Man in the Mirror

       A December-like chill overtook me soon after I began to feel my way along the darkened and, I thought, deserted, area of the Pokomoke State Forest. The sudden burst of arctic cold almost knocked me off my feet into the darkened abyss.  I regained my balance just in time to avoid falling head first into the abandoned well.  The frigid air blew up from the hole, not in the middle of winter, but in mid-June.

       Until I came in contact with the well sweat had poured from every inch of my body–a combination of fear and the hot summer heat.

      The fear came from the fact that I believed someone had followed me into the woods.

      Before beginning my little excursion this day I told my friends I had a mission to complete.  I said my aim was to  hike deep into the Delmarva woods to finally unravel the five-year-old mystery surrounding the murder of my Aunt Bernice and the fire that later destroyed her neighborhood.

     A half decade earlier, I had told them, and the law enforcement authorities, I had discovered my aunt’s body in her bedroom closet with a bullet shot through her head.

     My auntie had lived in a cozy little home on the outskirts of the wooded state recreation area. Her social life had centered around her church and helping the troubled youth in the neighborhood find the way to better lives.

     According to the tale I told them this day, my itinerary for my amateur detective work had not originally included a side excursion to the abandoned well with the 40-degree drop in temperature. 

     I had said that, shortly after I got into the park, a huge shadow appeared before me and a hypnotic voice boomed from the figure and commanded me to follow it into a section of the park not shown on any of my trail maps—and to that well:

    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 darkened pit in front of you. At its bottom you will find clues that will unfold the true tale of my death and the cause of the fire that destroyed our neighborhood of Pokomoke East so many years ago.

   Supposedly pushed forward by a mixture of fear and curiosity, at the bottom of the well I found what looked like a time-and-weather-worn journal. Scrawled across the first page—the signature of Hugo Longo, the head mobster who had controlled the area on the edge of the forest for about 10 years, including the time of my aunt’s murder.

      Hugo’s claims to fame included directing a large chunk of the drug trade and a number of murder-for-hire schemes in the seedy side of procuring summer help and housing for them in the seafood industry.

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

    We allowed the reputation of Bernice Warrington to strike the fear of God into the youth of East Pokomoke for far too long. She stopped the growth of our business enterprise by recruiting away some of our best rookie operatives. I put plenty of extra deniro into the pay envelope of Sonny Preston, one of my most trusted lieutenants. He was supposed to take care of our problem with one shot to Bernice’s temple.

    Of course, we wanted someone to discover the body as a warning to those stupid enough to think they could pick up in the future where Bernice left off. We also didn’t want the local cops and a murder rap to put the kibosh on our business. After Sonny posted his warning, we purefied auntie’s home territory with a campfire in the woods set by my friend Tommy the Torch Buccato. 

    Those killed as part of the collateral damage paid the price for screwing with free enterprise.

   Other memories suddenly flash into my mind and add to my fear:

—A torrential flood from a hurricane had moved the remnants of Bernice’s neighborhood from two miles outside the Pokomoke State Forest into the far reaches of the state park.

—Maryland’s best detectives had not given up on solving the half-decade-old unsolved arson that destroyed much of the homes of Bernice’s neighbors in addition to hers.

  –Authorities never had filed charges against the mobster or any of his associates in connection with my aunt’s murder. Police found they had fled the area before the murder.

     Shaken out of a nightmare, I hear:

   “This is the police. Open up immediately.”

     They had tailgated me every day since the discovery of the body and had followed me into the woods and home to my Salisbury University apartment.

     Their loud knocking woke me up out of a sound sleep and a nightmare about my visit to the well.

They shove a piece of paper into my face and shout,

“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.

Turns out the aim of my little hike in the woods was to make sure police would find the diary I had written, but they had finally discovered my five-year-old secret. 

Sure, they discovered 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.

I had set her house on fire to cover up my revenge, and a flood caused by a hurricane had destroyed all but the most important evidence.  

Hugo had long pledged to get even with auntie, but Interpol had arrested him and his gang in Bermuda the week before the house fire.  

Well, at least I made her pay for cheating me out of what belonged to me, even if I spend my final days behind bars.