Jester's Dream

"Move along, now, there's nothing to see."  Officer Ellis kept his body between the passersby and the grisly sight in the alley.  "Please.  Just move along now."  His arms kept a constant motion, more to distract their eyes than to direct the people -- it wasn't working.

A vehicle with a press card screeched to a halt across the street, and two men raced toward him with cameras.  He managed to grab one man by the sleeve, but the other dodged past him and began flashing his camera between exclamations of a religious nature about the mess.

"Say officer, d'ya mind uncoverin' the stiff for us?"

Sergeant Smythe came rushing out of the alley, using his tremendous size and inertia to bowl the errant fool over.  The camera clattered and skidded into the street.

"Hey!  Have a care, will ya?"  The senior reporter rushed to retrieve the camera.  "This is England.  The press have a right...."

'"This is my crime scene!"  The bullhorn voice of Sergeant Smythe cut him off by sheer power.  "You'll stay out of it till my investigation is complete."

From across the street, a tall man in a brown tweed coat and matching fedora approached, his hand reaching inside his jacket pocket.

Ellis stepped in front of him.  "Please move along, sir.  There's nothing for you to see here."

"Oh, but I think there is."  The man winked, humor showing in his grey-blue eyes as he handed him a card.

Looking down, he read: Detective Chief Inspector Walter Skellum, Lancashire Constabulary, Hutton.

"Oh, sorry, sir.  See Sergeant Smythe, there.  He'll fill you in."

Inspector Skellum had been busily filling a Meerschaum pipe with Golden Cavendish tobacco.  He struck a match, and the flare illuminated the grisly scene behind them.  The girl's body had been covered, but there was blood everywhere: walls, sidewalk, and tracked through the alley.

Ellis took a little satisfaction at seeing the humor disappear from Skellum's eyes.

"Jesus!"

"Right messy bloke, wasn't he, Inspector?"

"Any witnesses, Sergeant?"

"A couple of possibles, sir.  One had to be sedated, but the other could answer a few questions."

The reporters interrupted, "Could we see these witnesses?"

"Absolutely not!"  Skellum raised his hands to emphasize the point, and the photographer flashed the camera in his eyes, taking a photo.  In a blur of motion, Skellum had the fellow by the coat collar, and dragged him up close to his face.

"If you do that again, you'll find that thing stuffed into a body cavity so deep, you'll have to have it extricated by a surgeon."  When he released him, the man struggled to stand, his knees weakened by the imminent threat."  Both reporters headed back across the street to their car, but sat watching for another opportunity for a picture.

Skellum turned once again to the Sergeant, "Now, where are these witnesses?"

"This way, sir."

The two women were being held in the parlor of a local brothel, just through the alley.  It was obvious that they were hookers, and that they'd been completely shaken.  Their abundant mascara ran in streaks down their faces.  A medic sat with them, trying to be of some comfort in their quaking grief.  One woman was completely oblivious to any of her surroundings, simply staring off into space.  The other jerked her head up suddenly at the sound of the Sergeant's voice.

"Excuse me, ladies, the Detective would like a word with you."

"Thank you, Sergeant."  Skellum stepped ahead of him, and took a seat on the couch near the two women.  "I'm Walter Skellum," he told them quietly.  "And, what are your names?"

"I'm Ernestine Browne," the tallest of the two replied, "and this is Rene' Porter.  She's been sedated, so she probably won't talk much."

Ernestine was tall and blonde, quite shapely.  At one time, she had probably been beautiful, but her face was now showing the scars and creases of a hard life.  Rene' was shorter, with dark hair, and full lips.  A huge scar ran down her cheek from temple to chin -- probably a gift of love from an outraged pimp.  They were hardened women, and probably difficult to frighten -- right now, though, both were deep in shock.

"Did you know the victim?"

Skellum's question seemed to renew the wound, and Ernestine's shoulders heaved with a choked back sob.  "Yes!"

His eyebrows shot up.  "You did?  What was her name?"

"Wisteria.  I don't know if it's her real name.  She didn't give us no last name.  She's a runaway.  By the scars on her, I'd say just in time, too.  We was helpin' her."

"Helping her?  How?"

"She wanted to be a hooker, yanno?  She needed money, a place to live.  We kept her hidden in the alley till we could find a nice, gentle guy ... then we'd call her out."

"Did your Pimp know about her?"  Skellum looked toward the Sergeant.

"We don't have a pimp.  We're freelance.  We work for ourselves."  There was an air of pride in her voice.

"Was the perpetrator a prospective 'John,' then?"

"Oh God, no!  He was evil!  We saw him on the corner, and Rene' tried to talk to him.  He screeched, and jerked away from her like he was burnt.  She said his eyes were pure evil!"

Skellum reached out and took Rene's hand.  "Is that right, Rene'?"  She slowly shook her head, her eyes unfocused.  She was unable to form an answer with her mouth.

Skellum looked at her for a long time, saying nothing.  He was wishing to hell they hadn't sedated her quite so deeply.  This woman had seen the killer.  He looked back toward Ernestine.

"Did you see him attack Wisteria?"

"No sir.  She was hidden in the alley, around the corner and halfway down the street.  We didn't want her too close, 'cause she was so young."

"How old was she?"

"Fifteen, sir. Gawwwd!"  She began to cry again, hysterically.

Skellum looked at the Sergeant.  "Who found the body?"

"They did, sir."

"Are you taking them to the hospital?"

"Yessir."

"Keep a guard on them, will you?  These are our best witnesses."

"Will do, sir!"

As Skellum stepped again into the night air, he could see the paramedics loading the victim into an ambulance.  The cheesy news-hounds were leaning around the medics to snap pictures of the body bag, and the messy alley.  They reminded him of vultures swarming around a kill in the desert.  He felt a loathing stir in his soul at the sick fascination of death in our society today.

A chill wind pulled at his coat with the promise of an early winter.  Detective Chief Inspector Skellum pulled his hat brim closer to his grey-blue eyes, deep in thought.  Somewhere out there is a killer -- a particularly vicious killer.  Was he a phantom from a little girl's hidden past, or was this a random act?  Would he strike again?

His mind slipped back to the recurring dream he'd had for the past few nights: A Jester was performing before the Queen, as Skellum watched.  He began to dance, moving faster and faster until he was just a blur in their sight.  Suddenly, Skellum noticed a flash as the Jester pulled a knife.

'Nooooo!"  He shouted, rushing as fast as he could, his feet feeling like lead weights as they dragged along the ground.

The blur rushed to the Queen and plunged in his knife, again and again, as Skellum stumbled in helpless slow motion toward him.  The Jester turned and looked at him, the paint on his face wrinkling into manaical laughter.

"Fool!"  He exclaimed, then leaped through the window and fled, trailing laughter.

At this point, he always awoke, layered in sweat.

Of course, Skellum didn't put too much stock in dreams.  It's the dreamers in this life that always get hurt.  Once again, he touched a match to his forgotten pipe, inhaled deeply and walked across the street to his car.  There was nothing more he could do for Wisteria -- except find her killer.

He intended to do just that.

Dallas D'Angelo-Gary 01