July 2010 Archives

After a couple of hours, the mustachioed policewoman returned.  She told me that my parents had been called and that they would be coming to get me soon.  First though, she said, there was something I needed to do.  I asked her what that was and she told me you'll see.

She led me out of the room, through the corridor toward the front desk, and down another hallway.  There was a woman with a bikini top and high heels being led down the hallway by another cop.  As we passed, she blew a kiss at me and told me I was cute.  I liked it when girls told me I was cute, even scary ones like her. 

I was taken into a dimly lit room with a large window to a more brightly lit room on the other side of the glass.  There I was greeted by a child psychologist who introduced himself as "Bob" and a police lieutenant introduced himself as "Lieutenant Simpkins."  Bob had a ponytail.  Lieutenant Simpkins had a comb over.  They were both immensely fat.

Lieutenant Simpkins told me that five men were going to line up on the other side of the one-way mirror.  It was up to me pick out the one I saw when I was eating lunch.  I was assured that I could see them but they couldn't see me.  I told him I didn't really care if they could see me or not.  That made him laugh a little, but it was more like a grunt.

Five men entered the other room and lined up along the height chart against the far wall.  The man who set Susan Penn on fire was right middle.  He was at least a head taller than the other four and almost twice as wide.  He was built like Superman.  If Superman killed girls and set them on fire, that is.  The collar of his shirt had been torn away, probably when he got arrested, and I could see the F-word tattooed on the side of his neck.  I thought that was pretty cool.  My parents would never let me get one of those. 

He was also the only one of them who was smiling.  The others seemed like they had stage fright but not him.  He was the star of the show.  I thought about waving to him but since he couldn't see me, that would have been dumb.

"As soon as you tell us, you can go home," said Lieutenant Simpkins.

"This is your chance to be a hero," said Bob the child psychologist.

I looked at the five men and stroked my chin to show Bob and Lieutenant Simpkins I was thinking real hard.

"It's kind of hard; they all look so much alike.  Hmm...nope...I've never seen any of them before.  Can I go home now?"

Lieutenant Simpkins threw his pen against the floor and shouted "Unbelievable!" while Bob just sat there and shook his head.

"OK," said Lieutenant Simpkins said.  "You can't remember someone you saw just a few hours ago.  Fine, but you are going to help us and you're not going anywhere until you do.  Bob, take this kid to see our sketch artist.  We'll get a description of the suspect even if it takes all night."

Bob was not angry like Lieutenant Simpkins but he was even more of a jerk.  He kept telling me how it perfectly OK to be frightened but if I just made an effort, everything would get back to normal.  Normal is big with child psychologists.  A normal life, a normal childhood, they make it sound like heaven on earth.  But you see, normal isn't all that great when you don't like your life to begin with. 

I was getting picked on at school a lot.  Even when I wasn't, it wasn't like anything particularly good was happening either.  It was just boring.  Until today, it seemed like nothing new ever happened.  One day rolled into the next like reruns on a television I couldn't turn off.

I was let into a small office and introduced to the sketch artist.  He reeked of cigarettes and had very little hair on his head except for what was sprouting from his ears.  I liked him even though he was funny looking and smelled bad.  He didn't try to push me around and he didn't try to be my friend.  He just asked simple questions.  Was the man's hair light or dark, short or long?  Was his nose wide or narrow?  Did he have a mustache or beard?

I decided to help him out and give him something he could sketch.  The artist really was good because he drew the picture exactly how I described.  When he was done, I looked at his pad and saw the face of my school principal.  It was almost like a photograph.

"That's him," I said.  "Can I go home now?" 

I saw my first dead body when I was nine years old.  I was eating lunch in my usual spot that day, sitting on the curb just off school grounds near a hole in the fence I had crawled through.  It was on a side street that didn't get much traffic.  The curb was cold and uncomfortable but I had it all to myself.  Until the bell rang, no one from the playground would bother me.

A car stopped at the other side of the street.  A large man got out, opened the rear door, and pulled a dead girl from the back seat.  I recognized her as Susan Penn, the big sister of Cindy Penn, a girl in my class.  Susan was much older, already in high school.  Her head had been twisted around so her chin rested between her shoulder blades.  Besides being dead, Susan was also naked.  I never saw a naked girl before either.  I guess this was a day for firsts.

The man dragged her body to the middle of the street.  He went back to his car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a can of gasoline.  He carried it back to the dead girl and dowsed her with its contents.

He waved at me and pointed at Susan Penn, then lit a match and held it out in front of him.

"This is for Satan," he said with a wink and dropped the match, setting her on fire.

Susan's sister Cindy had started telling lies about me, saying that I kept trying to kiss her.  I mean Cindy said that I tried to kiss Cindy, not Susan.  I would have liked to kiss Susan.  Any kid would.  She was pretty but grade-school boys don't get to kiss high-school girls.  I never wanted kiss Cindy.  She had stupid hair and a big butt.  After she told the school bully Brock Dixon this, he started beating me up every chance he got.  I don't think he wanted to kiss Cindy himself and probably didn't believe I wanted to either.  He just liked beating me up.

I never had anything against Susan Penn but I can't say I felt all that bad about what happened to her either.  Susan was probably just as mean as Cindy, only prettier.  You know, the apple falling not far from the tree and like that.  I knew that killing was wrong but I also knew that if someone else did it, it wasn't my fault.

There was a faint sound of police sirens off in the distance.  The man trotted back to his car and drove away.  I sat there and ate my baloney sandwich, watching the flames and black smoke dance above the dead teenage girl.

After a few minutes, two police cars came around the corner fast with their sirens blaring.  One kept going in the direction of the man who drove away.  The other screeched to a halt right in front of me.  A policeman got out of the car and approached.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

I nodded.

"That's good.  Now can you tell me what happened here?  Don't worry.  Nobody is going to hurt you."

I could hardly believe what I was hearing.  Couldn't he see how my lip was swollen up from where Brock Dixon had punched me this morning?  Cops were dumb, even worse than parents or teachers.

"Can you tell me who did this?"

I shook my head and took another bite from my sandwich.

"I think you better come with me," the policeman said.  "Don't worry.  Everything is going to be OK."

The policeman took my arm and helped me to my feet.  He led me to his car, assured me I wasn't in trouble, and put me in the back where there were no door handles for me to get out.

I didn't have to go back to school that day.  I was driven downtown to the station where the policeman guided me through the doors with his hand on my shoulder.  I was taken past the desk sergeant who didn't pay any attention to me. He was too busy listening to a crazy bag lady who wanted to file a police report because someone had stolen the shopping cart that she had stolen from a supermarket.  From there I was taken down a hallway past a sleeping man who had been handcuffed to a bench.  No one was sitting next to him, probably because he had peed his pants.

The policeman put me in a room by myself that had a table and a couple of chairs, but no windows.  He locked the door behind him on the way out.

A little while later, a policewoman with love handles and a bleached mustache unlocked the door and came into the room.  She didn't say a word but just dropped a "Muppet Show" coloring book and a box of crayons on the middle of the desk.  She too locked the door on the way out.

I flipped through the pages of the coloring book until I came upon one with Miss Piggy in a cheerleader outfit.  Someone had written "FAT BITCH" across Miss Piggy's forehead in big purple letters.  I took a red crayon out of the box and drew blood coming out from the bottom of her skirt.  I started making it a little trickle at first but after a while, it turned into a full-on gusher.