Miss Emily

The ear-splitting squawking of my home alarm system going off rudely rousted me from my sleep. I sprang from my bed, located the control panel, and punched in the code to stop the irritating sound. 

With a degree of calm now in the house, I grabbed the Louisville Slugger from the corner near my bed and carefully walked through each room to ascertain that I was alone.

I checked the back bedroom first, then the kitchen, dining room, and finally the living room. With a degree of confidence that all was secure, I flopped down onto my comfortable Lazy Boy.

My eyes gazed upon the “Sunrise Over the Arizona Desert” photo that sat above the fireplace.

I’ll never again see such a magnificent sunrise. 

Prior to snapping this photo in New Mexico, the sunlight reflected off the Mining Company’s windows and the light rays dissipated as though they were from a prism. As the shutter clicked, the rays lost their radiance, but in my mind’s eyes, I still see them.

My attention was disrupted by flashing, blue beams coming through the curtains’ gap. 

I peeked outside. 

Three police vehicles were parked in front of my neighbor’s house. Blue lights from the overhead light bars, red lights from blinking taillights, and yellowish streetlight rays combined for a kaleidoscope of colors.

Venturing out, I joined curious neighbors. Attempts to advance beyond the sidewalk were halted by yellow, crime-scene tape and an overweight first responder whose physique indicated more time at the donut shop than at Gold’s Gym.

The officer was leaning against the streetlight pole and the evening mist dimmed the streetlight’s rays, but they glinted off the brass nametag sufficiently for me to read his name--Duncan. I immediate coined a nickname: Dunkin’ Duncan.

I inquired, “Is Miss Emily okay?”

Using his macho, “I’m-in-charge” voice, “You need to stay back. We’re investigating.”

“I’m just concerned…” I started. He quickly motioned for me to step back.

“The Chief’s talking to her. Now move back.”

I obeyed.

Damn,,, the chief and three deputies! The entire night crew of our prestigious police department. 

Who’s protecting the rest of the citizens of our fair town, or better yet, who’s issuing speeding tickets?

The clicking of the lights’ switches and relays were audible, but I detected a distinct, rhythmic “thump, thump, thump”. It sounded like a hydraulic pump, but I saw no source from which the sound could originate.

Miss Emily emerged from the back of her house, accompanied by the Chief. 

The senior citizens in town sarcastically referred to the Chief as “Dick Tracy”, a comic strip police detective from the 1950s. While the real Dick Tracy was tough and intelligent, our Chief, well…is not. I usually just refer to him as “Dick”. No, I’m not really on a first name basis with him, his first name is Harold. 

Miss Emily perused the crowd and appeared awestruck that she was the focal point of the neighborhood and these stellar specimens of law enforcement.            

Everyone strained to overhear their conversation. The Chief gestured toward her petunia garden and despite the background noise, I heard the Chief. “We received an anonymous tip from a concerned citizen about your husband’s disappearance.”

Concerned citizen? Really? I’m sure the motivation is more about the $1000 reward than any real concern.

Her husband had mysteriously disappeared about a month ago. No, it’s been exactly a month now that I think of it.

I peered up at the full moon that was playing peek-a-boo with the wispy clouds in the night sky.

Thump, thump, thump.”

For some strange reason, Poe’s “Telltale Heart” surfaced in my brain.

I’ve never been a fan of the great Edgar Allen, but I have read some of his work and regurgitated some of his crap for college exams.

I’m not sure Poe ever committed a crime, but I’ve always thought if he had, he’d have expressed it better in his writings.

Many scholars say that Edgar’s writing was influenced, hindered, or tainted by his use of drugs. Ho hum, mere rationalization.I

 know, Poe’s fans will ask, “Well, have you ever committed a crime?”

Aha, I’m not required to answer any question that may incriminate me. I will say that I have some past deeds that will hinder my chance for sainthood. I’ll rationalize my killings, if any, are similar to the killing done by a country’s military: all in the line of duty to protect a way of life or a culture.

Poe’s characters exhibited a conscience, remorse, or guilt. I have none.

I have memories and recollections, but no remorse or guilt. 

Thinking back, I may have a bit of remorse over a couple of my acts. Not because of the elimination of the humans, but the manner in which I covered them from discovery.

In hindsight, the body of two teens that I encountered “making love” didn’t really require the fiery charring of their bodies to hide my deed.

Then there was the street thug who attempted to rob me. Poor fool brought a knife to assist his robbery attempt. I probably should have just snuffed him and not fileted part of his face before ending his pathetic, criminal life.

I also ended the life of crime of a child molester. I ensured he suffered before his last breath. Could have used anesthesia before castrating him, but didn’t. Oh, well.

Yes, I can provide vivid, graphic details of how my deeds were committed, but again, I submit they were committed for a noble purpose. Do I embrace torture? No, but I do support creative means to take lives. 

Thoughts of Poe and my past deeds ceased when I saw Miss Emily pointing toward me.

I don’t socialize with many of my neighbors. Unlike others that I refer to as alien neighbors, Miss Emily and I have bonded and developed a bit of a kinship over the past six months.

The Chief radio’d Officer Dunkin’.

“Report to the Chief,” he commanded, raising the yellow tape.

Thump, thump, thump. 

Again I glanced around for the source as I walked toward the Chief.

“She wants you with her for moral support. That okay?”

“Yessir. I’m a friend of her and her husband.”

“Friend” isn’t the accurate feeling I have toward her spouse. He was mean, disrespectful, and abusive--traits that were fueled by alcohol which became more frequent prior to his disappearance.

A dark SUV pulled alongside the curb near Officer Dunkin’. Florescent letters reading “FBI K9” adorned the rear quarter panel. 

A German Shepherd, on a leash, and its handler emerged.

I deduced the McGruff Wanna-Be was a cadaver dog. He approached, sniffled me, snarled, retreated a bit, then began his mission: scratching and sniffing around the petunias.

Miss Emily’s countenance dimmed and blood drained from her cheeks. I leaned and whispered, “No cause for alarm. He won’t find a thing.”

I ensure corpses are undetectable even by the best of K9s.

“Nothing here,” the handler declared after ten minutes of sniffing and scratching. He and the German Shepherd walked back toward their van.

“Sorry …,” the Chief started, then, “Shuush, hear that?”

He raised his hand for silence.

Thump, thump, thump.

Uh oh, now someone besides me hears the sound.

McGruff’s ears raised, his head tilted slightly, and he tugged on his leash.

Near the culvert between Miss Emily’s house and the adjacent dwelling, he stopped.

Another officer, armed with a shovel, began digging.

After about eighteen inches, the officer reached in, hoisted an oblong piece of flesh, and exclaimed, “I think it’s a heart.”

It can’t be. But it was. And, it was beating. I noticed two small wires leading from the heart to a tiny, round, metal disc. Until just now, I didn’t know her spouse had a pacemaker! Damn the Energizer Bunny. The battery was still operating and the heart, that evil heart, was still beating. Thump, thump, thump.

Others may panic at this moment. I’m not.

Yes, they’ll take the heart to the medical examiner and determine the heart’s owner via DNA or the serial number of the device, but I’m not apprehensive. 

First, our police couldn’t get a conviction with a confession and three eyewitnesses. They’ll find a way to bungle the case and get it dismissed.

Secondly, by sunrise, Miss Emily and I will be gone. We’ve bonded and are now part of the same culture. We’ll set up residence elsewhere (probably New Mexico) and be visible to our neighbors only at night.