Dead Bodies May Not Tell All the Tales

 A December-like chill overtook me soon after I entered an uncharted area of the Pokomoke State Forest on Maryland’s Delmarva Peninsula. I didn’t know exactly what sinister force had captured me and driven me here, but it had me in its power and it was impossible to resist.

      The sudden burst of arctic cold knocked me off my feet, almost into an abandoned well. I almost fell into the middle of its darkened abyss. The cold in particular startled me because it this took place in the middle of June, not the middle of winter.

       Until I came in contact with the well sweat had poured from every inch of my body.

      I had hiked five miles into the state forest itself in an attempt to solve mysteries surrounding the murder of my Aunt Bernice and the fire that later destroyed the town of her birth and to whose future she had dedicated almost every one of her waking hours.

      As I stood on the precipice of the well, I flashed back to the time when, as a young teenager, I had discovered my aunt’s body in her bedroom closet with a bullet shot through her head. That mystery had remained unsolved and haunted me for a decade–and the more effort I put into solving the puzzle it seemed the more elusive it had become. 

     Since I planned to move to the West Coast, I set my mind on unravelling the tale of my aunt’s demise before I left.

     My auntie had lived in a cozy little home in her cozy little neighborhood with her social life centering around her cozy little church in East Pokomoke, MD .

     However, when mapping out my “Magical Mystery Tour,” and the reliving of my teenage nightmare I hadn’t planned on a side excursion to an abandoned well and a 40-degree drop in temperature. 

     The unexplained–and unexplainable–magnetism that drew me into my current situation took over my body shortly after I entered  Pokomoke State Forest. After I stumbled through the entrance a hypnotic voice captured my attention and led me into a section of the park not shown on any of my trail maps—and to that well. 

    I booming voice soon assaulted my ears: 

    “Attention Harry Warrington. This is your Aunt Bernice. You have wondered for years who did away with me. The answer lies on the bottom of the abandoned well right in front of you. Look to my bones. Buried with me you’ll discover not only how I died, but also the cause of the fire that destroyed our neighborhood and much of East Pokomoke so many years ago.”

   Pushed forward by a mixture of fear and curiosity, I reached into  the bottom of the well, where I found a metal box.  I opened it to discover what looked like a journal. Scrawled across the first page—the signature of Hugo Longo, the head mobster who had “controlled” my aunt’s neighborhood on the edge of the forest about a decade before.

      Hugo’s claims to fame included a large “investment” in the trading of illegal opioids and a number of murder-for-hire schemes in the seedy side of the Eastern Shore’s crabbing industry.

       My trembling fingers turned the yellowed pages of the journal to read:

    “We have allowed this little preacher to strike the ‘fear of God’ into the youth of East Pokomoke for far too long. She is cutting way down on our base by recruiting away those who should become primo rookie operatives for our enterprise. I’ve put plenty of extra deniro into the pay envelope of Sonny Preston, one of my most trusted lieutenants. He will take care of our ‘problem’ with one shot to Bernice’s temple—threat eliminated.

    “Of course, we want someone to discover the body as a warning to those stupid enough to fall under the spell of Bernice’s preaching in the future. We don’t, however, want the local cops not on our payroll and a murder rap to put the kibosh on our business. After we make sure Sonny has posted our warning, we will ‘purefy’ the entire town with a master stroke of the genius of my friend Tommy the Torch Buccato. 

    “Sorry about the collateral damage, but that’s the price you pay for screwing with free enterprise.”

   Other memories project like feature movies across my mind:

—A flash flood that moved the remnants of the tiny hamlet that served as my aunt’s home base  from two miles outside the Pokomoke State Forest into the far reaches of the state park after the fire that consumed the entire town..

—The arrest of Longo and five of his associates on suspicion of the arson that destroyed Aunt Bernice’s neighborhood and the once-beautiful town that surrounded it.

  –No convictions of the mobster and his ‘posse’ in connection with my aunt’s murder–police never knew about the diary in the well.

Suddenly, I hear:

   “This is the police. Open up immediately.”

      Loud knocking wakes me up out of a sound sleep in my Salisbury apartment.

The police shove a piece of paper into my face and shout while they begin to put me in handcuffs and leg irons,

“You are under arrest for the murder of Bernice Warrington. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be held against you. You have the right to an attorney.”

They then haul me off to the Salisbury municipal lockup and roughly shove me into a cell.

Turns out everything about my little hike in the woods, and discovering my aunt’s bones, etc. all came from a dream—or should I say a nightmare—that had only just begun.

     Hugo’s diary never existed, but I had squirrled away my message of hatred in my desk. 

     Sure, I had seen Aunt Bernice’s body with a bullet through her head, but it was I who put it there.

      She had no right to leave my rightful inheritance to her silly little church. 

      Well, at least I got my justified revenge, even if I had to spend my final days behind bars. 

      Sometimes justice is more important than the life of one mere mortal.