Murder on Dirt Road
By R.A. Jetter & Lance Martin
“Fritz will have a metal detector in that shop of his,” I said. Arnie snorted. We crunched through the snow-covered yard toward the car.
Fritz was a gruff old guy of 89. The local repairman that fixes anything — toasters to TV sets, in the back of his alley shack home. He’d have whatever working right as rain before you could say Waxahachie Wallbanger. There was another reason to see him. He was the local Bigfoot expert. No one knew Sasquatch like Fritz Hatchett… and I was starting to have strange ideas… always trusted my hunches.
I got lost in thought as I drove. Three murders. Boot-prints for a clue. Stolen priceless Prussian silverware. Two other victim’s silverware missing. Arnie shooting at Yeti… bizarre. I yelled hello as we walked in. Arnie followed behind, cautiously, like an orphaned puppy-dog. I asked about the metal detector and was met with a word barrage the likes I hadn’t heard in a long time. Guess Fritz hadn’t bawled out anyone lately. ‘Course, one never knows if he’s serious. He was, and eventually got around to yelling “someone stole my brand new size ten Wolverine work boots off’n my front porch three weeks ago” and he’d “called the station but got told stolen boots weren’t priority” and “was tired of waiting” and ” ’bout time you got here. You gotta get them back. Right now!”
“I’d swear it was that damned Earl Peterson just down the road.” Fritz pointed his crooked finger south toward the gravel road. “He said someone swiped his a while ago. I seen him yest’day with a brand new pair.”
Interesting as that was, I wasn’t about to do a shoe search. “Not a lot I can do about it, Fritz. How about that detector? Need to use it.”
“Billy Conger borrowed it. Had it for a month now.” Fritz followed that with a few more expletives, and pointed back down the dirt road again. “I’m gonna get that damn Peterson.”
I warned Fritz about taking the law into his own hands, then Arnie and I loaded ourselves into the cruiser. We were overlooking something, and, crazy as it sounds, I couldn’t convince myself we had a murdering Sasquatch roaming Omomqua County.
PING! The photos of the boot-print. There was something weird about them.
Back at headquarters, I laid three photos on my desk. I was right. I couldn’t believe I missed it. “Arnie, what do you see?”
“Bloody boot-prints.”
“Here, in front of the print. Hair would make marks like this, right?”
“But Jer, Billy Conger doesn’t have any hair left… he’s bald as a que ball. So’s Fritz!”
I sighed. Sometimes Arnie just doesn’t keep up. No, make that most time. The football injuries to his head were taking a toll. And he’s still a young man. No wonder the Chief doesn’t let him carry a loaded gun.
“B’sides, Jer, if Fritz’s Wolverines were stolen, shouldn’t we go after Earl Peterson?” Arnie argued. “Fritz said he had on a new pair. That’s pretty conclusive.”
“Maybe, Arn, but suspicion isn’t enough to arrest.” I picked up the photo and studied it. It DID look like hair but I refuse to believe Sasquatch could don work boots and murder. At least now I’ve got a couple of possible suspects: Billy Conger and Earl Petersen. Don’t know about Fritz yet.
Someone confused us, and so far had done a good job. The bloody boot-prints definitely looked like Sasquatch had cut the toes out of a pair of Wolverines and squeezed in its feet, they’d extended 4 inches out of the boots. That just didn’t fit, literally. These elusive creatures hadn’t decided to come out of years of hiding to murder and pillage. And what in hell would they use silverware for anyway? It was time to do a little snooping around Earl’s place.