Murder on Dirt Road
By R.A. Jetter & Lance Martin
Earl lived two miles south of Fritz’s place on a narrow, rutted gravel road appropriately named “Dirt Road.” He was a recluse. Pedaled his bicycle cart into town once a month to buy supplies, sell stuff he collected in the woods and his hand-made wind chimes. Most of it junk, but it sold like lottery tickets in the local Main Street grocery store/gas station/bowling alley. He’d do pencil drawings that could be of Bigfoot, or anything. Suspect Sasquatch footprint castings, locks of hair he claimed were real and metal chimes sold fast. I needed a closer look at the locks of hair.
No answer at Earl’s, but the new Wolverine boots Fritz complained about were sitting on the front porch, last night’s snow lingered in the boot’s shadows. I motioned for Arnie to get out of the cruiser, but he shook his head no. I motioned again — go around back, he wouldn’t leave the car’s safety. There’s something strange about that boy. Guess I’ll have a talk with the Chief about him when I’m done with this investigation. I decided to go alone. Peering through a dirty side window, I noticed a propane torch on the table, pliers, some strange misshapen pieces of metal and a couple small piles of… hair? Naw, more like well-worn wigs. Could this be Earl’s genuine “Sasquatch” locks of hair? And the metal… silverware?
I hurried around to the back porch. The first thing that caught my eye was a large deep freezer. It was old. Big. Probably 160 cubic feet. Freezers, ’round here, are used to store deer and elk meat, but as far as I knew, Earl didn’t hunt. Sensing danger, I drew my piece and approached the steps. All sorts of discarded junk littered the rotted decking — burnt pots, broken chairs, a cracked wood-burning stove, busted snowshoes and a rusted red sled. I pulled plastic trash bags and empty restaurant sized bean cans off the freezer and opened it.
I’d been a skeptic all my life, but there it was, in all its glory… uhmmm, ex-glory. I stared directly into the face of a frozen ape-man. It was huge, filled the 8-foot long freezer. I could see where Earl’d cut off its hair, but the most shocking thing was its lack of feet. The creature’s were missing. Hard to believe Arnie is correct, Sasquatch does exist. My hands started shaking as I remembered feeling something shadow Betsy and I. Quietly closing the lid, I made my way through the maze of clutter to the door. Pistol handy, I was going in.
If Earl were in the house, he could be sleeping… or waiting. Have I found the spinster killer? If he were capable of trapping and killing Sasquatch, then three old ladies wouldn’t put up any kind of fight. Still, why would he murder them. Perhaps the hairy boot-print was Earl’s attempt at throwing us off the trail. If he got away with those murders, I speculated he’d eventually skin Sasquatch and wear it for his next serial killing, the weather ’round here has been known to do strange things to the mind. The whole northwest would be in an uproar over a murdering ape-man… talk about a witch-hunt. But Earl wasn’t that bright or he wouldn’t allow himself to be caught this easily.
Shots rang out! Damn, Earl went out the front, shot Arnie. Wait, that sounded more like a service revolver. Arnie’s got bullets? Where in hell’d he get ‘em? He came flying around the side of the house, .38 snub-nose drawn, pointing towards the woods.
“Did you see it, Jerry? I shot it! It’s limping. Come on. Come on.”
Seeing Arnie in such a frantic state definitely caught me by surprise, but watching him run full speed was pro football poetry in motion. Despite his “supposed” bad knees, he was as graceful as the L.A Ram’s Eric Dickerson, hurtling old couches, legless bathtubs and the sapling fence like fallen linebackers. I debated for a minute whether to enter the house, get Earl, or follow Arnie across the snow-covered yard. A loud growl, like the sound of a dying lion, bellowed from the brush and ended my indecision. I leaped from the porch and chased after Arnie.