Cesspool

by Phil M. Williams

  “No,” she said.

  “Do you have any idea where he may be?” Warren asked.

  Mr. Matthews nodded.

  “No,” she said.

  “Can you describe your relationship with Harold Strickland?” Warren asked.

  “Don’t answer that,” Mr. Matthews said.

  Detective Warren frowned. “Can you describe your relationship with Dale Strickland?” Warren asked.

  Mr. Matthews affirmed.

  “I never met him,” Brittany said, “but I did see him when he came to inspect James’s cabin.”

  “Did you have a romantic relationship with James Fisher?”

  Brittany scowled at Detective Warren.

  Mr. Matthews said to Brittany, “You are welcome to respond, but you are under no obligation to so.”

  “We were just friends,” Brittany said.

  Detective Warren asked a dozen more questions. Some were answered; some weren’t.

  “I guess that’s it,” Warren said. “I was hoping you would be more helpful.”

  “You knew what you were getting into, Detective,” Mr. Matthews said. “We told your department over the phone that Ms. Summers did not have any information that would be helpful. Let me remind you that your department sent you down here on a wild goose chase.”

  Detective Warren frowned.

  Mr. Matthews stood. “If there are no further questions, we will be leaving.”

  Yolanda and Brittany stood.

  “Thank you for coming,” Detective Morgan said.

  They said their good-byes. Mr. Matthews made it clear that, if they wanted to contact his client in the future, they should contact his office. He handed them his card.

  In the parking lot Brittany thanked Mr. Matthews and gave him a hug.

  Brittany felt light, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. On the way home, she sang with Yolanda to a pop hit on the radio. During a commercial, Yolanda turned the sound down and glanced over at Brittany with a smile.

  Brittany said, “I’ve never seen anyone talk to the police like that.”

  Yolanda looked over. “Me neither.”

  Brittany gazed out the window. They fought for me.

  Yolanda parked her Camry in front of the town house. A brown box the size of a microwave oven sat on the front stoop. They approached the box to find a white envelope taped to the top that read Brittany in James’s neat cursive. Brittany’s eyes widened.

  “He did it,” she said with a smile.

  Yolanda grinned and gave Brittany a hug.

  Brittany lugged the box upstairs to her room. Yolanda offered to help, but Brittany declined. She shut Marco’s bedroom door and tore into the envelope.

  Brittany,

  I’m sorry that I haven’t contacted you until now. Unfortunately, it’s not safe.

  I hope you’re settling in nicely with Yolanda and Cesar. I know, at some point, you’ll want to get a car, an apartment, and go to school. You cannot under any circumstances use the money for these things or anything that can be tracked. You must get a job to pay for these types of expenses. I know that won’t be a problem for you. I admire what a hard worker you are. You can spend the money on things that can’t be tracked. So, if you want to go out and have a nice dinner and pay cash, by all means, have fun. Just make sure you can pay cash in person. If you have to give a credit card or a debit card or give your name for the transaction, you must use the money you earned from working. (By the way, you should stay away from credit cards. They’re for debt slaves.)

  Another thing in regard to the money. I would like you to go to YouTube, type The American Dream full length into the search box and watch the thirty-minute cartoon. This video is entertaining and will explain why I would like you to do something crazy. I want you to gradually convert one-third of your cash into gold and silver coins at a 50:1 ratio. That means you buy one gold coin for every fifty silver coins.

  I suggest you go to Cavalier Coin Shop. It’s in Woodbridge, only a few miles from you. Talk to the owner. His name is Herb Greenwood. Tell him that you’re a friend of mine and that you would like to buy metals at a 50:1 ratio, like me, with cash and no names. Tell him that you would like to do $9,000 a month. I suggest you do this for three years. Each month you will give him $9,000 in cash and then transport the metal to your storage facility in Ashburn. You may have to get a bigger box, but they will be happy to accommodate.

  Last thing about your finances. This is very important. Make sure that you file your taxes every year. Yolanda can help you with this. The last thing you want is the IRS poking around. The deadline is next month, April 18. You will have to call the diner and give them Yolanda’s address to mail your W-2.

  If you decide to go college, Northern Virginia Community College has a Woodbridge campus. That would be a good inexpensive place to start. Yolanda can help you with the application process. You can go there for two years and then transfer to a four-year school. Just make sure you’re going to school for a job that requires college. Stay away from liberal arts degrees—total waste of time and money. I have complete confidence in your ability to be successful in whatever endeavor you choose.

  I suppose we should talk about the box of papers. I would like for you to stuff the envelopes and mail them. Make sure you wear gloves at all times when you are handling the papers. I hope you still have the folding machine. After the envelopes are sealed, drive out of town at least an hour away and find a few post office boxes. You know the blue ones they have outside?

  Do not dump all the letters in one box. Put one thousand letters in each of five different blue boxes in five different towns. Do not park next to or pull up to the mailbox. Park at least four hundred meters away and walk to the box with your head and face covered. You can wear a hat and scarf. It’s still cold enough.

  There will be a postmark from which town the letters came from, so someone could conceivably watch security videos from all the mailboxes around town. I know it’s doubtful, but better safe than sorry. I’m pretty sure there is some inflammatory rhetoric in the letter. The truth tends to get people in power upset.

  I should get going. I’ve got a long trip ahead of me. I’m not out of the woods yet. I don’t want to lie about my situation. It’s too dangerous for us to see each other and that makes me sad. I miss you terribly. On the other hand, I am extremely happy that you’re free. You have a fresh start, and I know you’ll make the most of it.

  Oh, I almost forgot. And that would have been bad! Please put the envelopes in the mailboxes on Monday, March 28, after 7:00 p.m. I need to make sure things are “live” as people receive the letters.

  Love—Your Best Friend,

  James

  Brittany put the letter back in its envelope, put on a pair of latex gloves, and opened the box. The stack of documents was facedown. She picked up the top sheet of paper and turned it over.

  Dear North Schuylkill Township Resident,

  I’m writing to inform you of the biggest threat to this township’s safety, security, and prosperity. Chief Wade Strickland, his sons Officer Dale Strickland and Kurt Strickland, and his brother Harold Strickland are the culprits. The depth of their depravity knows no bounds.

  I have proof of a protection racket run by the Stricklands to allow criminal enterprises to exist in the township without prosecution. The criminals pay the Stricklands, and the police look the other way. Take a drive past the home of Chief Strickland at 136 Eagle Drive and ask yourself if his salary could afford such a monstrosity. While you’re at it, take a look at Dale Strickland’s house at 12 Regal Drive. Dale has been with the police department for seven years, yet lives in a half-million-dollar home and drives a sixty-thousand-dollar vehicle.

  If this were their only crimes, you would not have this letter in your hand. I have proof that Chief Wade Strickland tampered with evidence to convict an innocent man, Frank Wiggins, of a string of rapes and murders. These murders were committed by Chief Strickland himself, along with his brother Ha
rold.

  If you or anyone you know has been attacked by these men, please contact attorney Gerald Matthews at 703-555-3578. His firm will be handling cases on a contingency basis, so there will be no upfront cost, and payment is only rendered if there is a settlement. Alone we are powerless; together we can fight these men.

  Detailed evidence of their crimes can be read at www.StricklandCorruption.com. You can view a video compilation on YouTube at www.youtube.com/user/StricklandCorruption. The audio can be found in podcast form at www.StricklandCorruption.libsyn.com. Please visit our Facebook page at www.facebook.com/StricklandCorruption.

  I expect this information to be taken down by the powers that be, so please copy, like, and share with as many people as possible before that happens.

  Sincerely,

  Charles Ray

  Chapter 23

  48 Hours Mystery

  James sat at a dented wooden table, the ocean breeze blowing through the barred windows. Waves crashed in the distance, one after the other. He wore baggy khaki shorts and a T-shirt. His skin was tanned. He heard a knock on the metal screen door.

  “Jaime, Jaime, you want fish?” someone called out.

  James stood and took a few strides to the front door of the one-room bungalow. He stepped outside with a smile. A stocky Mexican man stood with bare feet and frayed jean shorts.

  “Hola, Jaime,” he said. “You want fish?”

  “Hola, Efrain,” James replied. “I do want some fish.”

  “Tengo fruta, vegetable, tambien.”

  James followed Efrain to the back of the bungalow to find a Toyota pickup loaded with coolers and a toolbox.

  “I have a good one,” the man said, smiling as he opened the cooler. He pulled out a neon-green fish with a fat round head and a long dorsal fin. He held it up with two hands. It was almost three feet long. “Dorado.”

  James grinned, his eyes wide. “Wow, that’s a fish. What the hell’s a dorado?”

  “You dice mahimahi.”

  “That’s mahimahi?”

  “Sí. I cut for you. Twenty dollars.”

  “Sí,” James said. “You have fruit?”

  Efrain opened two more coolers—one filled with a variety of fruits and the other with vegetables.

  “You want?” Efrain asked.

  James nodded. “A little of everything.”

  “Twenty for fish y twenty for fruta y vegetable.”

  “Esta bien,” James said, handing Efrain forty dollars from his wallet.

  Efrain heaped produce into plastic bags. There were avocados, limes, strawberries, bananas, a melon, tomatoes, carrots, tomatillos, mamey, onions, corn, and jicama. It took James two trips to carry the produce into his kitchen. He returned to watch Efrain debone his fish and cut it up into individual steaks. He packed it in plastic and handed James two bags filled with mahimahi. Efrain washed his hands in the outdoor spigot.

  “Next week?” Efrain asked.

  “Sí.”

  James hauled his fish into the bungalow and packed it in the freezer. He put one steak in the fridge for dinner. He sat down at the kitchen table, his laptop in front of him. He scanned the headlines.

  Russia and the United States Fight Proxy War in Syria

  China Condemns US Actions in the Middle East

  Dead Zone in the Gulf of Mexico Expanding

  The City of Sin Is Running out of Water

  Silver and Gold Gap Up at the Open on Proposed Silver Standard in Mexico

  Baltic Dry Index at Another All-Time Low

  James finished his reading and made dinner. He listened to the waves as he ate. He thought about Lori. He thought about what Brittany had said. Maybe you don’t get second chances. Maybe you can only give them. He smiled to himself.

  After dinner and dishes, he logged on to Hulu. Customer Support said the episode would be available today. He had checked three times already but nothing. He clicked on 48 Hours Mystery. There it was. “The Cesspool Murders.” He pressed Play.

  A male voiceover spoke while crime scene images flashed across the screen. “‘The Cesspool Murders,’ tonight’s 48 Hours Mystery.” A school picture of James flashed on the screen. “He was a mild-mannered teacher by day, but the police claim a criminal mastermind by night.”

  The pensive intro music continued, with graphics of chalk lines, bullets firing in slow motion, and police lights turning. A picture of a balding man appeared, identified by a caption as Richard Schlesinger. An image appeared of a Mercedes smashed into a telephone pole.

  Richard spoke over the pictures. “Some say it all started with this accident. An accident where James Fisher lost his wife, Lori.” There was an image of Lori, smiling next to her bicycle. “She didn’t die alone. Her boss, Ronald Powers, was driving under the influence when they crashed.”

  They cut to a picture of a plump middle-aged woman with a caption that read Janice Powers.

  “I knew he was having an affair with her,” Janice said. “I caught them at our lake house. He said he would stop.”

  “But he didn’t,” Richard Schlesinger said.

  Janice shook her head, her eyes wet.

  They cut to a school picture of James, smiling with his class. They zoomed in on his face.

  Richard asked, “Did James Fisher know that his wife was having an affair? If so, did he care?”

  Lori’s sister, Rebecca, appeared. “I think he knew,” she said, “and I don’t think he cared one bit for my sister. He walked out in the middle of her funeral. I never did like him. He was flat-out crazy.”

  “In what way was he crazy?” Richard asked.

  “He thought the economy was going to crash, worse than the Great Depression. And he used to say that our money was worthless, yet I buy things every day.” She shook her head. “Crazy.”

  A stocky man in a gray suit was identified as Officer Jeff Koch.

  Officer Koch said, “He didn’t hardly react at all when we told him the news about his wife’s accident.”

  Vernon Dixon and Maurice Hawkins appeared on the screen sitting side-by-side. They were dressed nicely in button-down shirts. Vernon’s mustache was a little thicker, and he was growing his hair out in an afro. Maurice still looked young, with a tight fade, high cheekbones, and a nice smile.

  “What kind of teacher was Mr. Fisher?” Richard Schlesinger asked.

  “Mr. Fish was cool,” Vernon said.

  “We learned a lot in his class,” Maurice added.

  “What kinds of things did you learn from Mr. Fisher?” Richard asked.

  “White people make terrible slaves,” Vernon said.

  “They get sunburnt,” Maurice added. “And we learned school doesn’t teach us stuff to be successful. It teaches us to follow the rules, so we can be part of the machine.”

  “They just want obedient workers,” Vernon said.

  “And who’s they?” Richard asked.

  “Bankers and the government,” Vernon replied.

  They cut to Dr. Paul Richards aka Dr. Dicks. He wore a dark suit. His flat top was crisp; he was clean-shaven. A caption with his name and title flashed on the screen for a moment.

  “Would you describe James Fisher as an effective teacher?” Richard asked.

  “He could have been,” Dr. Dicks replied. “He had trouble following the rules. His students became very unruly because of the ideas he put in their heads. It was almost like a cult. We finally had to fire him.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Not well. He was very angry. He shouted and used foul language.”

  Richard spoke over a photo of James’s cabin. “After losing his wife and losing his job, James Fisher moved to the wilderness of Pennsylvania to this tiny one-room cabin, without indoor plumbing.” They cut to an image of the college. “He took a job teaching at the Community College of Central Pennsylvania. Here he would be up to his old tricks.”

  An attractive young woman in a conservative dress appeared. The caption on the screen read Heather Davenport, former stu
dent.

  “He was paranoid,” she said. “He thought the police were out to get everyone.”

  They cut to Kurt Strickland, with his pudgy frame and pencil-thin beard. “He had the whole class hating the police. It was hard for me. I tried to be the voice of reason in debates, but he always cut me down because of my dad and my brother.”

  Richard narrated over images of Dale and Chief Strickland. “Kurt’s brother Dale was a decorated officer of seven years, and his dad, a thirty-year veteran and the chief of police. What comes next involves a young girl and the unthinkable.”

  The program returned with photographs of Brittany as a young girl on a swing in faded jeans and as a young woman with Jessica and Denise at New Year’s in Philadelphia.

  Richard said, “Brittany Summers, by all accounts, was a troubled young woman. She ran away at the age of sixteen. She ended up in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania, eating out of a diner Dumpster.”

  They cut to a fortysomething woman with perm-curly hair and a tight blouse. The tag below her read, Tracy Wilkerson, Brittany’s mother.

  She said, “Britt refused to follow the rules. She was always makin’ trouble. One day she just up and left. She didn’t want no rules.” Tracy pursed her lips. “We looked everywhere.”

  “Did you call the police?” Richard asked.

  “We knew she left on purpose, so no.”

  “Did you ever meet James Fisher?”

  She scowled. “Yeah, I met him. He was actin’ like he was a lawyer. He demanded Britt’s birth certificate and social security card. I thought he was a lawyer, so I gave him the stuff. I think he was holdin’ her hostage.”

  Kurt appeared. “I knew she was trouble,” he said, “but my uncle wanted to help her.”

  Old smiley photographs of Happy Harold the Outdoorsman scrolled on the screen. He showed off a trout and turkeys, and posed behind a dead buck, holding up the antlers.

  Richard said, “Harold Strickland took care of Brittany Summers for two years, until James Fisher took control.”

  They cut back to Kurt. “I saw him with her on campus. I thought it was weird.”