Smoke and Mirrors Issue 1 - The Stuhlmann Corpse
The Stuhlmann Corpse
by Franchot Lewis
Copyright (c) 1993
A long day, a long wait, it had been. Jack Lynch had two executions in a 24 hours period, and he had to wait. His last job was on hold. He waited for the final clearances from the Governor's office. Finally, the last word came at two that morning, and by two thirty, Jack Lynch finished the job. He arrived home at three and after a late supper and a fruitless search for something to watch on all-night cable he dozed to sleep. The time was four-forty.
He lay, stretched, on his bed. He still had on his dark gray executioner's suit. He was in his stocking feet. He had kicked his shoes off before laying on the bed. He left the bedroom light lit. He lay on top of the blanket. The room had been warm, but had now chilled. The night wind rose, noisily rustled in the leaves outside the window, repeatedly sent debris crashing into the side of the house, and shook the windows in their frames. Through the space between the loose window and the frame, a draft whooshed into Jack Lynch's bedroom. The curtains flapped and the blinds bumped against the glass. The apartment building was old. During a brisk wind it creaked and groaned. This night, its old joists, joints and boards seemed almost to whine. These sounds were common and did not disturb Jack Lynch's sleep. But, the cooling of the room brought Jack Lynch almost to the point of wakefulness. He tossed on his back, then, onto his stomach, and curled up, his hands, his feet crouched up close to his chest, his hand at his crotch, drawing his body inward to seek warmth. The wind paused. He quieted and began to fall back into sleep. Then, he heard a scream.
In sleep, he wondered, his mind questioned, fretfully. Was he in limbo? In sleep? Was he dreaming that he had heard a scream? Next, he wondered, was it a scream? Did not the noise sound like a screech? He heard the sound of heavy breathing. The sounded was close, and was coming closer. Slowly he began to believe the sound was from some thing in the room, something real. He opened his eyes and screeched.
"Omigod!" A large bloated male body was looming over him. He recognized the face straight away. The knife scars on the cheek, the hard eyes that stared but could not see. He knew that face even before his eyes could focus. He screamed and the lurking figure fell on top of him, pinning him to the bed. Adrenalin pumped, his heart beat like a drum. He struggled to free himself. The weight of the thing that fell on him was light, so by him steadily, unrelentingly wiggling, kicking, screeching he managed to toss the thing off himself and send it tumbling to the floor. He jumped to his feet, covered his mouth with his hands to keep from throwing up. The thing looked terrible, frightful, horrible, like a walking corpse, not any corpse, but the corpse of a man Jack Lynch had executed a year ago. Though time and worms, and the elements had not decayed the face, the body was full of maggots, feasting, wiggling, looking almost as if they were swimming on the rotting flesh. The odor was awful. It stung Jack Lynch's nose, rode to the delicate innermost part of his olfactory bulb. The stink hung in Jack Lynch's mouth. He could taste the awful rot. His whole insides, his nose, his mouth, his throat, his lungs, his stomach choked from the maggoted odor of rotting flesh. Jack Lynch puked. He could not stop. All the food and gunk, and liquids on his stomach erupted, spewing out, gushing. One stinking, foul mess that kept coming until his gut could not bear the hurt. Then, his bladder broke and his bowels. He puked, peed, plunked until he emptied himself and he fell, exhausted alongside the corpse and cried.
Neighbors had heard the screaming and the police came. The police broke down the door and found Jack Lynch immobilized with fear. The police found him on the floor in his own filth alongside the corpse.
The time was 7:00 A.M. The coroner's wagon took the corpse to the city morgue. Detective Sergeant Joe Christian arrived. A small crowd gathered outside the apartment building. The people who lived in the other five units of the building were peeping out their doors into the hall. Police lines were up. Uniformed officers were interviewing people, taking statements from those who had heard or had seen something. An officer had coaxed Jack Lynch to undress, and to get under the shower. Officers opened the apartment's windows, and poured bleach on the floor where Jack Lynch had puked.
After being briefed, Christian called together the uniforms who had opened the window, poured the bleach, and said to them, "Something is worrying me which I shouldn't have to ask anybody about, which is: did you disturb any evidence?"
"No!" replied Officer Charles Nunn who had poured the bleach. "The place stunk, the dead body was taken out by the people who remove dead bodies, they took pictures".
Christian nodded, "Good."
"Sergeant, this is no homicide," Nunn said.
"There is a dead body?" Christian asked.
Nunn said, "The guy from the medical examiner's is saying that, that stiff has been dead more than a year and that it had been buried! What was it doing here? Now, that's what really concerns me!"
"Of course it concerns me as well," Christian said.
"This guy must have a lot of enemies for somebody to do a thing like this to him, scared him almost to death!"
"His name is Jack Lynch?"
"Yes, Sergeant, that's what he said," Nunn replied.
"Did he tell you anything else?"
"Gibberish, he was very upset and excitable."
Just then, Officer Morales entered carrying pen and a clip board and a smile when he saw Christian.
"Ernesto, do you have anything for me?" Christian asked him.
"I've checked on this guy," Morales said. "He's okay. He works for Virginia, he is the Commomwealth's executioner."
"Oh?"
"Yes, sir," Morales nodded. "He's been on the job six years, has done a hundred executions and has a very satisfactory job performance record. I've talked to the prison warden, he vouches for Jack Lynch a thousand percent."
Christian said, "It doesn't take much imagination to surmise a probable scenario: a grave robber or robbers brought the corpse here to frighten Mr. Lynch. The probable motive, revenge. The probable perpetrators, family or friends of some one whom in the line of duty, Mr. Jack Lynch executed."
Morales smiled, "Yes, and get this: the corpse is the remains of Robert Stuhlmann".
Christian nodded. "Do I have to ask? Mr Stuhlmann was one of the criminals Mr. Lynch executed?"
Morales replied, "No, you don't have to ask, and yes, Lynch executed Stuhlmann".
"Fine," said Christian, asking Morales, "When are you going to put on plain clothes and be a detective?" Morales replied, "I like wearing the uniform, I like the camaraderie".
"We could use you in homicide," Christian said, slapping Morales on the back.
Morales grinned, "Thanks."
---
"What's keeping, Mr. Lynch?" Christian asked. The sergeant was becoming impatient. He wanted to continue with the investigation. He had questions for the victim.
"Mr. Lynch is in the shower," Officer Nunn replied.
"How long has he been in the shower?"
"About an hour."
"Don't you think it's time for him to come out?"
"Not if you had smelled him when he went in."
Christian said, "I think its time for him to come out."
Christian knocked on the bath room door. "Mr. Lynch, I am Sergeant Christian, homicide. I have a few questions, Sir."
No answer, only the sound of the shower running.
"Mr. Lynch, will you come out, please?"
The only sound Christian could hear from the bathroom was that of the shower spray, of water rushing with force through a faucet and falling, and splashing on the wall into a tub. As Christian knocked again and again, and called to Jack Lynch to open the door, the shower water seemed to come faster and faster as if a fretful force was trying to make the water break speed records.
"What's wrong with him?" Christian asked. "What was his mental condition?"
"He was distressed, " Nunn said. "But -"
Christian cut him off with urgency. "Help me break down this door!"
"Sergeant!" Nunn pointed to the door's hinges. The apartment house was old. The builders of the apartment house had hung the bathroom door in such a way that when closed, the hinges were visible from the other side. "If I could get a screw driver I could pry the pins loose and we could just lift the door up off its hinges and open it, without destroying it, I think it's an antique door".
"You have a screw driver?"
"In the scout car, I'll get it..." While Nunn ran for the screw driver, Christian pounded a couple more times on the door. "Why won't he answer?" Christian demanded to know.
"We might need the boys from the state mental hospital," said Officer Morales.
Nunn returned and he easily removed the hinges and easily lifted the door. Christian was the first to look inside.
"Great Scott!" he shouted.
A dark blue shower curtain, the color of blue night had been torn back, and partially torn from the rod where it hung. The shower water was rushing from the spray head into the tub, and was whirling away in an angry fit, down into the drain. Jack Lynch was lying in the tub, still, his eyes open, looking as if they were gazing toward where Christian stood. Jack Lynch's eyes looked sad and deep and sorrowful. Lying on the tile floor, next to Lynch's body was the Stuhlmann 's corpse.
Sergeant Christian cursed, hurrying toward Jack Lynch, took the man's arm and felt for a pulse, and found none. Christian cursed again. He put his hand to the man's chest, hoping for a heart beat, and found none. He checked the man's lips for signs of respiration, and found none.
Nunn poked his head through the door, the first thing he noticed, was the corpse. "Am I dreaming? What's that doing here!"
Christian replied, "That's my question!"
When Christian turned his head, moving his eyes toward Nunn, Nunn's eyes moved and he saw Jack Lynch.
"Lordy! Is he dead?"
Christian nodded.
"Damn! They took that corpse away! How did it get in here?" Nunn was so full of anxious energy that he was close to shouting. Christian let his eyes scan through the bathroom, carefully looking for evidence. "This room was locked," he said quietly. Then, he shook his head and sighed. "I want to talk to everybody! Check with the morgue. Check with the drivers. I want to find out how that thing got back here!"
Christian turned and saw Morales standing in the doorway. "Buddy, do you have any answers?"
"No," Morales shook his head. "But -"
"Yeah?" asked Christian.
"Stuhlmann cursed everybody involved in his execution: the witnesses against him, the prosecutor, the jury, the judge, the executioner."
"Well, I'll be kicked in the behind by a mule." Christian exclaimed. "I am a police officer, I lock up crooks, I don't chase the bogeyman."
"I don't either," said Morales.
Christian said, "I've got a lot of work to do! I'm going to talk to everybody who's been here or who has been around that corpse. Now, somebody is going to tell me something that's going to lead to a crook being locked up."
The Stuhlmann's grave had been disturbed. The ground and the vault had been opened, the coffin had been raised, broken, opened and dumped on top of Stuhlmann 's tombstone. The authorities took the corpse back to its grave site, and after a short service of purification by the cemetery's chaplain, the body was reinterred.
---
His Honor, Circuit Court Judge Justin Ruhe had lived in fanatical anxiety fantasies when he was a slender boy before his muscles developed and his voice changed. He had read the comic books with the advertisements by Charles Atlas, advising young boys to send their coins and dollars through the mails to get their own copies of the plan to build themselves up like a man. No beach bully had kicked sand in little Justin's face yet, but he was feeling the urge to do something about his skinny, hairless body, to get a sort of head start, on looking manly, and grow hair on his chest, before all the other boys at school grew hair on their chests and he had grown none. He sent for Charles Atlas plan, and he began exercising at the "YMCA" and taking a big interest in gym class at school. Going to the gym became a big part of his life. Always, he worked out, religiously. At fifty he was in good physical shape, had a trim body, a well muscled chest. He kept fit by working out almost daily at the gym a few blocks from the court house.
When Judge Ruhe arrived at the gym only a few people were around. He arrived late because a trial jury had come in a late with a verdict. Duty had delayed him in his court room. He went straight to the weight room which to a novice resembled the worst high-tech nightmare, a modern medieval torture chamber, that could receive the warm approval of the ghost of the Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition.
Within moments, the judge had connected his body to a mechanical monstrosity designed to torture the muscles of his arms and legs into getting bigger. Soon followed, the clanking of metal, the creaking and straining of muscles and bones, the grunting and groaning from the judge, the rapid sighing and a shout of challenge and defiance at the machine, as the judge's chest, arms and legs bulged.
The judge had wanted to stop. The hour was late. He wanted to go home to relax with his wife, but something told him to wait. That time to stop would come. He was enjoying his performance. He was pressing ten pounds more weight than before. His hands went up and down with the lever, his feet back and forth. Sweat trickled down his forehead. His body began to feel better. He was pumping the iron machine. He felt power in his hand. He sped up and then slowed. His straining muscles stayed up. His legs looked strong. He admired his arms and he slowed the motion to a long easy pace. Much sweat was seeping from his pores. He imagined himself the best weight lifter his age. He licked his upper lip, tasted the sweat, flowing down his face. He was feeling good. His sweat tasted good to him. He slowed down his pumping of the machine. He looked down again at the muscles on his body, his muscles looked good to him, almost beautiful. He lifted up his head and he whispered, "Yeah, baby, that's a good work out!"
As he got off the machine, he looked about and discovered all the other people had left the weight room. He thought of how late the time was. He glanced at the big clock on the wall. He had time for a shower. He hurried to his locker, got his towel, stripped off his gym suit and headed into the shower. The water was right, warm and strong. The management of the gym did not believe in humoring its clientele with gentle shower spray. No, the water came out in force, rushing. The gym was a man's gym and this was a man's shower. The judge was accustomed to the force of water, but each time, he showered he would wince for a moment, as the water knocked against him, but the judge liked it. He opened his mouth and let water gush in, which he gargled with, twirling the water back and forth before spitting it out. He shut his eyes and let the shower water hit his face, and he rubbed the water into his skin with his hands, the water pounded him, its thrust penetrated. When he opened his eyes he was not alone in the shower.
The judge's legs tensed, his body shook and his eyes flew open wide. He recognized the other presence in the shower. He had seen the big stink in the papers concerning the Stuhlmann's corpse. He knew that he had come eyeball-to-eyeball with a thing, whose eye balls were half eaten by worms, whose eye lids were rotting flesh. The judge tried to calm himself. He was a thinking man up against the unthinkable. He strained his neck, trying to look around to see what was holding up the corpse to keep it from falling.
"This is quite a show," he said, still sounding nervous. "I am a circuit court judge, and I tell you, characters, it's later than you think."
He tried to put on a strong face and smile. He was naked in the shower. He thought of his towel on a rack outside the stall. Then, he felt puzzled by the effect on him of this thing staring at him. He was angry and anxious, and his mind seemed duller to him, not normal. Then, he could see what the thing had in its hand. It was the ends of an electrical extension cord and the wires were exposed.
"Oh, Damn!" he shouted at the thing. "Get away from me!"
The thing would not move. He tried to run around it. The thing blocked the way. He could see the dwindling chance for his escape, and a large puddle of his pee joining the shower water at his feet. He cursed and he screamed for help and wished to God someone would come. The thing came closer. He tried to dodge away from it. The thing charged at him from a tackling stance, contact was made and the judge fried, screaming like a scared chicken being burnt alive.
The gym manager on duty heard the screams and came running. His arrival was much too late for the judge. The manager saw the smoke, smelled the burning flesh, thought a fire, then he saw the cord. Long and black and led from an electrical plug in the weight room. He knew this was murder. Frightened, he ran to a phone. He called the police. He was too afraid to pull the plug, or to go back near the shower for fear a killer was still on the scene.
Christian was angry. He had made no headway on solving Jack Lynch's murder and now a circuit court judge, the sentencing judge in the Stuhlmann case had been murdered by the same corpse used, according to the medical examiner, to frighten Jack Lynch to death. Christian was angry. The Chief of Police was outraged. His honor, the mayor was about to have a baby, he was yelling and screaming, and carrying on so much. The media, television and the daily newspapers were having a field day.
The police had no usual suspects to round up and to interrogate because this was not a usual case. Sergeant Christian was baffled. Stuhlmann had been an orphan. He had no family who could have been doing these crazy things in a stupid way of trying to avenge him. He had no friends either. The man had spent most of his life in jail.
"I think this might be a political crime," Sergeant Christian told his chief, Captain Alexander Pope, who had taken over the case.
"In what way is this ghoulish business political?" Pope asked.
"Anti-death penalty nuts!" Christian said, suggesting that capitol punishment foes were responsible for the two murders. "And if it is political, these might be hard nuts to crack."
"How so?" Pope asked.
"Can you imagine," Christian replied, "All the bodies of everybody executed in this state being dug up and used in revenge against the law biding and constitutional officers and persons of the court who did their duty to rule, judge or decree that criminal creeps be put to death? It would take an army of law enforcement officers just to put surveillance on all of those grave sites."
"We will watch one grave site for now," Pope said.
"We should cremate that corpse" Christian suggested. "That would put an end to its ghoulish activities."
"No," Pope said. "That would take a court order, besides I want the rascals who are using that corpse, they've committed two murders."
"So that thing is to be re-buried again?" Christian asked.
"And its grave site is to be watched," said Captain Pope, continuing, "I understand Stuhlmann threatened every one involved in his case. I want the principals involved to be given police protection."
Christian asked, "That's the jury? And the prosecuting team? And key prosecuting witnesses?"
"Yes."
"That's going to require a lot of manpower."
"The Chief has given us a blank check," said Pope.
"People get angry when dead bodies are moved about and are used to murder people; the mayor wants this case solved."
---
"Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor a bunch of nuts are gonna keep me from making my appointed rounds," said Juan Doe, a United States' Postal worker, who had been the foreman of the Stuhlmann jury. His dedication to duty that got him to agree to serve as the jury foreman, to serve on a seven month trial which during the whole time the jury was sequestered in a Holiday Inn. The forty two year old civil servant lived with his wife and four children who ranged in ages from six to sixteen years. He was under constant police protection. That meant three uniformed officers were assigned to guard him always. One officer, Barry St. George, was riding besides him in the small vehicle used by the postal service to deliver packages, and two officers were following in a marked car.
"I am going to keep doing my regular job," Doe said. "I am a Mailman, people expect to see me every day. My supervisor wanted to take me off the route, hide me in the back room of the post office, but I said: 'No! I am not afraid. These nuts are going around trying to make us all slaves to fear, but I am no slave. I am a free man. I won't cower to their terror. No one would be safe if we did.'"
Officer St. George was a veteran officer, he sensed the tremors under the Doe bravo, and he said, "Don't worry, we will protect you."
"I'm not worried, " Doe said.
"The Department is going to break this thing," St. George said. "We'll be making arrests pretty soon."
"Good!" said Doe.
St. George continued, "We've hauled in over forty radicals and are watching hundreds of other suspicious persons." Doe smiled. "I'll tell my wife that because she is afraid for me."
"There's no reason to be afraid, police officers will be with you every minute."
"I'm not afraid," Doe said. "My wife never used to be afraid. She would go out on the street by herself to the store if she had to go at night, she wasn't afraid of rapists or muggers. You've seen my wife. She has big bones and is built solid. She knows karate. Once, she tried to use a little of it on me when I stepped out of line, if you know what I mean?" His eyes smiled at St. George.
St. George grinned. "You're a ladies man?" Doe grinned. "Guilty. It's hard to keep the old eyes from roving when spring has sprung and the days get longer and the skirts shorter."
"And your wife gets into the karate?" St. George laughed. Doe laughed too.
Doe parked the little postal truck, and accompanied by the three police officers, he delivered a package to a store.
"I feel like the President," he teased. "I've got body guards."
At six thirty, Doe had not arrived home. He was a half hour late. His wife, Marie, was besides herself. He had seldom been late, rarely this late. She was anxious because the possibility was there that he could be the late Doe, and she a widow. His wife had worked herself up a sweat, wearing out the carpet on her floor with constant pacing. She called Captain Pope's office twice. "I'm really scared of him being killed, " she told the officer who took the call. Captain Pope was out and had left orders that he was not to be bothered by calls unless the Stuhlmann corpse put in an appearance above ground, or unless the Chief of Police called.
Mrs. Doe continued whining into the phone. "I called my father to come and look for my husband and my father is nearly seventy!"
The officer spoke, "Mrs. Doe, your husband is fine, he should be home shortly."
"Where is he? He's never been this late!"
"He is with police officers, riding in a police car, they are stuck in traffic on the Wilson Bridge. A four-wheeler overturned, and it lays spilled across the highway, and traffic is backed up for fifteen miles. You shouldn't worry."
"I'm his wife, I'll worry if I want to," said Mrs. Doe.
When Doe came up the walk laughing and joking with his police protectors, Mrs. Doe was standing at the front door. She became angry. "Tell me what kept you?" she demanded. She was indignant.
"Traffic jam," said Doe, still grinning.
"What's so funny?"
"I told them that you would say that!" Doe laughed. "See fellahs, she wants to know what kept me."
"Is it funny because I worry?" Mrs. Doe said. "Maybe I'm blowing things out of proportion. Maybe it's a bad attitude on my part but I sure in hell wish you hadn't gotten involved in this."
Doe stopped laughing. "We've talked about this," he said. "There's enough trouble around us as it is, we don't need to start any between ourselves."
Officer John Sayers was hoping, just hoping that something would happen. He and Officer Tillman had staked out Stuhlmann 's grave for three months on twelve hour a day shifts. He wanted the grave robbers to drop by. Officer Tillman wanted action as much as Sayers, but had not verbalized. He kept watch and listened as Sayers would ramble on all the long night shifts about what he would do to anybody he caught desecrating a grave. "Grave desecration, you know," Sayers was telling Tillman, "Is a profane act, a sacrilege, it takes a warped mind to do such a disgusting thing."
As Sayers continued his explanation of grave desecration, it turned two o'clock in the morning. They had passed most of the shift drinking a little too much coffee, and the caffeine added to their normal impatience at so much inactivity was making them a little jumpy. Their inactivity ended. First, Tillman saw four field rats run through the grave yard and one stop atop Stuhlmann 's grave and stare, working its teeth like gnawing at the air. Next, the ground shook like it was an earthquake, Tillman yelled at Sayers,
"Earthquake! We better get out of the car!"
"Why?"
"The ground under us is shaking, I don't want to be swallowed up!"
Tillman opened the car door and hurriedly moved away from the car. Sayers did the same. The ground was shaking, but once outside the car Tillman and Sayers could see that the center of the disturbance was Stuhlmann's grave.
"Omigod!" Sayers shuddered, feeling almost faint, and a small bit of excrement was at the opening of his anus, wetting the seat of his drawers.
"We better call this in," said Tillman. His voice trembling almost as much as the ground.
Sayers shouted, "Something horrible is happening."
A loud sound like an explosion rattled the officers' ears. Tillman and Sayers watched as the ground over Stuhlmann 's grave flew into the sky as if propelled by the force of a geyser, or by a god below who had thrown up the earth. Next came the lid of the burial vault that held Stuhlmann 's coffin, then, the coffin came shooting from the hole. It landed a few yards from Sayers's foot.
"God! God! God!" he shouted.
Tillman ran to the squad car to radio, but he spoke so fast that the dispatcher thought he was speaking a strange language, and asking for clarification, demanded, "Speak in English, slowly, please."
The authorities had doubled and tripled sealed the coffin. Five one quarter inch thick steel bands had been wrapped around the coffin, like a steel ribbon, to fasten it securely. One by one the steel bands popped. Then, the lip of the coffin popped opened, flying in the air and crashing onto the ground, breaking into many pieces. Then, the Stuhlmann corpse itself reappeared, stepping from the coffin like a ventriloquist dummy raising itself from a trunk. More of its flesh was gone, some eaten further by worms, some burnt during the electrocution-murder of Judge Ruhe. The corpse had no eyes now, only sockets where the flesh had been eaten or had rotted away. There were live maggots still eating on the flesh left and one rat clinging to and gnawing at the corpse's left leg.
"This is too much!" Sayers shouted, shaking his head. "Too much! We've got to stop it." He drew his service weapon, and shouted, "In the name of Heaven, we've got to stop it!"
The corpse began to run, fast, like a marathon runner with masterly skill, going from a trot to a gallop to a splinter's speed, lifting its feet as it moved in stride, bringing them down faster and faster. Then, far ahead of the chase, it pulled to a stop, turned and waited, wiggled a rotting finger, then took off at breathless speed again. Sure, it had no breath to hold it back. Sayers's breath was pumping, he was trying to get a hold of himself, and suck in air at the same time. His face was flush and rigid with tension. His nerves were badly bruised something terrible. His heart was beating in such a way that he if he had not been so psyched-up he would have thought his heart would burst. His skull almost felt like his head was about to burst. He was growing hot, heat, fire and pain coursed through his veins. Still, he chased the corpse. The corpse was quicker, and it stopped time after time to wait, to torture Sayers to continue the chase. Sayers finally, stopped, his strength was melting away. He felt drained of the last drop of zeal he had left in him. His eyes were swimming; his head, dizzy. He was near collapse. The corpse wiggled a rotting finger as if waving goodbye when squad cars seem to come from nowhere, a dozen, and the police helicopter swooped in and circled overhead, its high powered beam shined directly into the corpse's face. The thing was surrounded. It suddenly collapsed on the ground as if the power that had given it motion had suddenly been shut down.
The corpse was taken to police headquarters, placed in an open coffin and locked in a cell and given a 24-hour guard.
Faith West of the National Committee for Life, a friend of the mayor, asked to consult on the case. A reluctant Captain Pope, prodded by the mayor, agreed to one interview. Sergeant Christian was also present during the interview.
Captain Pope had a slight cold but he pretended to have worse. He was busy enough and he did not have time for Mrs. West. He sat back in his chair and let her talk. He thought to himself that she was a jerk. He let her have the moment. He decided to give her ten minutes, and let her squeeze all the silly ideas she had to tell him in that time. She was one of many citizens who thought they had a valuable contribution to make in solving the case. To Captain Pope, these busybodies were making a pest of themselves by trying to advise him on how he should do his job.
Mrs. West spoke, "Who has the right to take life? Not he who was executed for murder, and not them who executed him, or he wouldn't be allowed to return - "
Christian interrupted the lady, "He is the devil!" The sergeant's tone was short and angry, his tongue almost thick and his breath convulsive, his emotions almost made him choke, he was disgusted by Mrs. West's reasoning.
Mrs. West rebuffed the sergeant. "It is God who must allow it."
"God?" gasped, Sergeant Christian, his chest heaving with emotion. "Lady, you're something else."
"The devil has no power," Mrs. West said.
"Really now?" Pope asked, smiling.
Mrs. West replied in ernest, "The devil just deceives, makes you think he has power. It Is God Who Rules, and why He permits this is a mystery to me -"
"Nonsense!" said Sergeant Christian, and he went on growling at Mrs. West. "Satan? Rascals, human beings who are doing wrong, criminals are behind this. And what I am saying is I don't believe any of this garbage you are talking about." He stopped and looked at Captain Pope.
Mrs. West said, "You see with your own eyes and you do not believe?"
"This is hard to believe," the Captain said quietly.
"You refuse to believe," Mrs. West said.
"It's a trick," replied the sergeant. "A clever trick! Who knows how it's done? Scientists are discovering new ways of doing what was once thought impossible every day. What you say is magic, is some scientific or technological invention."
"I don't say it is magic."
"No, you are blaming God, saying that He did it."
Mrs. West shook her head, saying that she was being misunderstood.
Sergeant Christian said, "Well, I know what to do, burn the damned thing. Let's see what it does when it's ashes."
"No, you mustn't," plead Mrs. West. "There's something here."
"What?" asked the Captain.
"Tricks," replied the sergeant.
Mrs. West replied, "I suggest you act with caution."
"Bah! Burn it," said the sergeant addressing the captain.
"No," said Mrs. West.
"Then what?" asked the captain.
Mrs. West replied, "We should pray?"
"Are you kidding? I say, burn the thing now."
"It's not up to me to decide," said the captain. "Higher ups will have to decide."
"Yes!" said Mrs. West.
"I'm referring to the chief of police," Pope said.
"You are one of those abolish-capital-punishment-people?" Sergeant Christian asked.
"Yes, I am against capital punishment."
"There you go," said the sergeant. "We're not going to listen to you."
Captain Pope apologized for the sergeant's bluntness and then brought the interview with Mrs. West to a close. She had gone passed nearly double her ten minutes of allotted time.
After a series of high-level meetings, the authorities decided to cremate the Stuhlmann corpse, and its ashes were scattered, dropped from a police helicopter into the sea. After months of effort, Sergeant Christian was still baffled. He complained that the Department was no closer to reaching the light and discovering a solution to the case. However, with the corpse disposed of, the heat on the Department, somehow, seemed to have dissipated. Though the case remained opened, it accrued little activity for months. The level of manpower assigned to the case was scaled way back. The potential targets of the Stuhlmann's curse continued to have police protection, but not the intensive protection they had been receiving. Occasionally, at night, an officer drove by the homes, and each target was frequently visited by an officer on the beat where they worked during the day to keep an eye on them. But generally, the Department thought that the perpetrators of the murders had decided to lay low.
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Juan Doe had been asleep, he was in bed lying beside his wife who was still asleep. He woke with a scream.
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AFTERWORD:
["And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore!" Edgar Allen Poe]
-end-
