Big Dick Pickles - Part 2

Semi-retirement is great because, except for the "semi" part and whatever limits are imposed by my checkbook and my current wife*, I get to do what I damn well please in life. During that portion of semi-retirement that I call my own, I have been pretending to be a Writer.  Fiction, that's the ticket.  I don't write that stuff here because Eye of Newt is reserved for God's Truth, as you know.  But I occasionally bend the rules - they are, after all, my rules, and arbitrary and capricious rules at that.  So sue me.  Anyway, having temporarily exhausted my supply of Truth, I offer some untruths for your consideration.  Here is the long-awaited second installment of Incident at a Motel, the soggy, bloody saga of Big Dick Pickles.  If you did not see the first installment, the following will make not one jot of sense.  You can catch up here . I'll still be here when you get back.

Back so soon?  Okay, here we go:

Incident at a Motel

Part 2 of an Occasional Series

Unable to control two crime scenes at once, Big Dick made the call for backup.  When Officer Mary Ann Hotchkiss responded, he left her to cope with the mess while he chugged up the stairs to 401 to complete the mission that had begun with his dyslexic misstep.  Stormtroopering still another door, he surprised two potential perps in flagrante and wide-eyed delicto, their attention suddenly diverted to the jack-booted and slightly out-of-breath police sergeant standing where the door used to be.  Pleased to find the occupants with heads intact and demonstrably well, Big Dick got down to business. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The perp on the bottom croaked out an answer that could have been “Okay,” so Big Dick continued. “We have a heinous crime in progress down in Room 104.  Well, not actually in progress, but it was probably in progress a little while back.  Did you hear anything unusual downstairs?”

“Would you mind terribly closing that door?” asked the perp on the top.  Big Dick hated it when people answered questions with questions.  The top perp withdrew toward a chair, selfishly swaddling himself in the only unoccupied sheet in the room.  His accomplice glared at him nakedly from the bed.

“Oh, yeah, sure.”  Big Dick tried to force the splintered door back into its frame when he suddenly recalled that the original report of a disturbance in Room 401 was a 520/NV – noise without violence – and he began to contemplate his lack of a warrant.  “We, ah, thought that the noise reported in here might be somehow connected with two folks, victims actually, who lost their heads in Room 104.  But I see you both have all your parts in order. Maybe you might have heard something?”  He paused to ponder the likelihood that these enthusiastic but nonviolent bystanders might be helpful.  “Depends on how seriously you treat foreplay, I guess.”

The perps shook their heads.

“Okay.  Please don’t leave town until we have had time to question you further.”  He ducked out through the remnants of the door without checking ID’s as storm clouds gathered on the horizontal perp’s face.

When he arrived back in the bloody mess that was Room 104, he found that Benny the Nose had arrived.  Benny was Tampa’s only visually impaired detective – he claimed to be blind as a bat with a nose like a bloodhound – and he was accompanied as always by his Seeing Eye police dog, Spot.  Both were sniffing around the room. “Big Dick,” said Benny, “what do you think happened here?”

“I’m guessing sawed-off shotgun, 12 gauge, no choke, up close.  Just vaporized the vics’ heads. Hearts kept pumping long enough to paint the whole damn room red.”  Big Dick had paid close attention during the weapons session at Forensics School.

“Nope,” sniffed Benny.  “What do you smell?”

“Blood.”

“My point exactly.  No gunpowder smell. I will wager that the team will find no bullets, no shot pellets, and no shell casings anywhere in the room.”

“So – what  – ?“  Big Dick trailed off in confusion.

“And there’s more,” said Benny the Nose.  “I smell brains.”

“Brains?”

“Yes, cooked.”

“Cooked brains?”

“Yeah, if you rinse off the layer of sprayed blood, you’re going to find cooked brain underneath.  Medium rare, I think.” 

To Be Continued, Perhaps

* I use the term "current wife" advisedly.  First, it will let me know whether or not she actually reads these things.  Second, it gives readers some reason to read all the way to the bottom to see how I get out of the hole I just dug myself.  I'll let you know on that last part.

Newt