her fingers through her graying hair adding a streak of white, highlighting the intermittent strands of diminished black.

  “Oh, and she indicated this friend had also said that they think it was a college student just doing a dare or something foolish. That’s why Thelma wasn’t hurt and nothing was missing.”

  “Makes sense I guess,” Blanche slowly uttered, running the scenario through her head trying to make sense of the police’s rational.

  “What will you be doing for the rest of your day today, dear?” Ms. Carmichael asked, genuinely interested.

  “I’d really like to finish my book, then I’ll...”

  Caroline cut her off, “Book, what book are you reading? I just love a good mystery or the like.”

  Blanche had perhaps opened up a can of worms that she had not wanted to.

  “I’m reading strictly as a research project to acquaint myself more completely with the Southern culture...”

  Again the inquisitor cut her off, “But what’s the title?”

  Blanche gave up, "Mandingo!"

  “Oh My! Oh my, my, my,” Caroline said, over and over, getting a bit giddy and giggling to herself. “Haven’t heard of anybody reading that book for sometime. Heavens, just makes me blush all over thinking that you’re reading that book, sweetie.”