A very strange police case.

John Doe

The Moon was full and a brisk breeze chilled the air on that autumn evening when I arrived at precinct headquarters for the night shift. The desk sergeant greeted me with a distant hello that seemed to suggest intrigue. Little did I know I was about to embark on one of my most bizarre cases.

After coffee, and several stale doughnuts, I checked my desk for messages. Someone had left a file with a note stating, “Yer Baby!” I immediately recognized the captain’s handwriting. I looked about the room. He was nowhere to be found. That was unusual and quite mysterious. Everyone else had vanished. I stood alone!

An untrained mind would have been alarmed, but for me it was just another evening. My name is Fissday. I’m a cop!

Homicide is a dirty business, but apparently someone has to do it, cause it always gets done. My job is cleaning up the mess! I investigate, examine the evidence, eliminate the obvious, dissect the inconspicuous, arrive at a logical conclusion, and close cases. The pay is lousy, but the hours are long, and danger lurks in every dirty scum filled crevice in the city. I love it! I’m a detective!

The contents of the file consisted of a few photos, several fact sheets, an audiocassette, and a shopping list. I immediately realized the shopping list belonged to the captain who obviously left it by mistake…unless he wanted me to do his shopping?

I felt the sudden pulsation of a musical note similar to those frequently heard at mysterious moments. I looked around for the source of the music but saw nothing. I quickly realized it was my own life’s sound track.

I placed the cassette in a boom-box that sat on a nearby desk. I figured the owner was probably in our lock up and wouldn’t mind me using it…even if he knew.

I pressed the power switch and almost fell out of my chair. Once again I felt the pulsation of a loud musical note. This time, however it was not my life's sound track. This time it came from the boom box. I saw the volume control was set on high and adjusted it lower.

I heard the words, “Good morning, Mister Phelps…”

“What the heck is going on around here?” I thought to myself as I quickly shut off the tape, “First there’s someone else’s shopping list, now a tape that isn’t mine. This mission is starting to get impossible!”

Something in the file had to be for me. I directed my attention to the photographs. As a master of observation I trained my keen eye at each photo in an attempt to find telltale evidence that would solve the case. I hoped to hear a sound effect indicating an important discovery, but none came. I realized this case would not be open and shut. I also realized I didn’t even know what the case was yet.

I looked again at the photos. An attached note indicated they were that of an apparent homicide victim classified as a, John Doe. He bared a striking resemblance to someone I’d seen in the woods that very afternoon, but I couldn’t remember who. The time of death was listed as only two hours previous, which was quite remarkable. My sound track blasted a bone-chilling note as I realized every one-hour photo booth in our neighborhood closed several hours before the crime was even committed. The photos had to be forgeries…but why?

I discovered the victim’s body had been transported to the Coroner’s Office, which was in a dank, dark, dungy cellar in our building. The coroner was midway through an autopsy when I arrived. I told him I had some questions about the recent John Doe. He beckoned for me to go near him but I knew I’d probably throw up, so I declined. He said the John Doe was across the room and pointed to a table. I noticed a white sheet covering it.

I walked over slowly and picked up the sheet at a corner I hoped was the head. I pulled the sheet back slightly. Suddenly the hairs on my back stood up as my life’s sound track belted four notes in succession.

“What was that?” asked the coroner as if taken by surprise.

I pretended not to hear anything.

“So you’re one of those fancy cops with his own sound track, huh? I’m just a dreary coroner. Nothing exciting ever happens to me, I’m too dull for a sound track. I hear them on you cops all the time.”

I was unaware that others could hear them and tried to comfort the coroner by telling him they were a nuisance. He continued working and I did as well.

I looked at the body before me and made an important discovery, “This is not a John Doe!” I declared.

“Oh really?” asked the coroner without looking up.

“Unless he’s gay!” I stated, “Look at that face, and those antlers…that’s a buck!”

“Well,” said the coroner, “Until we identify him, he’s a John Doe.”

“Wait a minute,” I said,” There’s a tag on his neck.”

I looked at the tag and realized his name was on it, “His name is on it. He’s EightPoint Buck, Jr.”

For verification we ran a check of his dental records and found his name actually was John Doe and not EightPoint Buck. Why the alias? Could he have been leading a double life? Where did he get the fake ID? My sound track sounded again as the plot thickened.

“Why don’t you turn that thing off?” asked the coroner.

“Turn it off? I don’t know how to turn it off.”

“I do,” he said as he walked over and hit me over the head with a cast iron skillet.

When I regained consciousness he asked if I heard any more sounds? I asked if there were any birds in the room?

“Don’t worry, those tweety bird sounds will fade away and your sound track will be off until you hit your head again.”

“Thanks!” I replied as I shook my skull and slowly returned to reality.

The mystery intensified as I searched the victim’s personal belongings. Along with the fake ID, he carried a golf tee, two business cards, a folded piece of paper, and a gift certificate.

The folded piece of paper taunted my curiosity. I opened it to find it quite larger than anticipated. On it, in very big letters, were the words, “I’m a COW."

I began to wonder where this investigation was taking me. What would a deer be doing with a sign saying, “I’m a COW?” Was this the identity of his other identity…a cow?

I scanned the two business cards. One of them was from Doctor Kildeer, a prominent veterinarian. The other from, Swigmon Fwad, a world renowned psychiatrist. I wondered why his card was with the victim?

The gift certificate was for a one-time visit to Doctor Deervorkian whoever that was?

I asked the coroner how soon he would establish the cause of death? He said it would take some time due to many variables. I pressured him for a rough guess and he narrowed it down.

“Look there,” he said, “It could have been that bullet, or that one, or that one, or the buckshot, the knife, the ax, the blunt instrument, or even the tire marks. And look at all those arrows. That one there pierced a lung and went straight into his porterhouse.”

“Deer have a porterhouse?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, “And remember he did have a sign stating he was a cow.”

“Oh, yeah.”

I was becoming intrigued with the intrigue! I was anxious for answers! I had to piece together this puzzle before me!

After coffee and several more stale doughnuts, I went to see Doctor Kildeer. He was able to give me a very significant bit of information.

“John, was killing himself for years," he said. “He had high blood pressure. I told him to only use salt-substitute licks, but he chose the wild life!”

The night was still young, so I went to see Swigmon Fwad. He answered the door in a smoking jacket. As he shook my hand he looked at me mysteriously and remarked, “I have a strange feeling as I look into your eyes. I feel like we have never met before?”

“That was bizarre”, I thought to myself as I replied, “I know what you mean, I have the same feeling about you.” Could it merely be a coincidence?

He invited me into his home. He offered me the couch, but I was aware of the implications. I declined.

I told him of John Doe’s death and the circumstances surrounding it. He asked me how I felt about it. I told him I was troubled. He asked how I felt about my Mother? I told him I was troubled. He asked about other facts of my childhood that I was suppressing and was not about to reveal because they were none of his damn business. I told him to stick to the facts.

He spoke with a German lisp and said he was not supwised, “Mr. Doe was a patient of mine. I cannot reveal anything about him, due to doctor-patient confidentiality."

I told him it was ok since the patient was dead.

“Very well," he said. “If he’s dead I suppose it’s alright. I must say, Mr. Doe was a Classic Fruitcake!”

I was stunned! The plot thickened!

I asked if that was a medical term. He said it was, but only between himself and his colleagues.

“He had many phobias! Fear of flying, fear of not flying, fear of hoof-n-mouth, and so forth. His greatest anxiety related to the feeling he was being followed. He often imagined seeing little red men sneaking behind him. He developed a severe complex and became deranged, demented, and quite unbalanced.”

“Good thing he had four legs and didn’t fall over,” I commented. The doctor was not amused.

“I am not amused”, he said, “Mental unbalance is not something to laugh at. Sometimes the patient will reach out and kill you!” As he spoke he picked up a nearby knife.

I suggested we take a break. He offered me coffee, which I never refuse. I was pleased when he revealed a tray of stale doughnuts. After several of them, we continued.

I told him I was amazed he could communicate with animals. He said he learned how from one of his patients. I suggested he go on with the facts.

“He became like a deer possessed. The imaginary stalking overwhelmed him. It got so bad that he only went out at night. I told him to relax, to no avail. I suggested he take a vacation, get away for awhile. He said he had relatives upstate. I recommended he go see them. However, he returned the next day to say they’d all been slaughtered by an outbreak of Remington’s Disease. That may have sent him over the edge?”

I was speechless! In all of my weeks on the force I’d never faced such an episode. The pieces of the puzzle were baffling me. Every clue led to more questions. Every question demanded more clues.

The case was going nowhere. I was stumped, bewildered, stupefied. I was no closer to a conclusion than I was when I started. I looked up at the clock on the wall. My shift was over. I punched out and went home.