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“DID YOU HEAR THE ONE ABOUT…”

BY

ANGELA AND SCOTT MORALES

Jerry Paul Michaels walked into the bar, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The dank place was just starting to get busy, many of the tables had already been filled by the regulars. 

You can always tell them. They are the ones who the bartender recognizes immediately and has a drink ready for them by the time the get settled, or they sit as far away from the bathroom or find the darkest corners with their latest conquest on their arm.

These were not the type of people he wanted. They are the ones who would be missed first, their absence noticed and anyone with them would be noticed as well. No, he was looking for the stranger, the loner, the person who is just passing through and needed to get out of their hotel room for a drink and maybe a little light socializing or slipping out of the house to take a breather from the wife and kids.

These are the easy victims.

The TV in the corner was set on a local news channel. He ignored the droning anchor until they mentioned a name that he recognized. Slowly, he turned his head toward the screen and approached the bar.

“…David Coates was reported missing four days ago. His body was found two days later, dumped in the 5800 block of Hillegas Road, northwest of Fort Wayne. Police have not yet released the cause and manner of death or if they believe that his death may be linked to the six other bodies found in and around The Fort.  In a related story, Fort Wayne PD are investigating another missing person report, but will not speculate if it is related to the other cases.”

Jerry smiled, shaking his head. He knew that only four of those bodies were killed by the same person, since he was the one who killed them. Stupid police must be rolling any unsolved murders under his umbrella.

“That’s fine,” Jerry said to himself. “That just makes me all the more legendary.”

He got the bartenders attention and ordered a beer. Sipping it, he surveyed the room once again. A couple of workers having a drink before heading home, a couple who, from the look of distain they had for each other, had to be married, three female co-workers, who had probably been friends since high school.

Then, he saw him. Back table, near the restroom, Ohio State ball cap and worn jacket draped over the empty seat next to him. He was nursing a beer, sipping it occasionally, while his eyes scanned the room. His eyes travelled to the bar, where he saw Michaels. The two looked at each other for a long moment, then, as if synchronized, raised their beers in a slight toast of acknowledgement.

“This should be easy,” Jerry mumbled, sipping his beer. He patted his jacket pocket and made sure that everything he needed was there, before crossing the room and approaching the man’s table. 

He figured if the guy was a drinker that he could use his “liquor salesman” story as a cover.

“Mind if I sit? New in town and don’t know anyone here.” Jerry said. The man removed his jacket and hat from the chair and laid them on the table. 

“Have a seat. I’m not from here, either. Just passing through,” the man said. After a beat, each man reached out their hands to shake.

“Jerry…”

“Stan…”

“So, what brings here, Stan?” Jerry asked. “You’re from Ohio, right?”

Stan gave Jerry a puzzled look and then saw that he was looking at his Ohio State ball cap. “Yeah. Cincinnati. Just passing through on my way to Kokomo, to make a delivery to a bookstore. How about you, Jerry? Where you from?”

“Tennessee, Hendersonville. Been in town for a bit, to take care of some business here for some liquor stores.”

“Sounds like a good job. Get to take home any leftovers?” Stan said, with a smile.

“On occasion. The key is figuring out the amount of stock, compared to the amount of room the stores had to display. If you over order, well, let’s just say, that some bottles may be “damaged” in the delivery and written off at a loss. Those are the ones that end up in my trunk. Great place to store them, right next to my stolen paintings and bodies!” Jerry said, laughing. Stan laughed and raised his beer in a toast.

“Here’s to the bodies never being found!” the men touched glasses and Michaels took a sip, while Stan finished his. “Hey, I’m gonna hit the men’s room. Can you order me another?” Jerry nodded and while Stan rose, Jerry signaled the waitress, and a fresh brew arrived a few seconds later. Jerry reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small bottle. Twisting off the cap, he glanced toward the men’s room, and seeing he was clear, he poured the contents into the beer and swirled it around. Stan emerged a moment later and took his seat.

“Now, there’s room for more.” Stan said. Jerry felt a sudden urging in his own bladder and excused himself. Walking to the bathroom, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Stan take a deep draw from his beer. Jerry smiled.

“Just too easy.” He thought.

After he returned, he re-seated himself and took a swig of his own beer. 

“You staying around here?” Jerry asked. “I’m at the Relax House up the road. Kinda crappy, but the rate was right.”

“I’m right next door, at the Sleepy Bed,” Stan said. He let out a loud yawn and shook it off. “Wow. I don’t’ know where that came from.”

Jerry felt a wave of fatigue rush over him as well. 

“Tell you what,” Jerry said quietly. “I have a trunk full of some of the best and most expensive liquors I can get my hands on. If you are a connoisseur of fine whiskey, I have just about anything you’d want.” He looked at the bill that was left on his table and grimaced. “And a hell of a lot cheaper.”

“I’m done for it, Do you feel up to it?” Stan asked. His eyes were becoming bleary and his speech began to slur.

“Never better,” Jerry said. He picked up the tab and left few bills on cover it. Stan stood and immediately felt his legs go to jelly. Jerry caught him and held him up.

“You okay, buddy?” Jerry said. “I think I’d better drive you home. I think you may have reached your limit. Stan stumble along trying to right himself but felt that his lower body wasn’t responding. When they got around the rear of the bar, Stan looked at Jerry.

“Youseee….sonofabitch. Drugged me…” Stan tried to pull away and when that didn’t work, he began to call for help. Jerry pulled a rag from his pocket and shoved it into Stan’s mouth. The action caused Jerry head to swim, he shook off the bout of dizziness and pulled the keys from his pocket. He looked at the remote, the object a blur in his hand and tried to see the trunk button. The first attempt unlocked the door, the second sounded the car alarm. It wasn’t until the third that the trunk opened. Physically struggling now, he lifted the lid. Raising his arm caused him to be awash with vertigo. He picked Stan up and managed to get his upper body into the trunk, when he lost his balance and fell backwards on the ground. Struggling to his feet, he heard a guttural laugh coming from Stan.

“Got you, motherfu…”

Jerry passed out face forward, his cheek grounding into the gravel.

Jerry awoke, looking at the face of a woman he didn’t recognize. It was a kind face She was wearing a medical smock and a stethoscope in her ears. He started to rise, when he found that his arms couldn’t move. Head swimming, he looked down to see that his arms were handcuffed to the rails of the bed. He was in a hospital.

“Detective,” the woman in the smock began. “Your guy’s awake.”

Jerry closed his eyes and when he opened them, he was staring in another face, only this one wasn’t quite so kind.

“Jerry Paul Michaels?” the man asked. Jerry looked down the man’s body and saw a badge clipped to his pocket. ‘Are you Jerry Paul Michaels?”

“Yeah…yes,” Jerry said.

“Okay, Mister Michaels, I’m Detective Wilson, with the Fort Wayne Police Department. Before I ask you any questions, I must advise you of your right….”

After droning on, the man finished. “Do you understand your right? Having your rights in mind, do you want to speak with me?”

 “Su..sure.” Jerry said.

Hotchkiss sat with his legs crossed on his desk. Across from him, Wilson sipped a cup of coffee and stared into space. Around them, other detectives in the squad had gathered to hear the story.

“So, uniform responds to a couple of guys down in the parking lot of Tumbling Rock Inn. When they get there, one guy is face-planted in the gravel, while another was ass-up sticking out of the trunk. Both are blotto.”

He looked at Wilson to see if he would pick up the thread, but he continued to listen, without interjecting. Hotchkiss continued.

“So, when the medics show up and they haul Ass-up out of the trunk and load him on a gurney. They call for a second ambulance and get “gravel boy” loaded. The uniform looks into the trunk and sees, lying there for God and everyone to see, a couple pair of handcuffs, duct tape, plastic bags. You know, just the regular stuff that your red blooded American serial killer would drive around with. That’s when they see the licenses. Remember the bank teller, Gordon, came up missing a couple weeks and we found him in pieces in Sweeney Park? Remember Jackie Hellcamp? Lou, you worked that one, didn’t you? Yeah, his license was there too.”

“So, Ass-up, doesn’t have an ID. He has a set of car keys, older, like, pre-electronic remote on the guy. So the uniform checks the lot and finds the guy’s van and see a wallet on the center console. When he unlocks the van, he about gets knocked out by the death stink rolling out of the van. He shines his light in the back and sees a tarp covering something. He reaches for the tarp and grabs a foot all grey and decomposed. To his credit, he closes it up and calls us out. The stiff turns out to be Longmire, the latest missing person. The other guy, Ass-up, is a Stanley Ray Woods. He’s wanted out of Cincinnati for a murder charge.”

The detectives shake their heads in disbelief.

“Both guys had been drugged by the other one, so you had two serial killers trying to pick up their next victim and both become the other’s victim. Fricken unreal. And to top it off, Stanley wants to Jerry for doping him and Jerry said that he wasn’t taking the fall for Stan’s murders!”

This evoked a laugh from the assembled detectives. For a moment, everyone was quiet, when Wilson, breaking his quiet stoicism spoke.

“Did you hear the one about the hitchhiker, who was out on a lonely road. After a while, a van slowed down and picked him up. While they were driving along, the hitchhiker turns to the guy that picked him up and says, “You know, you are pretty brave picking me up. How do you know that I’m not a serial killer?” The driver laughed and said, “What are the odds of TWO serial killers in one car?”

Hotchkiss looked at Wilson and rolled his eyes, before stifling a laugh. 

THE END