Ghost Hunters, Pt. 13

Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.

JD checked the wires and connections for the umpteenth time, making sure everything was soundly hooked to its respective device. The camera posted sentinel at the back of the room showed he and Dillon sitting at the folding table set up just inside the parlor door, its sharp image providing detail that was somewhat grainy in the waning hours of sunlight. In the dark, the picture would be sharp and clear. It was directed toward the wall, adjacent to the door, that ended at the exterior wall across from the tables where the tall, narrow windows looked out over the side yard opposite the parlor door. The corner of the two was centered in the shot.

The lengthening shadows of the afternoon began to infringe on visibility in the room. It was dark, precisely, but only the strong sun made it bright and cheery. The dusty rose hues that dominated much of the decor and the soft, non-reflective surfaces like the velvet camel-back sofa and loveseat set, the deep and rich area rug that sprawled over the dark hardwood planks, and the high-back wing chair with its toile and throw pillows drank the light as it weakened toward dusk.

Dillon watched JD, his eyes glassy and his lids drooping.

"How many times you gonna check the tweety crap, dude? It works already."

"I just don't want to miss anything for a stupid reason like a shoddy connection," JD said distractedly, still following wires and cables behind the gear.

Dillon sighed with an exaggerated volume and length.

JD ignored him. He put his feet up on the table with an overly heavy thud, but the equipment was not disturbed. JD ignored him. He sighed again, louder. JD ignored him. He dropped his feet onto the floor with a loud FLAP! and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and dropping his forehead on the table with an audible "clunk". JD ignored him.

"Dude ... this is boring. When's Wen gonna get here, man? This sucks, and you're 'bout as much fun as a root canal, y'know?"

"She didn't say, and I didn't ask," JD said absently.

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Because it doesn't matter, that's why."

"Why don't it matter?"

"Because she's going to get here when she gets here, I guess," JD said, still not really paying much attention to Dillon.

"But don'cha wanna know when that's gonna be?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Pff. I'd wanna know, that's for sure."

"Why?"

"'Cause, if I was datin' Wendy, I'd want her by me all the dang time. Whenever she wasn't workin', I'd want her around me. 'Cause that's what cool BFs do. But ... she's got you."

JD stopped what he was doing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothin'" Dillon said absently, pretending to be intensely interested in the images on the monitor suddenly.

"Nothing? You make a crack like that and then say it's nothing? What do you mean by that statement?"

"Well," Dillon said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his body to tuck his hands in his armpits, "I guess it means ... you're a sucky BF."

"What's a 'BF'?"

"Y'don' even know what a BF is?? DUDE!"

"No ... is it ... well, what is it already?"

"Boy-Friend, dumbass. Where ya been for, like, ever? No wonder you're a sucky one."

"How do you know? I've never dated you."

"Like I'd go out with you? Puh-leeze!"

"You'd be lucky to date me. It's I who wouldn't stoop to go around with you."

"Dude, you'd so be all fallin' on yourself an' crap ta get ta me. An' I'd turn ya down flat, and walk away laughin' an' stuff."

"That's ridiculous. I'd never ask you out. You're not at all what I look for in a person."

"Why not? I'm cool."

"No you're not, you're an idiot."

"Hey!"

"And you're verbose."

"I said I get checked twice a year, ass-pimple!"

"And, you're a man."

"Wull ... yeah, there's that, I guess."

"But that's all irrelevant, because I still say you don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, I ... waitaminnit. What was I talkin' about?"

"You were talking, again from your rectum as usual, about how I'm not a good boyfriend for Wendy. And as usual, you're wrong. I'm a very good boyfriend."

"Oh, tha's right ... no you ain't, ya stink."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah y'do, dude. Y'don't even care if she shows up or not. That so is lousy."

"I didn't say I didn't care if she showed up, I said I wasn't concerned about what time she did. Big difference."

"Still shows y'don' care."

"What the hell are you yammering about?? How??"

"'Cause if y'cared, you'd wanna know when she's gonna be here."

"Why?"

"'Cause then if she's late an' stuff, y'can call 'er and tell 'er you're worried."

"Why would I worry?"

"'Cause you'd be carin'. Since y'don', y'don'. Er ... yeah. Y'don' worry, 'cause y'don' care ... yeah. That."

"That's stupid. Of course I worry if there's a reason to."

"So how come y'didn't call an' ask 'er when she was gonna be here? See, that'd tell 'er you're worried and wanna make sure she's okay."

"If she needed help she'd call. She does have a cell phone, you know."

"But a good BF would so make sure she's okay, that's all I'm sayin'."

"I am a good boyfriend. I care about her very much and her well being, and when it's called for, I follow up to ensure she's all right. Thanks for your input."

"I'm jus' sayin' is all. You could show some love, y'know? Where's the love, JD?"

"I could euthanize you ... would that show love?"

"Dude ... hostile."

"Pff. You may not even know what that word means."

"Dude ... hostile."

"Whatever. I'm going to go get some things out of the car. Don't touch anything."

"Okay, dad."

"Just see to it, please," JD said as he rounded out the door to the foyer. He opened the door, stepped out on the porch and took a few steps down the walk before turning to the right, away from the parlor side of the house. He stopped, looked carefully around, and took his cell phone out of his pocket, quickly dialing.

"Hi, Wen? It's me. Listen, when are you going to get here, do you know?"

"Well, HI, baby!" Wendy's voice was slightly distorted on the other end of the phone, but it still sent an electric thrill racing through him and he nearly shivered. "How sweet of you to check on me."

"I ... I wasn't trying to nag or anything. I just ..."

Wendy paused. "What? Missed me?"

JD blushed deeply, furiously. "Well ... yes, sort of, and I wanted to know when to expect you. So that I would ... you know, so I can plan ... just in case ..."

"Aw," Wendy cooed. "Are you worried I was going to mess up your investigation again, lover?"

"NO!" JD said, too quickly. "I mean, of course not, no. I was just ... you know, that way if ... for some reason if you run behind, I can ... I wanted to be able to ..."

Wendy giggled delightedly. "How cute! Are you worried about me, sweetie?"

JD blushed even further somehow. "I ... don't ... yes."

"You're too sweet, my love," she said, hearing him squirm. "But don't worry your gorgeous little head. I'll be there in about ten minutes, and let Dilly know I brought food. He's probably starving by now."

"How did you ... how did you know that?"

"Know what?"

"Never mind. I can't ... wait to see you." He blushed again and quickly interjected. "I have a lot of information to share with you. My research was very productive."

"Ooh, I can't wait to hear all about it, and I love you too, sweetheart. Bye, now."

She disconnected the call before JD could respond. He stared at the phone for a few seconds, grinning stupidly at it with her image stamped firmly in his mind. Slowly he turned around and nearly knocked Dillon over.

JD yelped in start, but Dillon was just grinning like a Cheshire cat, shaking his head slowly.

"Dillon! Jeez! What are you doing out here??"

"I so heard all that, dude."

"Will you go inside and watch the equipment, please?"

"'Quipment's not goin' nowhere, dude," he said chuckling. "How's Wen? When's she gonna be here?"

JD blushed again. "Not that it's any of your business, but she's fine and will be here in about ten minutes. And she said to tell you she's bringing food."

"Aw, SWEEEEEEET!" Dillon said, jumping up and clapping his hands. "Did she say what?"

"You'd be lucky if it were road-kill. Come on, help me get a tripod from the car, butthead."

"So she didn't say what it was?"

"Will you come on, please?"

Dillon followed JD to the car parked beyond the tiny gates that opened between the hedges onto the sidewalk.

"Oh, dude. A good BF would have left this open for Wen."

"You didn't mention that when we parked."

"I'm so not the BF, dude, you are, 'member?"

"She'll be fine."

"What if she's carryin' drinks 'n stuff, dude? She's gonna hafta walk more with all that crap."

"No she won't. You're going to wait for her on the porch and help her carry the bags and drinks or whatever in."

"I am? But you're the BF, dude!"

"I'm also the paranormal investigator, and have to make sure we're ready if anything happens, so you will help Wendy ... this time."

"Naw, man, you should --"

"You will, Dillon."

"Oh. Okay."

The sun was a brilliant slick of orange liquid poured out over the horizon, spreading across the rolling, dense treetops of the hills surrounding the little town. The hills were darkened against the dimness, fading from a deep purple hue to pitch black as they slipped down away from the retreating sun. JD watched the azure sky for a moment as the last flattened disk of the sun blotted out behind a hilltop before returning to the task at hand, which he suddenly realized he'd manufactured to get away from Dillon and talk to Wendy. He checked his watch briefly, and wondered when -- or IF -- the events of last night would play themselves out again. And how.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Ready to go on to Part 14?

Ex-pat Pats Fan

Yep, I'm proud to be a Patriots fan, folks.

Yes, I was sickened by the idea that the best coach of this era resorted to cheating and illegal activities to gain a competitive advantage over other teams.  Yes, I was appalled that he so blatantly and arrogantly chose to continue those shenanigans against a man he'd mentored, who had inside information about his football operations and techniques, and didn't expect to be punished for it.  Yes, I was disappointed by his use of the term "my interpretation of the rule."  All of that is true, in spades.

For a time, my football heart (as my loving wife expresses it) was broken by this.  My beloved Patriots ... cheaters.  I was so embarrassed and downright ashamed.

You know what, though?  There isn't any team out there that isn't trying to get a competitive advantage over its opponents.  There is no team that won't steal signals by whatever means they have at their disposal.  There is no coach that won't use whatever technology they can avail to give them the edge.

In the end, the only real question remaining is, why, Mr. Belichick, did you do this against a man and a team you know would do anything in their power to hurt you?  Eric Mangini has already demonstrated that the relationship you once had is meaningless to him, and it probably is to you too.  Why didn't you think he'd play whistle-blower when you knew he was aware of what you were doing?

Fine; that being said, it's done.  Belichick has paid his fine (or will) and the Patriots organization has (or will) paid its penalties -- the quarter-million dollars and the loss of what will almost definitely be a first-round draft pick.  Those are heavy penalties.  Most wanted to see him suspended, too.  Okay, I can see that -- but then drop one of the other two punishments.  A suspension?  All right.  A fine?  Sure, why not?  But then no loss of draft picks.  In this case, I believe the punishment is enough.

It's finished for now.  The ongoing (if any) investigation into the extraneous and unauthorized radio frequency use remains to be seen.  I would be willing to bet that Mangini and his bruised band of tattlers will ask for an investigation.  I don't know whether or not they'll receive it, but I'm guessing they're going to ask.

So, all that aside, what have we learned?

Well, we learned the Jets are still no match for the mighty Patriots on the field.  They were hardly one last year two of the three times they played, and that was against a team hamstrung by loss of its best receivers and working with a cobbled-together corps that was never great, and a battered and weakened defense.  Now, against an offense that has tremendous talent at all positions, and a defense that is back to a level familiar to the organization, the Patriots have re-educated "Mangenius" about what a winning franchise looks like.

They still have some ways to go, I'd say.  The camera was seized before the end of the first quarter.  The commissioner has stated the tape(s) in no way affected the game's outcome.  The Jets, or should I say the Jest, simply had their asses handed to them, neatly carved and served on a silver platter.  Revere silver.  You know ... from Boston.

Last night, the San Diego Chargers came to Foxboro to visit a long-held, oft-anticipated, much ballyhooed grudge rematch against the team that "stole" their first-round playoff victory in the waning moments of the game and left them slack-jawed, bitter-pilled, and with no other statements to make than how classless the winning players (and their coach) were to celebrate a hard-fought victory.  A victory, might I add, that few, if any, gave them any chance of attaining.  They were "classless" because they mocked Shawn "I'm a Juiced-Up Junky Jackass Jumpin' like  a Monkey on Steroids" Merriman's "lights out" dance at midfield on their own stadium sod.

Well, that's interesting.  You're not classless to initiate the stupidity, but you don't want it shoved in your faces.  That's classless, is it?  There is a solution.  To avoid this, you must win the game.

On Sunday, to his credit, Merriman didn't perform his ridiculous spasm ... at least not that I saw.  He did, however, have two sacks and played a very good game.  He is still a spastic monkey, in my opinion, but he was a bit more subdued a monkey last night.

There was no cheating in this game.  The commissioner -- and Robert Kraft, the Patriots owner -- saw to that.

So, the Chargers watched as the Patriots rolled to a 24-0 lead in the first half.  A lead they never surrendered.  The Chargers, out-classed (no pun intended ... okay, maybe a little one) and manhandled, were pushed around the field and shoved off the dance floor.  The over-ballyhooed "rematch" turned out to be nothing but a good ol' fashioned ass-kicking by a superior team.

Last year, Brady didn't have Moss, Welker and Stallworth to throw to, and they still beat the Chargers.  LT ("Loser 'Tude", as someone on a sports forum so aptly dubbed him after their playoff loss and his subsequent "I'm a classy person" press conference) was formidable, dominating and impossible to stop for the Patriots last year.  They didn't have Adalius Thomas and Junior Seau on the field then; they were on the field last night, and LT ran for a whopping 43 yards on 18 carries.  Did I mention he has the lowest yards-per-carry average in the league?  Did I mention he was completely and utterly stuffed and stifled?  He's a classy guy, though, because after this shellacking, when asked if he thought the Pats were now the team to beat in the league this year, he nodded and said he would concur.  Genuine class.  Nothing like admitting you got your ass kicked to clear your conscience of the childish stupidity of your remarks 7 months ago.

What did we learn?  Did we learn that cheaters do, in fact, prosper, as some have accused?

We learned that the San Diego Chargers, a talented team in their own right, have not yet adjusted to the new system instilled by new head coach Norv Turner, nor have they grown accustomed to the other members of the coaching staff since the departure of Cam Cameron, et al., to other points on the map.  (Cam misses you too, LT, I guarantee it.)  They will, and when they do, they will again be a team to be reckoned with; in the end, however, they are not a match for the New England Patriots.

The much-anticipated rematch was to be so physical, such a contest of mutual hatred and vehemence that it was slated for the very first Sunday night game of the year.

The Patriots, however, had other plans.  They focused.  They played.  And they taught the Chargers a valuable lesson about holding a grudge.  A 38-14 lesson.  The exact same lesson they taught Eric "Mangenius" and the New York Jest ... sorry.  Jets.

We've also learned that, like any great organization, from the Dallas Cowboys of the '90s to the San Francisco 49ers of the '80s to the Pittsburgh Steelers of the '70s, people love to hate the one at the top.  Just ask Microsoft.  If the Colts consistently start winning Super Bowls and establish their own mini-dynasty, they'll start seeing the same things.  We've learned, in short, that the sour grapes of all the world will be flung fast and furious at your team when they become winners, because no one likes to be a winner's stepping stone to success.  The Patriots being winners means that 31 other teams are losers, and that is going to breed a lot of resentment.

For an example of what I mean, check any football forum.  The team, its owner, its coach, and yes, even its fans are maligned at every turn.  ("Hey, mom!  I learned a new word today!  'Masshole'!  Isn't that great?")  A term usually reserved for other purposes is now applied to the fans of the Patriots because they support a team that is better than, as of last year at least, 30 other teams.

This year, I suspect that number will be a bit higher.

Yes, I'm a "Masshole", I guess.  I'm not from Massachusetts, and in fact have never been there (though it would be my pleasure -- as long as I'm not driving, I suppose).   But I am a Patriots fan, despite the controversy, despite the embarrassment, despite the tarnished reputation and the shadow cast over everything they've done over the last 7 seasons and beyond.  There is a bit of rust on their 3 Lombardi trophies now, but I love them anyway.  I guess that makes me a Masshole.

Last night I was convinced of this when I saw nearly 70,000 people, holding signs that read things like, "We're not cheaters and I have the Tapes to Prove It!", or "I'm Still With Bill!", or a guy wearing a cardboard video camera on his head that said "N0-Body's Cheating" (as an acronym, however convoluted, for NBC) and addressed to LT.   On the fore of that homemade headgear was a statement that embodied the entire crowd's sentiments:  "In Bill We Trust."  Then, they chanted "LT SUCKS!  LT SUCKS!", just to remind Mr. Tomlinson where he was playing.   And what the score was.  I felt the same way.  They said so much to me, with no real words, and that's when I realized that, even if they did cheat and are further punished, it won't matter to me.  They'll pay their fine, they'll serve their penalties, and they will still be my team.

As he strode onto the field, and off it victorious, Bill Belichick received an ovation from his fans.  And, uncharacteristically of the stoic, hoody-garbed "genius" -- he waved his acknowledgement of it.  His players hugged him after the game and he was presented with a game ball by Robert Kraft.  Tedy Bruschi said it was the most satisfying win of his Patriots career -- and he was on the Super Bowl teams and bears all three rings.

Massholes, unite.  Whether by land or by air, we can repel the attackers of our beloved Patriots.  They have made their statement of ability on the field.  Who cares what the rest of the world says about them off the field?

Yes, I am a Patriots fan.  And I always will be.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: patriots, football

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 12

Just joining us? You may want to start from the beginning.

JD put the finishing touches on the camera position in the parlor, and inspected his work. Walking back around the folding table he'd set up the day before, he watched the monitors glowing gray and bluish in the waning daylight. The parlor's lavish decorations and doily-laden surfaces were reflected in crystal detail on the LCD screens, the glint of nickel and pewter winking back at him. This time, the camera was in the opposite corner from where he'd set it up the night before. A clear shot of the corner where the silhouette had vanished last night was in center view, as were all the windows of the room. The wall adjacent to the door was hung from its richly varnished and shiny picture rail with meticulously matted and framed black-and-white portraits of the homeowners and family members, each one done in the Victorian fashion. Even the sharpness of the photographs, the expressions on the faces of the subjects, and the costuming were shown in the tiny screens. If not for the technology in the room, it could have been a 19th century room. The hanging "gas lamp" chandelier was just high enough not to obscure the camera's view as the tearless cornea stared into the richly floral-patterned wallpaper.

Dillon had his feet crossed and propped up on the table and was absently scratching at the stubble on the underside of his chin. He looked into the monitors and sighed.

"Looks jus' like yesterday, dude," he said solemnly. "Boring."

"Yep, nice and boring," JD said brightly, adjusting the recording devices taping the display. After rewinding and watching himself come into the camera's view, staring at the monitors, and adjusting the recording devices, the tape snapped to "snow" and static.

"Recording will be all set. I've got a good supply of tapes. I have a hand-held video camera this time. And plenty of batteries for the flashlights. I'm all set, I think."

"What about voices, dude?"

"I have a digital recorder," he said, remembering he'd brought it. He pulled it out of a duffle bag between his seat and Dillon's, and switched it on. "Testing, one, two, three, testing," he said clearly. Then he hit the rewind button and then played his voice intoning back to him. "Perfect."

"Does that thing work at a distance?" Dillon said, brows knitting over his eyes. "You might not get too close, y'know?"

"Good point," JD said, only slightly surprised. He turned the device on again and tossed it to Dillon, who jumped as it flew at him and caught it sitting upright quickly. "Dude! Whatcha doin'??"

JD walked around the table to the windows, facing away from Dillon. Staring into the slowing browning yard, littered with dead leaves and twigs, he carefully spoke softly.

"Testing, one, two, three ... testing."

He came back to Dillon and took the device out of his hands. Rewind, then play. He heard his voice distinctly, but softly, counting the test tones off.

"Yes, it works at a distance. Good thinking, Dill."

"Yeah, natch, dude. I'm so a good thinker an' stuff."

"Indeed."

"Now what?"

"Now we hope the events of last night were indeed a recording of past events and will play back again tonight."

"We hope?"

"There isn't much else we can do, unfortunately."

"Why not?"

"Because I have no idea -- no one does -- how, or if, this recording mechanism works. I have no clue how it was triggered last night, or if it will be again tonight. Last night was a very, very cold snap. Tonight's weather is going to be considerably warmer. If the sudden cold was the catalyst for the playback, tonight may not be a repeat."

"Aw, man," Dillon said disappointed. "You tellin' me ghosts watch the friggin' weather, man??"

"No, of course not. Why would a ghost be concerned about the weather?"

"You just said it wasn't gonna be cold enough."

"To replay the recording."

"For the ghost t'come out."

"It wasn't a ghost. It was a recording."

"It was a ghost."

"How do you know?"

"How d'ya know it wasn't?"

"Are we going to have this conversation every time we come here?"

"How many times we comin'?"

"I'll be coming until I have an answer for the homeowners. You'll be coming until you so irritate me I kill you."

"I'll so haunt'cha if ya do."

"I can deal with that."

"So how come y'know it's not a ghost?"

"Because there are no such things as ghosts. We've had this talk, Dillon."

"Yeah, butcha can't gimme a good reason for believin' that, dude."

"My belief to the contrary is theological."

"Based on Second Corinthians 5:8, an' that don' say what ya said it did, dude. So you got nothin'."

"I still don't have a Bible."

"So?"

"So I can't show you all the references to spirits not being permitted to roam around randomly."

"Ya can't think o' one? Not one?"

"Umm ... okay, how about the parable of Lazarus and the rich man?"

"There ain't no parable like that."

"Yes there is."

"No, there ain't."

"Is too. Jesus told the parable of the rich man and the poor beggar that lived outside his house, Lazarus. When Lazarus died, he went to rest in the arms of Abraham. When the rich man died, he awoke in Sheol. He begged for a drop of water to cool his tongue, but never got it. Then he begged to have a chance to warn his brothers that they had to change. But ..."

"... But ol' man Abe said no, 'cause they already had ol' Mo' an' the prophets an' didn't listen t'them, so they ain't gonna listen t'NObody, and go cry yourself a river an' shit. Yeah, I know. An' that ain't a parable."

"What?"

"It's so not a parable, dude."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talkin' 'bout the story of Lazarus an' the rich dude -- JEEZ, JD, ain'tcha listenin'??"

"Yes, I'm listening, but you're speaking your usual foolishness and I'm lost."

"DUDE, it's like this -- inna parable, the story's kinda ... I dunno -- generic, I guess. It ain't got names an' places an' real people in it, y'know? Now, this story you're talkin' 'bout, Jesus gives the dude's name -- Lazarus -- an' it wasn't Sheol, dumbass, it was hades. An' y'know what else, dude? That ol' rich dude didn't ask to go to his brothers -- he asked that Lazarus go. It's all in Luke 16, studly ... look it up."

"Uh ... well, there you see that Abraham tells the rich man that his brothers wouldn't receive a warning from the dead."

"I see that this guy who was a screw-up his whole life didn't get his wish is what I see, dude. I so don' see nothin' 'bout no ghosts there."

JD drew a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay. Then I guess I need time to look this up."

"Yeah, I bet you do," Dillon said, and propped his feet back up on the table. "I bet you sure as heck do, huh."

"Don't get too cocky," JD said snidely, "you're just lucky I don't have a Bible with me or I'd ream you."

Dillon chuckled. "Yeah ... whatever, dude. What-the-hell-ever."

JD shook his head. He'd underestimated his friend again. He was beginning to think there was much more to Dillon than met the eye. He felt he'd known that at one time, but somehow, let it slip away. Now, he was too busy being right to recognize when he was wrong.

"So anyways," Dillon said dryly, "when's Wen comin'?"

"She's most likely going to be here later, as she was last night," JD said, the sound of her name sending an electric thrill through him. "She might take a brief nap before coming; she usually does."

"Yeah? How d'ya know that?"

"Because I asked her, that's how," JD said sternly.

"Good boy. 'Bout time y'started showin' some damned interest in her. She's smart, she's cool, an' she's hot. She's got it all, an' whadda you got? Nothin' but 'tude, dude. Did I mention she's hot?"

"Yes, as if I needed you to remind me. And I have more than attitude to offer in a relationship, thank you."

"Yeah? Have you 'L-worded' her back?"

"What?"

"Did ya tell 'er ya love 'er, dumbass. Didja?"

"Well ... I -- the opportunity hasn't exactly been ..."

"You're a frickin' weeny, dude," Dillon cut him off, shaking his head slowly. "You better decide what the hell you're doin' with her, dude, or she is SO gonna blow you off for a guy with a bigger set o' cajones."

"I just haven't had the chance, that's all," JD said defensively. "Besides, I don't know if ..."

"What? Y'don't know if ya love 'er or not? Gimme a break, dickhead. You do. It's all over you, man. Every time she comes around, you're a mess. Every time she speaks, y'damn near jump. Every time she laughs, no matter what else you're doin', you smile. Tell me you don' love that chick, dude. You're fulla crap."

JD was contemplating his shoes very carefully. "I ... I just meant that I ... aw, hell. I don't know what I mean."

Dillon screwed his mouth up into a disappointed frown and shook his head. "Mm-mm-mm, dude. Just ... just mm-mm-mm. That's it."

"I don't see you doing any better with women, frankly."

"I get more ass'na toilet seat."

"Really? When is that?"

"Uh ... you know ... when ... well, you ain't around, that's for sure."

"Uh-huh, I see. And where are you meeting these women? At the 'He Who Dies with the Least Brains Wins' conventions you attend?"

"Dude. Ouch, man."

"Hmm."

"I do awright with chicks, dude."

"I can see by how they beat down the door to reach you."

"I'm just inna dry spell's all, dude, I'll be cool. Yeah. Definitely, I'll be cool."

"Well, until and unless you are, I suggest you keep your mind on the Biblical matters and let me handle my relationship with Wendy. I don't recall asking for your input anyway, Dr. Phil. Or Dr. DILL, I guess I should say."

"Now, if that ain't a cool name for a TV show, what the hell is?"

"What?"

"The Dr. Dill Show, man. It's gonna be huge."

"You have to be a doctor of something first."

"I guess. What about Dr. Who?"

"Dr. whom?"

"No, Dr. WHO, dipstick."

JD closed his eyes and shook his head. "I mean, who are you talking about?"

"I'm talkin' about Dr. Who, dork-ass. Jeez, JD, are you sure you're gonna be able to do your stuff t'night, dude? You can't even have a decent convo, here."

"I've never had one with you in the room."

"See? You're gettin' all hostile an' shit again, dude. You so need to chill-lax."

"To what?"

"Chill-lax. You know -- chill out, relax ... chill-lax. It's a word that means ..."

"I think I get the general gist, thank you ... you can save what I'm sure is an incredibly interesting education on your vernacular for another time."

"I don' have no vernereal nothin', dude. I get checked twice a year."

"That's ... that's more about you than I wanted to know."

"So, what now?"

"We wait."

"For what?"

"For the recording to do what it does."

"When's that gonna happen?"

"I don't know."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Why not?"

JD turned and looked at Dillon seriously. "Because no one knows how predictable ghosts are, okay?"

"So it's a ghost? It's really a ghost?" Dillon leaned forward, eyes widening, excited and perky for the first time all day.

"No, I'm just screwing with you," JD leaned back in his chair. "All we can do is wait and see if the events of last night are repeated ... much like the statement I've just made."

"What statement?"

"Never mind. Watch the monitors."

"Okay. When do we eat?"

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Ready to go on to Part 13?

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 11

Just joining us? You may want to start from the beginning.

"Holy ... Lord, that's ... that's terrible," JD whispered. Bea nodded slowly and sympathetically.

"Yes," she said sadly. "It was very sad."

"Bea ... just out of curiosity -- my clients are the owners of that house you mentioned. They actually called me and asked me to do some ... research for them. They never mentioned anything about this. Do you know why that might be?"

"Oh, goodness," Bea said. "I have no idea, unless they didn't know about it."

"But ... you said the homeowners found the body outside their home." JD was genuinely confused.

"OH, I understand now," Bea said, nodding her assurance. "I'm afraid I misspoke a moment ago. The people that owned the house at that time didn't stay there very long afterwards. They moved away. The house has been through several owners since then. Several renovations as well, if I'm not mistaken."

"Ah," JD said, a bit relieved. "I see."

"As I recall," Bea said nostalgically, staring off above JD's head reflectively, "it was unoccupied until just a few years ago. No one lived there for a time."

"Do you know why the house has changed hands so many times, by any chance?"

"Well," Bea giggled, "I must confess, it's a bit silly, and town folklore always springs up around such things ..." she leaned forward conspiratorially, blushing.

JD leaned toward her in response, smiling mischievously with her. "Yes? Is it ... strange?"

"Well, no," Bea said, "it's just children's stories and such."

"Oh, please," JD said earnestly, "I'm very interested."

Bea flushed again. "Well ... there is some rumor through town that the previous owners all left because of strange occurrences in and around the house." She softly giggled, covering her mouth.

JD froze. "What ... what sort of strange occurrences?"

Bea sucked her lips in, embarrassed. "Well ... I suppose the children would say the house is ... 'haunted'."

JD blinked, trying to act natural. "Haunted?"

"Yes," she continued, pushing her glasses farther back on her nose, "but as I said, they're only town stories and children's tales told to frighten each other."

"Hmm. I find that fascinating," JD intoned, but his mind was elsewhere.

"What sort of research were you asked to conduct, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Hmm? Oh, they asked me to look into whether the house might be haunted."

Bea stared blankly at JD as he turned toward the door.

"I can't thank you enough for all your help today, Bea," he said sincerely. "I really, really appreciate everything you've done."

"Oh ... of course, always happy to ... help," she said slowly, a bit stunned, while JD moved through the doors into the bright autumn day.

Dillon was leaning on the hood of the car when JD approached.

"'Bout frickin' TIME, dude," he said impatiently. "I'm starvin' an' whatnot out here, y'know."

"Well, let's get you fed and then we can get set up at the house again. Wendy should be joining us there when she gets off work. Please try not to have a panic attack when she does."

"I didn't have a damned panic attack, jack-wad. She scared the hell outta me. AND you. An' she better not do it again or I'm SO through with her."

JD shook his head smiling, and got into the car, then unlocked the door for Dillon. He slumped like a rag doll into the seat and turned to face JD a bit.

"So, whatdja learn?"

"I learned a great deal," JD said factually. "But very little of that would be helpful or interesting to you."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not interested in the history, you want the adrenaline."

"How d'ya know?"

"You make it clear."

"Howzzat?"

"By your general demeanor. Nothing but the explanation that this is a ghost will satisfy you. Your mind is made up, and you won't be confused with facts."

"You got facts that this ain't a ghost?"

"Well ... no. Not yet."

"But y'don' believe it is one, right?"

"Not yet, no."

"'Cause yer a knucklehead."

"Because I'm skeptical."

"Does 'skeptical' mean 'stupid'?"

JD scowled at him. "I'm not stupid, thank you."

"Maybe not in school an' shit, but out here inna real world ya sure seem dumb t'me."

"Oh really."

"Yeah, really. Look at all you seen an' stuff, dude. What's it gonna take to get you t'believe this is a real, live ghost, man?"

"A 'real, LIVE' ghost? I think that's an oxymoron."

"I think yer a moron."

"Well thank you, Dillon. What else could you think while I bask in the radiance of your genius?"

"I jus' mean ya ain't bein' real 'bout this shit, bro. You got tons o' evidence an' crap all up in yer face an' still won't say it's a ghost. How dumb is that?"

"About as dumb as you leaping to the conclusion that this IS a ghost and never seeking another, more logical explanation. And not quite as dumb as you deciding there was a ghost at the first flicker of a flashlight. Now, who was it you said was a moron?"

"Well, I ... Okay, so maybe y'got me there. But still, you could try t'be more open-minded or whatever."

"I'll be more open-minded when I have reason to be open-minded, Dill," JD said quietly. "Right now, I'm just gathering information."

"An' bein' all closed-minded an' stuff, dude."

"No, I disagree."

"Yeah, there's a shock, huh?"

"I'm not contentious. I'm trying to be practical."

"Craptical is more like it, dude. Lighten up."

"I'll lighten up if you smarten up," JD said, turning the car into a parking space a short distance from a greasy spoon store front a few blocks away from the library. He put the car in park and leaned back, twisting to face Dillon.

"An' dude, couldja be nicer? Dang."

"ME?? What about you? All you've done is insult me because I won't just state emphatically this is a haunting!"

"Well ... yeah, but I ain't as mean about it as you, dude."

"What?"

"I dunno ... I wanna rip on you an' not you rip on me. How's that work for ya?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Quite."

"Dang. So now whadda we do? What's next?"

"Next we eat. Then we go to the house and get the equipment ready. We check the weather forecast, too, because I don't want to get caught in another cold snap. Then we get ready to see if the events of last night are repeated. If they are, I'm going to be ready for them this time. If they don't, then we're stuck in observation mode until they do ... if they do."

"So more boring?"

JD shrugged. "Sorry. It's tedious work."

"DUDE ... no shit, man. No frickin' shit."

"This is the part you don't see on those TV shows."

"Jeez, yer tellin' me. So how come ya won't tell me whatcha learned?"

"All right, I will," JD said. "I learned that, some years after the disappearance of Robin Brown, Darren Jenkins committed suicide."

"Dude. Awesome. Who's Darren Jenky?"

"Darren Jenkins. He was Robin Brown's partner, remember?"

"Naw. So, he off's himself?"

"Yes. And he did so at the house we're investigating."

"Dude!"

"Yes. And, his body was discovered by the homeowners when they returned home that day."

"DUDE!"

"I know. Very interesting, isn't it?"

"Well, that's a lot worse 'n findin' dog crap on yer lawn, that's fer sure."

JD chuckled. "Yes."

"Did the cops check it out?"

"I didn't ask."

"Why not?"

"Uh ... I don't ... I don't know. I should have, I suppose."

"Dude!"

"Well, I don't think it matters, really ... we can still--"

"Don' matter?? Dude, you SO can't say that! He could be the ghost, dude!"

"IF there's a ghost, it identified itself as Robin Brown, remember?"

"Dude, ever heard o' lyin'??"

"Why would a ghost lie?"

"So yer sayin' it's a ghost now?"

"No, I said IF it were a ghost, it would be Robin Brown's ghost. IF it were a ghost, that's how it identified itself."

"So it's a ghost?"

JD slapped his hand over his face. "I don't think so."

"So the dude on the recordin' coulda lied, right?"

JD peeked around his palm. "What?"

"Dude, think about it -- you say we seen a recordin' of the stuff that happened back in the day, right? That whole water recordin' thingy, right?"

"Water tape theory. I was just saying it was one possible explanation aside from an apparition."

"'Kay, fine -- what if? So, the dude says he's Robbie, but what if 'e waddn't? What if 'e jus' says he is?"

"Wait, wait ... why would he do that?"

"Dude, you even got a brain? Think about it. There's all this crap goin' on up in the 'hood, right? Stealin', robberies, junk like that, right? So, Robbie's up there supposed t'be checkin' it out, right? -- but that other dude ain't. So what if Robbie wasn't there, an' this other guy that sez Robbie done it is tryin' t'frame him an' shit?"

"Okay, let me see if I've got this straight," JD said deliberately. "You're suggesting that, in order to frame Robin Brown for the robberies, his own partner is lying about BEING Robin Brown? How does that frame the real Robin Brown?"

"Don'tcha get it, dude? Brown ain't doin' the shit, the other dude's doin' it. So he goes 'round sayin' he's Robbie so any witnesses an' shit'll think it's Robbie, but really it's this other dude."

"But Robin Brown went missing. Jenkins never did. And Jenkins openly accused Brown of doing it after Brown disappeared. Also, we saw the person -- whomever it may have been -- who introduced himself as Brown get beaten with a club in the ... whatever it was we saw."

"Okay, so here it is, dude: Brown ain't doin' it. Ths Jenky dude's doin' it. He's goin' 'round, sayin' he's Brown, in case he gets caught an' shit. So, the real Brown's not supposedta show up, but he does, an' then this Jenky dude's gotta kill 'im to keep 'im from tellin' an' shit. So he kills Robbie and ditches the bod."

"Why would he kill someone with whom he was partnered?"

"I dunno. You're the brainiac -- you figger it out."

"It doesn't make sense, though. If Jenkins was the one that was murdered, how'd he commit suicide later?"

"Dude, I said the dude we SEEN wasn't Robbie-boy; that don' mean the dude that got whacked wasn't."

"But we saw the events transpire ..."

"We seen part of it. Not the whole crock-load, dude."

JD stared into the middle distance. "I have to think about that ... I don't know ..."

"Well frickin' get me some food while ya think, snot-wipe -- I'm starvin'!"

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Ready to go on to Part 12?

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 10

Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.

JD walked across the hallway to the microfiche room, and fully expected to find Dillon sleeping.

In the nearly 80 minutes since they'd last spoken, he hadn't heard a sound out of Dillon. That was pretty much unheard of in his experience, so he was convinced that Dillon would be laying on the floor under the desk soundly sleeping, or that he'd actually already left the room and was off doing something else instead.

What he found make him freeze in his tracks inside the doorway.

Dillon was reading.

He was staring intently at the microfiche screen, and occasionally panning about on the page to move from one to the next. He was actually sitting forward on his seat, leaning in toward the screen.

JD stared in wonder for another moment, then knocked lightly on the open door so as not to elicit another screaming fit from him in the library.

Dillon whirled rapidly around to face him.

"Oh, hey, dude, whattup?" he said casually.

"You're doing the research. You're actually doing the research."

"Yeah, I toldja I would. You owe me lunch, too, by the way."

"I do?"

"Pff ... yeah, dorkwad. I don' work fer free an' shit."

"No one's paying me," JD protested.

"That's YOU, bro. You gotta feed me if ya want work done, dude."

"What have you learned so far?"

"Whaddaya mean?"

JD blinked in surprise. "I mean, what have you found out?"

"Well, a couple things," Dillon said, panning the page again.

JD waited for a moment. "Such as?"

"Oh," Dillon said, and turned back around. "Such as, comics in papers ain't funny at all, dude. Not at all."

"Wh ... what?"

"Yeh, I been readin' Sunday comics an' stuff. None of 'em're funny at ALL, man. It's like, lame or for little kids er somethin'. Stupid."

"Dillon, what are you reading?"

"I jus' told you, dude. Comics."

"Did you even bother to read the articles that Bea found for us?"

"Yeah, I read 'em."

"When?"

"Before I started readin' comics. Duh, dude. You sure ask dumb questions for a smart guy."

"Dillon, what did you learn??"

"About what, Homey?"

"About the case!"

"Oh, yeah," Dillon said, turning back to JD. "Keep it down, dude, we're in a library an' shit. You wanna get us thrown out or somethin'?"

"Dillon?"

"Yeah, right," Dillon said, adjusting his seat to face JD more fully.

"So ... there was this cop, see ..."

"Yes, Robin Brown."

"Right, Robbie. So anyways, he's doin' stuff ... you know, cop stuff ... and he goes missin'."

"Yes, he disappeared investigating a rash of robberies in the neighborhood of our supposedly haunted house."

"You heard this one before'r somethin'?"

JD closed his eyes. "Just ... go on, please."

"So Robbie gets a call t'go check this dump out, an' he goes missin', right? So then nobody finds 'im. Ever."

"Yes, the last contact police had with him was as he was going to check the house out. Then radio silence."

"Yeh. So he's missin', an' nobody can find 'im and shit."

"For nearly thirty five years."

"Yeah. An' the cops don' keep lookin', neither, 'cause right after that the crap in that neighborhood stops, an' they figger it's ol' Robbie doin' it."

"What?"

"Yeah, ain'tcha heard that part?"

"No, there was nothing like that on the Internet."

"No? Damn, you must suck at searchin'. Anyhoo, ol' Robbie's gone, an' all the B.S. down in the 'hood stops."

"The robberies stopped after his disappearance, yes."

"Yeah, an' ol' Robbie's partner, who ain't workin' with 'im that night, says he figgered Robbie was the one doin' all the stealin' and shit, an' then he took off with the loot an' stuff."

"Several hundred thousand dollars in cash and merchandise were stolen over a very short period of time."

"Yeah, like, three, four months. So dude, can we eat now?"

"What of the partner? What was his name?"

"I dunno ... Stinkins, Pinkins, some crap ... he just slammed Robbie pretty good an' then nothin'. Papers don' say nuthin' 'bout him no more."

"Dill, do you remember the name? The exact name? I can look it up."

"Naw, man, y'can't look it up ... I gotta eat."

"I'll feed you, I'll feed you ... IF you find the name."

"Dude, the food's for all the stuff I done already."

"You receive payment when I receive a name."

Dillon sighed in an over-exaggerated and dramatic way, flopping his arms over the desk to work the microfiche reader again. He buzzed about for a few minutes, and then swatted JD's arm.

"Here," he said firmly, "now frickin' gimme some food, dude."

"Yes, yes ..." JD said, bending to read the article. "Darren Jenkins. How'd you get Stinkins out of Jenkins?"

"Whatever. I'm hungry, brain ain't workin' right."

"It never has, why is hunger the reason now?"

"You're a butt-head, dude. Seriously. A butt-head."

JD read on unperturbed. He made careful mental note of the name, and he made careful mental note of the article.

Both Brown and Jenkins had been under investigation. Both were taking rotating second shifts to go on beat patrol in that neighborhood. The affluent tax payers were pressuring city officials, not least of whom was the mayor, for action. Several houses had been robbed, in an area where crime had not existed before, and in each case, the police had failed to apprehend or even identify a suspect. In each case, the complaints were filed but nothing ever substantiated. In several cases, the paperwork about the incident had been lost, so that when the homeowners tried to follow up, there was no record of a report ever having been filed. Pressure was being put on the city to do something about the crime wave, and some residents had threatened to go to the county or even state authorities to get resolution.

JD knew most of that; the Internet information he'd uncovered from the local town paper had most of that information online. What was conspicuously absent from the information currently online, but was clear in the original articles, was that the entire police department was under investigation. Rumors of corruption and suspicion of dirty cops and bribery were rampant.

At the center of that investigation were officers Brown and Jenkins.

Brown volunteered to go on beat duty there to clear his name, vehemently protesting accusations of his involvement in any corruption or conspiracy within the police department. Jenkins took offsetting shifts to assist his partner. On one or two occasions, Jenkins had been summoned to a robbery either in progress or upon discovery by the homeowners. In every case, the perpetrator, or perpetrators, got away and nothing was ever uncovered by investigators. Brown only received one call while on beat patrol in the neighborhood the one he never returned from. That brought suspicion to him more fully. The police suspected that he cased homes on patrol and returned when off-duty to perpetrate the crimes. His partner Jenkins was thought to be involved because he never apprehended the perpetrator or perpetrators, even when he received notice that there was a robbery in progress.

After Brown's disappearance, the police closed the investigation. Jenkins was cleared of all charges, and Brown was considered to be the perpetrator of most, if not all, the robberies. Any accomplices he had disappeared with him, vanishing into the dense fog rolling in off the river. His car was found but never a body, despite a search of the river banks, bed, the home where he'd been dispatched, and the surrounding neighborhood. He simply ... vanished.

JD noticed the address of the last call the officer was dispatched too, also. It was the same address as his client's house, that ancient old Victorian near the river.

"Very, very interesting," JD said slowly and softly.

"Yeah, like watchin' grass grow. Can we eat now, dude?"

"Sure," JD smiled. "I just want to ask Bea one more thing on the way out."

"Whatever, dude, I'll be at the car."

"Sure," JD said, still eyeing that article as if it were a treasure.

He wondered about the events the three of them had seen the night before. They seemed to contradict the story in some senses. Why would Brown be killed if he'd been the perpetrator? Who were the murderers? Under what conditions had that murder taken place?

Was Brown even the one being murdered?

JD stood upright at that last thought. Maybe ... just maybe ... they'd misinterpreted what they saw. They didn't see the whole thing play out. The heavy fog and the immediate belief that he was an actual, living police officer made them hesitate before they followed through the yard. There were likely events being played out they hadn't seen, perhaps a conversation.

What if Brown had been the murderer and not the victim? In the dimness he could only see a figure with a flashlight. Because of what he'd seen before, he assumed it was Brown, but there was a period of time in which other things could have taken place. In fact, he may not have even seen contiguous events. These things, if played back through some mechanism LIKE the Water Tape Theory, may not have all been the same night, or even the same decade. There was no way to know for certain what they'd seen.

"DUDE," Dillon said impatiently, leaning back in, "FOOD. NOW."

"Okay, sorry," JD said and he strode out of the room behind Dillon. They passed by the front desk where Bea was busying herself with librarian tasks, humming ever so softly to herself.

"Excuse me, Bea," JD said softly, and she looked up, tipping her head far back to see through the spectacles that slid far down her nose, and smiled broadly.

"Oh, were the fiches of any help?"

"Incredibly so," JD said warmly. "I don't know how to thank you, and I hate to be a pest, but ..."

"Oh, not at all, that's what I'm here for," Bea said, coming around toward JD and pushing her glasses back on her face. "What can I do for you?"

"Well ... I ran across a name in my research, and wondered if you might have some actual memory of the person, being that you've lived here for so long."

"I can try, but I can't promise anything," Bea said, less enthusiastically.

"I was wondering if you remember a police officer, around the time of the disappearance, named Jenkins ... Darren Jenkins."

"Oh, heavens yes," she said, waving dismissively. "I remember when he was a boy coming in here for his school papers. He lived here most of his life."

"Do you recall what became of him?"

"Oh, yes ... he stayed here in town and did well with the police force for a bit. Then he decided to try his hand at politics. Most folks here were convinced he had something to do with that other officer being missing though. No one voted for him. After that, he left. A few years later, I read in the paper he'd committed suicide."

JD started. "Suicide??"

"Yes, it was terrible. No one knows why. He didn't even leave a note."

"Did he have a family?"

"Oh, not that I know of; his parents passed away long ago, and he didn't have any siblings. He never married, either, that I recall. It was sad, really."

"Oh, God," JD whispered, genuinely surprised.

"Yes, and the worst part of it was that the people found him outside their home, below a window."

"Who? Who found him?"

"The homeowners ... they live in the same house where his partner was last heard from. They came home and found him outside of their parlor window."

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