Christmas Case #013

Don’t Fear the Beard

Tradition wears a snowy beard and things aren’t always what they appear to be, but we’re not talking about a snowy beard, we’re talking about a beard as black as coal. Can a beard be considered a good luck charm, like a rabbit’s foot or a horseshoe? I’m not sure, and I don’t intend to prove or disprove that luck is real. The story I’m about to tell you is riddled with inaccuracies, coincidences and, in all honesty, a little black magic, but is, as far as I can remember, the most accurate depiction of one of the strangest cases I’ve ever worked. I work for HPD, the Houston Police Department. The first time I came to hear about Julius Christmas was during the NBA playoffs in Houston. The city was alive with fandemonium, and there was talk of a championship, that is, until the incident. I remember it like it was last Tuesday. It was early July, and I’d begun to suspect none of this was coincidence when you were dealing with July Christmas.  I had questioned whether he was a man, or maybe myth would more accurately describe the human cyclone of strangeness. It was probably one of the weirdest cases I’ve ever worked. I mean, where do I even start? It was Game 7, and Houston was one game away from the NBA finals. There was this one player, and, mind you, I’m not a huge basketball fan, but I remember him profoundly. He had this big, burly black beard. I mean, this thing was enormous, the kind of beard in which you could hide a sparrow’s nest. All the fans in Houston wore shirts that said FEAR THE BEARD. There was even a hashtag on the internet that immortalized #FeartheBeard. The Bearded One, as people generally referred to him, was named Rick Sharpton. He was Houston’s premier player. He had twenty triple doubles that year and was poised to win the MVP. Sharpton scored fifty-one points in Game 6, and there was no reason to think he would let up in Game 7.

I should probably reiterate that although Sharpton was a great player, he was not exceptionally tall for the NBA (six-foot-five) or exceptionally fast. He just somehow seemed to get the job done. Some said it was court savvy or skill, still some analysts thought he was a bit of a cheap player in that he almost always tried to draw a foul even if there was no chance he could make the shot, and I myself do not rule out black magic. He did wear the number 13. He had played for the Arizona Sun Devils. There was just a touch of something mystical about him and his beard. In any event, no one was quite sure how he did it, but Sharpton was among the leading scorers, and Houston was among the NBA’s elite teams.  

The city felt like a powder keg ready to explode; there was a summer festival, and although Houston was not favored to win, there was talk of an NBA championship. Sharpton would find a way with his bearded magic. I was half asleep sipping a coffee when I got the call around 5:03 AM. Apparently, there had been a major disturbance at a hotel involving our star basketball player. The hotel was called The Razor. It was a strange place with winding corridors, very avant-garde. Everything seemed peculiar as if I’d arrived in Poe’s dream within a dream. I arrived on the scene amidst chaos, as the lobby was filled with photographers and barbers. Barbers, huh, weird, I thought to myself. A lot of them were even wearing their barber uniforms. Those white coats, what are those even called? Later, the hotel had said there was a barber convention, but I tend to think this was more of that bizarre juju following around the swindling salesman, July Christmas. I’ll get back to him later. In the lobby, nobody seemed to know what was going on. I could ascertain that everybody was facing one direction, so I headed that way. We were all searching for Rick Sharpton, but he, barefaced, enraged and embarrassed, had fled the scene after the incident.

I pressed the button for the elevator.

July Christmas, where do I start? With that crazy fan or that stripper named Cinnamon or the alias known as July Christmas? To be sure, I do not take this lightly; there is certainly a con man running around who goes by the alias July Christmas. Who he is or whatever his real name is, he seems to be a ghost or some type of phantom. To add more to the deceit of this enchanted rip-off artist, each of the seven witnesses who claimed to have seen July Christmas gave a different description of what he looked like. I mean, how does one witness see a five-foot-seven white man, with long, nappy, red hair and another woman see a tall, dark male, six-foot-two with a shaved head? Are we dealing with a master of disguise?

 The case was always rather perplexing and seemed at times to be as wild as the grey goose that flies at dawn. I’ll start with Cinnamon. Five-foot-nine, African American/Irish. Gorgeous body. Light brown skin like cinnamon. She was a knockout. As we could ascertain from several witnesses, she met Sharpton at a bar. They had arrived with two other men and then went up to the room.  The room was registered to Juan Kristofferson, a rather unusual name, I thought. There were no credit card trails and no pictures of this Kristofferson fellow. I assumed it was an alias for July Christmas. I requested that the concierge, if he learned anything new, please give me a call.

When I arrived at the hotel room, the place was in shambles. There were patches of black hair everywhere and a trail of hair leading to the bathroom. The bed was unkempt, and the razor in question had not been moved from where it lay with a ridiculous chalk outline around it at the side of the bed.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” I questioned.

I was informed that it was the instrument used to carry out the heinous offense, and furthermore there was something not quite right about the razor. Was it the color? It was metallic purple, almost neon. Wearing rubber gloves, I further inspected the object. It was hard to explain, but holding it felt like holding a living being. I shuddered slightly. The razor was made of an extremely light metal with which I was unfamiliar. Or at least that’s what I thought. I ran my fingers along the instrument; on the side panel there was a button. I lightly pressed the button and the razor hummed to life; I swear, and maybe it was me, but it felt as if every hair on my body stood up when that purple razor came to life. More of that weird July Christmas magic? Who knows?

We then (at 6:36 AM) located Cinnamon, who only lived a few blocks away, above the exotic dancers’ place where she was currently employed. She tried to play dumb at first. She first claimed to have not known July Christmas at all.

“I don’t know him and I never met him before.” She kept her answers brief, which led me to believe she was hiding something. She said Ronald had set the whole thing up. Ronald Miller was a crazy Houston fan, an alcoholic prankster with lots of time on his hands. He was apprehended shortly after Cinnamon at 10:34 AM. He was drunk at a sports bar called The Hideaway. Ronnie was the ideal witness, Cinnamon less so.

The detail I find particularly interesting is that the two witnesses gave completely opposite descriptions of July Christmas. Was this planned? A sort of alternate plan in case coppers were sniffing down their doors? Cinnamon had described July Christmas (if there is indeed a man of that name) as a five-foot-seven Caucasian male with long, curly, red hair. While Ronald described him as a six-foot-two African American with red hair. I know what you’re saying, an African American with red hair?  I asked the question, did he mean ginger hair, and Ronald informed me he was, in fact, a light-skinned brother, that it was not the regular orange hair you might see on an African American but yes, the man did in fact have red hair. That seemed to be the only feature upon which both agreed, other than that he was a male.

We continued to search for Julius Christmas using our database. There were numerous mentions of him in illegal trade deals, gambling, money laundering, racketeering, none of which gave us a single lead to this ghost of a man. We had several photos of scenes which supposedly included him, but in most cases, all we could see were shadows, phantoms of who this man, if he was a man, really was. To add to the hysteria were the strange stories and superstitions that seemed to surround him. He carried a magic sack over his shoulder. This fact seemed to be verified by almost every witness that saw him. And the fact that he would pull these powerful objects from the sack made one immediately think of a darker, underhanded relative of Santa Claus who had somehow gone astray and was now the antithesis of Father Christmas. Of course, this was all hearsay and conjecture, the voice of witnesses who were most likely not credible: hood rats, prostitutes and thieves.

The way Ronnie seemed to remember it is he was just along for the ride. Can you believe that? This sleazeball had the audacity to claim that he had very little to do with the crime; he said the transaction occurred between Sharpton and Christmas, but his fingerprints were all over the purple razor that had been the evidence in question. Rick Sharpton’s fingerprints were, interestingly, also on the razor, but that could have been a setup. Back at forensics, Dr. Leibowitz had examined the purple razor that I had thought was so very odd. It had left its mark on me, and I wanted to find out more about that strange contraption.

“Is it a metal?” I questioned.

“I don’t think so,” hesitated Leibowitz. “As near as we can tell, it appears to be made of the same material as a skeleton.”

“It’s the bones of an animal? Are you sure?”

“Well, it’s made of collagen and calcium phosphate, but it doesn’t look to be like any bone I’ve ever seen.”

“So, it’s not bone? I inquired.

 Dr. Leibowitz shrugged. “I don’t think it’s bone.”

“Then what is it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Dr. Leibowitz exclaimed. I felt a chill go down my spine thinking about the weird feeling I had experienced touching the object.

“Is there anything else unusual about the razor?” I asked.

“It appears to be giving off theta and delta waves.”

Honestly, I was clueless. “Which means what exactly?”

“Theta and delta are brainwaves; the strange thing is they normally reside in people who are sleeping or in infants.”

“So, what are you saying?” I inferred, “Are you saying the razor is alive but it’s sleeping?”

“I wouldn’t go that far…but we’ll continue to conduct experiments on it and see if we can come up with something.”

I was seriously baffled. Back in the interrogation room, we badgered Ronnie a little more. Ronnie wasn’t guilty, or at least he didn’t see it that way in his mind. He kept saying, You need to catch July Christmas. July Christmas is the one you want. The razor belonged to him. The only solid lead we could get was a hole in the wall known as The Nekkid Truth. We headed down to The Nekkid Truth to see if we could dig up some truth; I thought the possibility unlikely. The Nekkid Truth was not full of naked women as I had imagined, it was a dive bar with a few nearly lifeless barflies all wasted in the corner. One could barely speak; none of them had heard of July Christmas until I flashed some green. The strange-looking drunk they referred to as Gummy Joe managed to recall something. The back and forth between us is hardly worth mentioning, except for how bizarre and comical it was. Gummy informed me that July Christmas was a man who could get people things. I asked what kind of things. Gummy only answered special things. I asked are you talking about drugs. Gummy said no. I asked what kind of special things, and Gummy then said, “You’s gonna have to be pacific.” That was the interview. I felt as if I was beating my head against the steel bars that separate criminals from the innocent.

“Does he deal razors?” I asked Gummy Joe.

“Not pacifically,” Gummy Joe explained. “Da things he gets are power objects.’

Power objects? What did he mean?

 “Do you mean like magic objects?” I asked Gummy Joe.

“Magyk,” Gummy Joe flapped his lips. “Magic, ain’t the right word, but it’s the closest word that comes to mind.”

Finally, around 5:46 PM, we got a hold of Rick Sharpton. The NBA superstar had gone into hiding. Apparently, he was still in shock. The man most people generally referred to as The Beard had woken up without his signature characteristic for the first time in longer than he could remember. The Beard’s first statement read, “I think I was drugged.” The newspaper and television stations were all over it. ESPN, Sports Illustrated, The Sporting News, USA Today; there were even mentions of one July Christmas. A reporter explained that the criminal act was carried out by a crazed fan who calls himself July Christmas. “Well, it’s certainly not Christmas in Houston,” the reporter quipped.

After a few more hours, we finally got The Beard to agree to meet us outside of the city. We met at a large mansion outside of town. It was myself and another officer by the name of Officer Diaz. When he walked into the room, I’ll be honest, I didn’t even recognize Rick Sharpton without the beard. I thought he kind of looked funny. The Beard was clearly stunned; it seemed hard for him to talk.

“I’m not even sure what happened,” he shrugged. “I still don’t feel myself. It’s like some magic wiped my memory clean,” The Beard explained. There was the mention of magic again.

“Do you know who the culprit is?” I asked casually.

“Huh?” The Beard seemed confused.

“The person who shaved your beard,” I explained. “Was it one of the three witnesses…Ronnie, Cinnamon…” I cleared my throat, “Mr. Christmas?” At the mention of his name I swear there was the sound of chimes. We all looked toward the sound; apparently, a landscaper outside had bumped some wind chimes while he was working.

The Beard looked off into the distance. “It all started when my man Marcus dragged me to this bar called Amnesia. I don’t drink during the season and I was wary of going, but I wanted to get my mind off the series.” The series was tied 3-3. “That Christmas fellow showed up a lot later.”

“Could you describe him?” I questioned.

The Beard scratched the place where his beard should have been, “Well…uh...umm…He was tall.” The Beard continued to scratch his face. “Hmmm, well…He had reddish hair…Ummm…. you know, I think he might be like a hypnotist or something…I can’t really remember.” Rick Sharpton seemed genuinely astonished.

“Do you think he might have put me under a spell?” The Beard asked.

Like a magic spell?

“I’m not sure,” I told him honestly.

“It felt like he did something.” The Beard seemed as if he was trying to remember something he couldn’t.

“From what I do remember, I was drinking a fruit smoothie. And this stunning, light-skinned dancer struck up a conversation with me…”

This was Cinnamon.

 “I mean, it was no biggie, attractive women hit on me all the time, I’m in the NBA, but there was something about her that drew me in. When Marcus saw I was interested in Cinnamon, he said he was taking off. I’m not sure when, but a while later this weird dude came over all decked out in Houston gear. Shit, man, he was even wearing a Sharpton jersey.”

He was referring to Ronnie.

The Beard continued, “Obviously, I thought he was a diehard fan. He was saying all this bullshit, chanting MVP, MVP, MVP. I mean, he was a bit obnoxious, but he was all about worshipping yours truly, so I let him chill. We were kicking it for a while, I think there were a few other people at our VIP booth. They offered to buy drinks, but, like I said, I don’t partake, especially during the playoffs. I remember he was talking to this weird dude carrying a sack. I asked him, ‘What’re you carrying a sack for?’ He said, ‘It’s almost Christmas,’ which is a weird thing to say in July. The weird thing about the weird dude is like I said I don’t really remember what he looked like. He had red hair, and his skin was dark. And then I think…” The Beard stopped, “What’s his face…”

“Ronnie,” I interrupted.

“Yeah, uh, Ronnie tells me he has a good luck charm that is sure to win me Game 7.”

“So, we pile into my Diablo…”

“Who?” officer Diaz questioned.

“Cinnamon, Ronnie and the red-haired nigga, we all go to this strange hotel,”

“The Razor?” I questioned.

“Huh?” The Beard was confused.

“The name of the hotel you went to was The Razor,” I told him.

“Oh…yeah that’s weird, do you think that was done intentionally?”

Officer Diaz nodded as if suggesting this was premeditative.

The Beard continued, “The Razor, I remember what’s his face made a joke…”

“Ronnie?” I questioned.

“No, the red-haired nigga.”

“July Christmas?”

“Well, I doubt that’s his real name,” The Beard said with a smirk. “But he did crack something about The Razor and my beard.” Sharpton was again feeling his face, it probably felt so naked.

“So, we go to the penthouse, and I started to think maybe this was a setup.” Sharpton’s voice was slightly shaky. “The red-haired nigga pulls out this purple razor. I’ll be honest I got a little uneasy, but I’m a lot bigger than both Ron and July, so I didn’t think they’d pull anything.”

The Beard touched his face. “Fuck, Game 7 is tonight!!!”

“I thought you said Ronnie had a good luck charm for you, not July Christmas,” I interjected.

The Beard stammered, “Ummm, well, I don’t know…the red-haired nigga must’ve been holding it for him.”

This was a small flaw in Sharpton’s story.

“Then what happened?” Officer Diaz interjected.

“I don’t remember much after that. Everything was like a dream.”

The Bearded One stared off into space, looking as if he was trying to remember.

“I joked, ‘What you gonna do with that razor?’” Sharpton laughed. “He told me, ‘Every once in a purple moon Christmas happens in July.’ I mean, the guy was off, but how was I supposed to know he was a psycho?”

“Sir,” Diaz insisted, “if he was a psycho you wouldn’t be standing here. Are you sure that’s all you remember?”

“Yup,” The Beard said flatly.

“Do you know a man named Juan Kristofferson?” I inquired.

“Nope,” Sharpton replied.

We went for coffee while contemplating our next move. Something didn’t add up, but I wasn’t sure what. The city was starting to get crowded, people already commuting in for the game. Honestly, the Rick Sharpton interrogation was a bust, unless we could find the alias known as July Christmas, which looked hopeless, better luck catching a ghost. We had no new leads, and it was approaching evening. There was one more option. I looked at Diaz who smiled. It was time to give Ronnie the old shakedown street beat. We brought Ronnie in the back room and turned off the cameras, and he got our best rendition of bad, cop, bad cop. Diaz turned the heat up, and as I began tearing into the frail Ronnie, you could see he looked worried.

“You’re going down,” I told him. “Your fingerprints were all over the razor. Plus, Sharpton claims you had a good luck charm for him and were the one who brought him up to the hotel, The Razor. So, at the very least, you’re an accomplice in all this! You better start talking.”

Ronnie’s face turned all white. “I had nothing to do with it. Christmas brought the razor, I’d never even seen it before that night. You’re never gonna believe me, but Sharpton made a deal with the Devil.”

“Say what?” Diaz questioned.

I knew Satan or black magic would somehow come up in this story.

“And you expect us to believe July Christmas is the Devil?” I questioned.

 “I don’t know…maybe not…” Ronnie stammered. “It was like a Devil’s bargain between Sharpton and Christmas.” The story was in truth very ridiculous, but remember that we’re dealing with July Christmas. Ronnie basically explained that July Christmas had come to collect on a debt that Rick Sharpton owed him. Ronnie explained with a straight face that July Christmas had given The Bearded One a magic beard pick.

“It was like the razor. I’ve even seen it,” Ronnie said flabbergasted. “The thing shone like it was magic. It wasn’t no ordinary pick. His beard is to cover up the mark of the Beast.” Although Ronnie was insane, I began to wonder about the purple razor that my forensics scientist claimed was made from material he had never seen before. I brought it up.

“Where did you get the razor?” I asked badgering Ronnie.

“I told you, it was Christmas’s…it was part of the Devil’s bargain,” Ronnie yelled. He sounded genuine. Diaz was pacing back and forth. He slammed his fist on the table.

Although Ronnie was a Houston superfan, he seemed to believe Rick Sharpton had made a deal with Devil.

“Tell us the truth!!” Diaz demanded.

“That is the truth.” Ronnie had a concerned look on his face.

“Christmas even insisted the pick would get Sharpton MVP,” Ronnie insisted.

“That’s preposterous. You’re lying,” I stated flatly.

“I swear on Sam Houston’s blade,” Ronnie said raising his hand.

I had to get a hold of that razor; as far as I was concerned, that was the key to this case.

Houston got blown out: Rick Sharpton did play minus the beard, but he was not his usual self. He was flat. He didn’t even look like the same basketball player. As a policeman, you learn how a beard and weight are the best disguises, and, I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I could’ve picked out Sharpton in a line-up minus the beard. There was no Christmas in July if you were a Houston fan. I thought of the Bible story of Samson. Can a beard or hair affect your strength, or in this case, your ability to play basketball? I watched the whole game, mostly because I thought somehow I’d get a clue. Sharpton was, at times, downright terrible. Early in the game, at several key moments, he dribbled the ball off his foot and out of bounds.

 Sharpton refused to do any interviews, but privately blamed Ronnie, the fanatic who he claimed had been responsible for the loss of his beard and inevitably caused them to lose Game 7. We arrested Ronnie Miller, although he still stood by his story about Christmas and Sharpton having some sort of Devil’s pact. The season continued and ended very shortly, and even though Houston had not made the finals, Sharpton was voted the league’s Most Valuable Player. It was exactly as Ronnie had prophesized. Sharpton did show up for the ceremony; though his beard had not quite returned, there was the start of what was a very shabby beard. He accepted the award graciously and did not mention Game 7 or the events that had happened shortly before that.

The other odd thing I remember is that before I could inspect the purple razor again, it mysteriously disappeared. Was it stolen? I assume so, but by whom? It was a few weeks later, I was about to leave work, when I got a call from the concierge at The Razor. Apparently a dark, strange-looking man with red hair had checked himself in under the name John Kristopher. I immediately assumed this was another alias of July Christmas. Diaz had already gone home for the day, so against my better judgment I went to the hotel, The Razor, alone.

When I arrived, the concierge informed me that John Kristopher was in his room, 1313. Apparently, The Razor was one of the few hotels that didn’t practice the superstition of eliminating the thirteenth floor. It was weird. Something felt wrong. I withdrew my firearm, I wasn’t sure why, as I approached the hallway apprehensively. The long hallway was empty and after tiptoeing the first ten feet, I put my gun back in its holster and approached room 1313.

I knocked lightly on the door and was greeted by a tall, light-skinned brother with red hair and a beard. When I say light-skinned, I mean he was black, but mulatto. When I say he was tall, I mean about the same height as Rick Sharpton.

“Good evening, I’m detective Harden. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

The bearded man tried to shut the door, but I stuck my foot in it. “I’m a little busy at the moment. What is this regarding?”

“Are you John Kristopher? I’d like to ask you about a crime involving Rick Sharpton.”

The red-haired black man stopped dead. He tried to shut the door again, but I refused to let him.

It was him; I could tell for some reason. Standing before me was an enigma, a black man with red hair.

“Can’t it wait?” he said evenly.

“I’m afraid not,” I explained.

He finally opened the door and I walked into the room. Despite there being a strange sack on the bed, there was really nothing else unusual or magical about the room.

“How can I help you?” the red-haired black man asked.

“Were you with Rick Sharpton and Ronnie Miller on the night of July 13^th?”

“I can’t say I was. I’ve never met the great Rick Sharpton and I’ve never even heard of Ronnie Miller. What is this really about?” He seemed to insinuate I was questioning him because he was black.

“John Kristopher, that’s quite an unusual name. Are you German?”

“My father was,” he replied.

“What’s this about?” he asked again.

“You match the description of a man we’re looking for that goes by the alias July Christmas and Juan Kristofferson who recently stayed at this hotel.”

The tall man looked down at me unevenly. For a moment I thought he might run, but he stayed perfectly calm. “This is preposterous. Are you saying I’m a suspect? I wasn’t even here, I live in Austin.”

“Sir, if you could just come down to the station with me…”

Then he moved; he was terribly quick. He did not move for the door but rather the hallway closet. He quickly grabbed the strange sack off the bed. I immediately thought he was going for a weapon and removed my firearm, holding it at John Kristopher’s back. He did not turn around but opened the door to the closet and quickly entered, shutting the door. I had thought about putting a bullet in his back. I knew once he shut the closet door, he would somehow disappear, but I did not think shooting an unidentified suspect was a very good career move.

I waited for him to exit the closet, knowing damn well he never would. Eventually I opened the door, but there was no one in there. Ronnie Miller was arrested and sentenced to two years in a minimum-security prison for assault with a deadly weapon. The trial was held in Houston. The jury wanted life imprisonment. Throughout his entire trial and sentencing he never wavered from his story about Sharpton making a deal with the Devil. I never saw from or heard of John Kristopher or July Christmas again, but the more time gets between myself and the case, the more I believe I may have embellished the details to make the tale seem more outlandish. I write this account of the events now to hold onto the truth.