Spoiler Alert, I Just Found A Murderer's Diary

You know how in books, the love-hungry person finds a diary on the ground, and it’s their crush’s? They return it and live happily ever after? That literally happened to me last week. At least, the finding a diary bit. I’ll let you keep reading to learn if I found my true love. 

Let’s start generically. It was a dark and stormy night (for real, I’m not joking. There was lightning and everything. Plenty of rain, too, of course), and I was walking home from my ten hour shift at DQ. Of course, I had forgotten my umbrella (but, to be fair, what kind of Oregonian uses an umbrella anyways?), so my short, usually puffy hair was stuck to my skull, making it look like I was wearing a swim cap. The gray and red shirt was soaked, dripping down my legs and into my sneakers. I was squelching sadly down the midnight-deserted highway when lo and behold, out of nowhere, I tripped on something. Down I went. Face first. Right onto the newly paved sidewalk. I managed to turn my head and stick out my hands just in time, barely cushioning the fall and slamming my ear on cold concrete. After lying there for a solid four seconds trying to figure out what the bleep just happened, I sat up, cradling my right ear, and looking for the offending object that had caused my misery. Yes, this is where the diary comes in. It flew out of the sky, hitting me in my now good ear, knocking me senseless and completely deaf. That was a joke. Jeez, I can’t believe you didn’t catch on. No, it was laying there on the sidewalk, just grinning up at me. Literally. It had a gigantic, bloody mouth hand-painted on the cover. Like who the heck paints a bloody mouth on their diary? I could tell right away it was a diary; secured with six padlocks, an intricate knot, and the giant word “DIARY” spelled out about the mouth. Did I mention the mouth was covered in blood? It was pretty realistic too. I thought at first that someone had cut out a magazine photo and stuck it on. But looking closer, I could see the rippled canvas texture of the cover under the paint, as well as the brush strokes. Okay, enough about the stupid ugly diary (it was actually quite impressive). Let’s get on with the story.

“Cheese Louie!” I cried; partly because my ear and hands hurt, partly because I had a pretty crappy day at work where a man ordered eighteen gift cards and we had to enter each one by number manually, another dude came through the drive-thru backwards, and oh, also the bit where I forgot I had already mopped the kitchen, rushed through, and fell smack on my side, which was why my hip hurt as well. I keep getting sidetracked. Let’s get on with it.

“Cheese Louie!” I yelled again, this time noticing the grin for a second time and getting scared. I think my pants got a little bit wetter at this point. I crawled meekly over to the extremely rude book and picked it up. I settled down on my knees, turning it over and over before my brain checked in. There was a picture of George Washington wearing false eyelashes, black lipstick, and sitting on a chess board. This was hand-painted as well. Where do these people get their creativity (enter nine exclamation points)? I decided right then and there I was going to read this diary. I threw it down as hard as I could. The locks made a loud “CRACK” sound on the concrete. Re-examining it, two of the locks had popped open. I threw it again and again until all six padlocks were broken. I pulled my pocket knife out and sliced the knot. This is your reminder that I was still sitting on the ground next to the highway at 1:32 in the morning. At this point, the rain had stopped, but the thunder continued on. I peeled open the diary. For whatever miraculous reason, the pages inside were practically untouched by the rain and I could read them easily. I flipped through slowly, random words catching my eye, like “summer,” “novel,” “winner,” “crush,” “ba–” wait a hot minute. Crush?? I skim back over the page.

‘I will crush their bones to dust. I will smash in their skull and eat their brai–’ Okay, that was it. Never again would I read a random diary I found on the road. Why would this have been a good idea in the first place? I didn’t even–

‘--and eat their brains. After my delusional mother left me with my deceased father in the chimney, I figured I would take out my wrath on all who cross my path. Now, as we know, I do unspeakable things.”

What. The. Bleep. No, I will not curse in case a child is reading this story about a murderer. Shoot, did I just spoil the whole thing? Oops. Anyways, what the bleep did I stumble across? I flipped to the back of the book where what I supposed was an address was written. I couldn’t quite tell due to the fact that it was dark and the handwriting was extremely messy, especially when compared to the neat letters of the diary. I stood up shakily (I was rather sore at this point) and mosied on home. 

The next morning, after a quick bathroom stop and a fitful night of nightmares because I had put the diary under my pillow (instead of a footnote, let’s add another parenthetical addon. You know how in highschool you put the textbook under your pillow to learn it better? I slept on the diary in case the address would end up readable in the morning. Let’s get on with it), I shuffled stiffly into the kitchen to make some tea before cracking the code of the address. English Breakfast Tea, obviously, is what came out of the cupboard. 

I turned the pages until the address was clearly on the back page. Now, in the daylight combined with the little lamp on my couch-side table, it was a little clearer. As far as I could figure, this is what it read:

40 N 2nd St #100

Google Maps. The evident solution. I whipped out my phone (with an electric beater) and typed the numbers into the search bar and hit ‘go.’ What the… the police station. The address was literally the police station here in town. Yeah, um, let’s just call this in… 

“Yolo,” I chirped when they answered the phone. “I found this diary on the highway last night and uh, I think you’d be interested in what it has to say.”

“A diary?”

“Um, yeah, that’s what I said, dumb–”

“Are you able to bring it in?”

“I have a car, so yes. I don’t have anything until 4:30 tonight. So I’ll bring it in by then.”

“Okay. And what’s your name?”

Immediate hang up. Who the heck asks for a stranger’s name? And on the phone, too. How disrespectful. I’m not going to run you through the entire play back. So, long story short (shouldn’t the term be ‘long story made short?’), I turned in the diary at exactly 2:74 (what, you think I actually know the time I turned it in? What kind of sophisticated heathen do you think I am?) I was a bit after lunch, though; I know that much. They thanked me, and I heard nothing until yesterday when they published an article on the front page of the newspaper (like, at least let me know?!). This is basically how it went:

LOCAL RESIDENT TURNS IN SUSPICIOUS DIARY

LEADING TO THE ARREST OF MURDERER

      When a local resident called in a diary they found on the highway, the police were dubious. But when the person brought it to the LPD a few hours later, they began investigating further. Through a series of dusting for prints, analyzing handwriting, and the very obvious name signed at the end of each entry, the police immediately began a search. The diary in fact belonged to a wanted criminal, Todd White. White has been arrested before, on the basis of thievery, assault, and kidnapping. The court found him not guilty, and he continued his life. But now, 6 years later, after incriminating evidence was found in White’s diary, they tracked him down and held an emergency court. This time, White was found guilty, and has been sentenced to double life in prison. Remnants of bodies (these turned out to be the remains of persons missing for up to 12 years ago) found in hidden rooms in an undocumented basement were recovered. The citizen who brought in the diary wishes to remain anonymous.

Okay, who wrote this? I totally wanted credit for Todd White’s arrest, even considering I didn’t know about any of this. So anyway, that’s my story. Sadly, I did not meet White, nor did I confront the police or journalists. So there. I found a diary. I turned it in. I basically caught a murderer. You’re welcome.