He had spent a couple of hours drinking coffee and sizing up possible targets while looking over the map pinned to the wall in his cloaked office. The pictures, that covered a portion of the wall, brought back some adrenalin filled memories that fueled his desire for more. Unbeknownst to Blanche, she would be the subject of his next photo shoot, but there was much to be done before he could have his fun with her. A house on Pine Breeze Circle caught his eye, much like the others, it had access from a green belt and very quiet. The officers investigating the previous crimes would be looking for another nighttime caper. If he acted during the day maybe he could shake them up and prove that he was more than a one-dimensional criminal. It had been a while since he'd worked during the day, he would want to blend in, the van would be out, too many watchful eyes and people were already on the alert. The backpack was ready to go, with one new item, thanks to the most recent couple and their lack of security. A .38 Special was added to the pack, the thief telling himself it would only be used in self-defense and not as an offensive weapon.
Lester wore a long sleeved plaid shirt, his trademark black jeans, and a new pair of Nike's with the bottom of each shoe altered as before. He exited the back of his country home, a helmet with dark visor on his head, the backpack secured over his shoulders and clipped at his midsection. From the barn he pulled a Yamaha 350 cc dirt bike that he'd used as a youth, racing the MX circuit, to the thrill of his father. He'd kept the bike in good running order and licensed for just such occasions, besides he still loved the feeling of the wind rushing by and the sense of power that could be unleashed with a simple twist of his wrist. He avoided the main routes, taking as many back roads as possible, working his way around to access the house from the rear. As he hugged the corners, laying the bike almost to the ground, he remembered why he loved the sport so much and he couldn't help but smile. A couple of miles from the house he went off road, following the train tracks, riding just along the base where the brush had been cleared away. It was not unusual to see motorcycles traversing the sub-grade, so he felt safe in the decision to close the distance in this manner. When he was sure there was only a few hundred yards left he cut the power to the bike and coasted to a stop. From this location he could see the back of three homes, with fences dividing their property from the unoccupied beltway, but no obvious traffic in sight in any direction.
"Perfect," he thought.
He pushed the Yamaha until he found a suitable low spot in the ground that would provide an adequate hiding place and he laid the bike on its side. Kneeling in the fine powdered dirt he had just enough height to see over the brush and weeds. The back fence was wooden, with alternating slats that would provide footholds as he climbed the minimal obstacle. He debated taking the pack but needed too many of the items to leave it behind. The helmet sat atop the motorcycle hidden in the foliage.
Lester had no idea what to expect. What little research he could do showed a Mr. and Mrs. in the online phone book, but nothing further. He pressed his eye to a slit in the fence looking for a swing set or toys left lying on the grass, neither - good. If a dog was present it would already be going nuts and no barking was coming from the house. The home sat on a large lot with the next neighbor a good 80 yards away and only scrub brush between them. He pulled himself part way up the fence and looked into the windows in an effort to assess if the owners were home. Confident that he could get to the back door without being seen, he lifted himself to the crown of the fence, then rolled over landing on his feet, the backpack still in place. A large picture window dominated the back of the house, allowing him a perfect view into the kitchen and beyond, no movement and no people. From his pocket, he extracted a pair of latex gloves, and swapped those with the riding gloves he'd worn until now. The backdoor was dead bolted and the handle was locked. To the left of the large window, a cement slab dominated the yard, a portable fire pit in the center and lounge chairs surrounding it. A doorway led from this patio to what he suspected would be the garage. The handle of the door turned easily to the right and allowed him easy access.
Light from the open door illuminated a portion of the interior and cast shadows on the rest. A cream colored Mercedes Sedan sat on the parking pad with a low-rise speedboat taking up the other half of the provided space. Life vests hung from the wood rafters of the unfinished garage and fishing poles extended between the 2x4’s that supported the roof. He quickly pulled the small light from his pack that now sat at his feet and shined it around the garage hoping to find something of enough value to preclude a break into the home. He had no such luck but instead could see how the wealthy lived and played. Lots of expensive toys and outdoor gear but nothing he could easily remove or sell. He thought about taking the car, but reconsidered, knowing that a police pursuit would almost be impossible to elude, the motorcycle would be much safer. Nothing else in the garage looked of interest to the burglar. He turned off the LED and reached for the doorknob. It was locked but no deadbolt in place. Within the quiet and safety of the garage he was not hesitant to use brute force to gain access. He considered trying to kick the door in, but the possibility of an injury was too great, something heavy would be more practical. Lester scanned the walls of the congested garage for a workable instrument.
Mounted on the wall between the door and a set of shelves, stocked with beer and assorted soft drinks, a red fire extinguisher hung, its black hose securely strapped to the round cylinder shaped body. Once he busted through the door there would be no turning back, whether there was someone home or not. He had still not heard anything coming from inside, but that didn't mean a homeowner was not taking a nap or just watching television somewhere in the house. After the experience of the last home, he opted to leave the Nike's on in case a quick getaway was needed. He lifted the extinguisher from the wall and held it in his hands. It was much heavier than he expected.
"Should do nicely on the door," he thought.
He cupped the bottom, cylindrical portion of the extinguisher in his left hand, leaving the flat striking surface free and clear to slam against the door, his right held the top to provide the direction and thrust needed to break through the obstacle. He tested it a couple of times, getting a feel for the weight as he rocked it back and forth in his grip.
"Here goes nothing!" he said, as he let the weight do the work. The bottom of the cylinder crashed against the wooden door just above the handle. Thwack! There was the faintest sound of wood cracking, but entrance was denied. He swung the extinguisher back again into its cradled position and rocketed it forward with even greater force. A degree of give was evident as a small gap appeared around the seam of the door where it had been snug. Before, what he thought would be the final thrust; he waited to see if anything stirred, nothing did. The thief was correct, on the third and final assault wood splintered and the door swung free from the jam, leaving wood bits from the frame scattered on the kitchen floor and counters. He placed the extinguisher back on the support and entered the home. The kitchen was very modern with stainless steel appliances, granite counter tops and an immaculate hardwood floor, which gleamed and reflected the other polished surfaces that were all around. A small kitchen table occupied a nook area, a stack of letters sat atop it with a cereal bowl and empty juice glass nearby. Milk sat stagnant in the bottom of the bowl, an indication that someone had been home not that long ago.
Lester unlocked the back door and sat the backpack just outside after removing the pepper spray, paint can, and .38 that he put in his pocket. He took a few minutes to clean up the evidence of the explosive entry, taking the splintered wood chips and tossing them into the garage. He closed the damaged door as best he could, allowing it to snug somewhat back into the door jam. On a quick cursory look perhaps someone would overlook the damage unless they examined it more closely. Stepping outside, he closed the back door and stood on the stoop, pointed the paint nozzle at the lower section of the door, and painted the words in bold strokes, R I C H P I G S, the paint thick enough that gravity stretched
the letters downward.
Inside the home he surveyed the layout looking for items of value, eventually finding his way to the bedroom. There he found the usual items lying about on dresser tops and in the drawers. Nothing really surprised him anymore. Over the years he’d found just about everything imaginable hidden away in the personal hiding places of unsuspecting people. Today was no different. In what he believed to be the husband’s side of the bed, a small night table with drawer, gave up an adult novel, “The Lusty Librarian.” It looked pretty tame by today’s standards, but he placed it in the pillowcase anyway. Lester pictured the couple in their mid to late 50’s based on the clothing and items he was finding. He tried to leave the room as he found it, returning useless items to their original state and throwing the items of value into a stolen pillowcase as he’d done on previous occasions.
Somewhat disappointed in what he’d found he decided it was time to create some controversy. He returned to the back porch, deposited the half full pillowcase alongside his backpack, and walked through the house looking for an ideal wall to paint more graffiti. The house was a split with a main floor, a half flight of stairs going both up and down. He’d explored everywhere but the lower level that appeared to be only partially finished. The thought of a gun case pushed him lower into the home, thinking that some more handguns would be easy to sell or keep for his own amusement. A laundry area had been somewhat finished as he descended the stairs, located on the right hand side, with bi-fold doors hiding the washer and dryer that were in a stacked configuration. Another matching bi-fold covered an empty space to the right, with a couple of shelves upon which detergent and fabric softener sat, bits of clothing cut into squares filled a bucket, apparently to be used as rags. Some dirty clothing littered the bare floor, but no gun cabinet or safe. The intruder determined that there was nothing of significance in the basement and was about to return to the main floor when he heard a key in the front door deadbolt.
He considered running up the stairs and out the back door but the front entrance was so close to the stairs that a confrontation was bound to happen. Lester pulled the gun from his right pocket and the pepper spray from his left and armed each hand with a means of escape, if necessary. His stomach was doing flip-flops. In all the years of robbing people he had never had to deal with a victim face to face and he didn’t want to start now. Retreating to the laundry area, he opened the bi-fold quietly, hearing the key now enter the locked door handle. He stepped into the empty space below the shelves, and pulled the bi-folds closed, hiding himself and the washer and dryer. He knelt and waited, being able to see through the horizontal slats that made up the central portion of the sectional doors. His breathing increased and he realized there was a very real possibility that he would hyperventilate. The thief momentarily closed his eyes and tried to calm his fight or flight response that was screaming for him to fly. Movement could be heard on the floor just up the first few stairs.
“No speaking, just walking. Whoever it is they must be alone,” he thought.
The gun felt cold in his palm, but there was no doubt he knew how to use it, and the pepper spray, damn..., the pepper spray! He had meant to test it that morning before heading out, but had forgotten in the rush to get this job over with. Hopefully it would function normally. The gun really had to be a last resort, but he could not allow anyone to identify him regardless of the cost.
More movement, then the delicate sound of scraping on the hardwood floor above, followed by a dog whining. “Oh no, this can’t be happening!” he thought, trying desperately to keep from peeing his pants. He could hear the dog moving about, growling lowly, panting and letting out the occasional little bark. At least it didn’t sound like a big dog; perhaps he’d be able to handle it if it were pint sized.
“Rascal, what are you doing in there? Come here, come to mommy,” a woman could be heard saying.
“Maybe she’ll go shopping or something before she notices what’s going on,” Lester thought. Then he realized that when she went from the kitchen to the car, it will be obvious that they’d been broken into. “Oh please, just go into your bedroom, close the door and have a nap.”
The dog continued to run about on the main floor, making some disturbing sounds but not going into full pursuit mode. “Rascal, for heaven’s sake, come to mommy. Wanna treat, wanna treat? Mommy's got a treat for you. Come on boy, come and get it,” she said, trying to convince the animal to join her on the upper level.
“What is she doing up there?”
He listened ever so closely for anything that would give him a clue. Nothing came, other than her footsteps directly above him and the sound of the dog finally joining her for his treat.
“Good boy, good boy,” she exclaimed, in a strange baby like voice.
Whatever she was doing, the noises he was hearing drifting down from the upper level led him to believe that she was going from room to room. But why, and finally he could hear her making her way down the upper stairs, stopping briefly on the main level. He readied the spray and the gun, his left foot flat on the floor and his right knee down, foot back, ready to push him forward in an attack posture. The sound of her steps could be heard coming down the stairs directly at him, the dog leading the way. He held his breath, suddenly realizing that he needed something to disguise his face. On the floor scattered among the few dirty clothing items was a pair of women’s underwear. He looked for something more suitable but there was no time, it would be a second before the dog was at the door. He moved the spray to the right hand, along with the gun, holding them awkwardly while he stretched the granny panties over his head, leaving one eye exposed so he could see where he was shooting or running. The spray was quickly returned to the left hand and he assumed the previous posture again.
“Rascal, what has gotten into you today? You little monster,” she teasingly said.
The dog stopped at the door behind which he knelt. He could see the mutt through the slats in the dim light of the basement. Rascal tilted his head and lifted his nose into the air, letting out a bark before moving to the door, and smelling along the small gap at the bottom.
“Rascal, I know what’s in there, and no, you can’t chew up another pair of mommy’s panties. You’ve already ruined two pair this week.”
He could now see the slender woman standing behind the dog, a laundry basket held with one hand, pressing the edge of the basket against her hip to hold it in place. “Come on, get out of the way so I can get this stuff in the wash,” she insisted.
Lester slowly moved his position as far to his left as possible without making a sound. He kept his eyes on the woman and could see her set the basket down to her right and reach for the bi-fold handle that would uncover the appliances. He tried to make himself invisible, lowering himself as close to the floor as possible, without losing his ability to strike. Suddenly the door slid open, exposing the washer and dryer, but leaving him somewhat in the dark. Rascal was protesting loudly now and the woman continued to explain why he couldn’t get at her panties.
“If only she knew.” He couldn’t help but find some humor in what this must look like from the dog’s perspective.
The panty covered thief held his breath, watching her load the washer inches away from the gun pointed at her, just behind the closed door. Suddenly, the woman reached through the narrow opening, to the side of the dryer, in an effort to pull the detergent from the shelf above Lester. Her elbow was mere inches from his shoulder but he remained stone still, she was unable to reach, and she retracted her arm, pushing the small dog out of the way with her foot in the same instant. He could see her body moving to his left, placing her directly in front of him, her hand reaching for the knob that would expose his hiding place. Never before had he felt so alive. Every muscle taut, nerves raw, his senses in overdrive and his fingers tight against the triggers. Rascal continued to whine and yap, snapping at her slipper covered feet. She momentarily withdrew her hand from the knob and scooped up the small dog in her right, cudd
ling him close to her breast, and pulled the door open with her left.
Lester burst from the closet, panty on his head, screaming like a madman and pulling the trigger at point blank range on both the woman and Rascal. The woman fell backwards, landing in a heap in the laundry basket, the dog firmly pulled to her chest, pepper spray burning their eyes, nasal passages and mouth, making it difficult to breath but not keeping her from screaming at the top of her lungs. The sprayer leaned in closer to make sure he gave them both a liberal application of the pepper mixture, covering his own face with a bent inner arm in an attempt to avoid himself being overcome. The woman remained in the basket, her legs kicking wildly, hoping to take the attackers feet out from underneath him but being ineffective. With her free left hand she swung at Lester, her eyes squeezed shut, and unable to connect with any of the pathetic blows.
Satisfied that they were out of commission for a few minutes, he issued a verbal warning, “Don’t leave the basement for 10 minutes or I’ll come back and finish the job!” He repeated it a second time, screaming above her hysteria, to get his point across.
He ran up the stairs, also feeling some of the effects of the spray that had drifted into his own eyes. Fighting to see his way out the back, he grabbed the pillowcase and backpack, stuffing the gun and pepper spray into the open mouth of the bag, and dashed for the fence and the motorcycle beyond. At first he ran in the wrong direction, the sounds of the woman still fresh in his ears and unsure if it was his memory or if she was still screaming that loudly. He stopped, knelt down and looked around to get his bearings, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Remembering where the Yamaha was hidden, he ran for it, jumping over the low brush and pulling the backpack around his shoulders as he went. Upon reaching the bike he undid a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt, stuffed the few items and the pillowcase inside, slammed the helmet down on his head and lifted the bike from the dirt. A quick kick of the starter and he was on his way back down the tracks and the path to a paved road.
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