Copyright (c) 2019 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.
By
R. Peterson
In the early morning
hours of August thirty-one, 1988, the Clabber City Police Department was called
to the scene of a ghastly hit and run accident involving a parked Dodge behind White’s
Bakery. After a day of meticulous investigation it was determined that the
entire driver’s side of a white four-door Dynasty had been brutally gouged by
what appeared to be a heavy metal pipe most likely attached to a rampaging truck
in place of a bumper. The metal body had been cut so deeply and torn with such savage
violence that both driver’s side doors lay some distance away under a pile of
twisted chrome and broken glass. The car’s owner, Mary Ann Nicholls, a
hairdresser who lived in a cheap apartment above the bakery, passed-out when I
asked her to identify the vehicle. My partner, Tom Wesley, slapped her face,
pulled her hair and twisted her ears.
“What happened?” Mary
Ann mumbled when she came to. She sounded like she’d been dancing with a bottle
of Quaaludes.
“I’m detective John
Elmo,” I told her. “Is that your car scattered across the parking lot?”
“It was,” she bawled. “What
kind of animal does something like this?”
“We don’t think it was
an animal,” my partner said. “We believe your car was struck by another
vehicle!”
“When was the last time
you seen your car in a running condition?” I asked her.
“Last night when I
drove it home from work,” she said.
“Do you know of any
other vehicles that would want to harm your car?” Wesley asked.
“I don’t think so,” she
stammered.
“Have you ever noticed
any cars too close where you park at
work?”
“Has your car ever been
involved with a tow truck or perhaps a sleek convertible revving his engine at
a stoplight?”
“Did a truck seem
overly friendly … too short of a tow chain … perhaps taking the long way home?”
“I just moved here two
weeks ago.” Mary Ann Nicholls gasped. “Suddenly I don’t know where I am.”
“You’re in Clabber City,”
I told her. “You can claim your car’s remains after the automotive autopsy.”
-------2-------
Ed Turner turned off the
oxygen and acetylene on his cutting torch and shook his head. What was left of
the Dodge Dynasty lay in eight fifty-five gallon drums suspended in the air by
a car hoist. “Whatever vehicle mutilated this baby knew what he was doing,” he
said.
“You’re saying this
wasn’t an accident?”
“I’d check the wrecking
yards,” Ed said. “To tear the metal this deep it had to have been a four wheel
drive … possibly a truck with chains. The suspect vehicle also has a working
knowledge of auto body techniques. He knew how to make the kind of cuts that
can’t be repaired. I’d look for a wrecker with a three-inch welded pipe bumper
with a cracked windshield … and a smoker!”
“A smoker?”
“See the black film on
what’s left of this fender?” Ed said. “That’s bad rings or advanced timing
showing up in the exhaust. Your perp-vehicle didn’t just grind some gears and head
for a garage or a car wash … he circled around very close a few times … no
doubt backfiring like gas was still thirty-two cents a gallon … probably
admiring his work!”
“You think we got a
serial crasher?”
“I haven’t seen a hit
and run this gory since that Desoto wagon went berserk on the Brooklyn Bridge
back in 1952,” Ed said.
-------3-------
We checked several
salvage yards but no one was talking. Just before our shift was over Wesley
noticed a garage door closing on a Ford F150. I stopped to ask the owner why
the big hurry. He told us we couldn’t go in his garage without a warrant. While
I was trying to convince the man to cooperate, Wesley noticed a five gallon can
of spilled lawnmower gasoline next to his boot. He got rid of the cigarette he
was smoking … but by then the spill was too large.
We assisted the fire
department and were able to determine, by sifting through the ashes, that there
was no pipe welded to the front of the Ford. I told the owner it was his lucky
day and merely cited him for having a loose screw on his license plate.
-------4-------
My phone woke me up at
six the next morning. I made a note to unplug it. Another Dodge had been mutilated.
This time a 1960 Dodge Matador body had been completely peeled off from the
frame. The masher had had the audacity to notify the papers. Captain Wolfe
handed me the note written on a dirty oil rag with a grease gun and left on the
doorstep of the Clabber City Gazette. “You sure this is our wrecker?” I asked as
I read the message.
Dear Boss,
My bumpers so nice … and big and sharp. I going to gut your Dodges … like they
was carp. Good Luck of ever catching me … without some spikes. More work
for you … you dirty kikes!
Yours truly
Jeep the Ripper
Captain Wolfe dropped a bent door-handle on the
table. “The note was wrapped around this,” he said tapping the tarnished chrome.
“Forensics said it came from Mary Ann Nicholls’ Dynasty!”
-------5-------
The
1960 Matador’s frame, wheels, seats and drive-train hopped wildly in front of
the Low-Rider Motel while a large group of Mexican Americans clapped and
cheered. Annie Chapman’s live in boyfriend, Juan Hernández, had installed hydraulic
lifts on the rare and unusual car and somehow during the attack they and the blasting
radio had both become engaged. The car’s large-finned Rally-Yellow body lay
wrapped around one of the huge reinforced concrete posts supporting a
McDonald’s golden arches sign a half-block away.
Wesley drew his gun and pointed the barrel at the
hamburger joint. “You think the Ripper might be in there eating?” he stammered.
I slapped the back of his head and told him to put
the gun away. “Jeep the Ripper is probably at a transmission shop getting his
oil changed,” I said. “Do you know how much torque it takes to peel one of
these bananas?”
Juan stumbled out of the motel putting on his pants.
“¿Que el infierno ha sido engañando con
mi coche?” he yelled. Annie sat on a curb bawling while her boyfriend and
several of his friends managed to shut the dancing car off.
“Where
were you when the attack occurred?” I asked her.
“I
was sleeping with my sister in the room four doors down,” she pointed. “Juan
was throwing a party for one of his friends who just got a job at a car wash. I
work days as a hairdresser and I couldn’t sleep with forty-three drunk and loud
people in the room.”
“At
last our first clue,” I told Wesley. “A car wash!”
I stopped Juan and a group of his friends all
carrying hack-saws and pry-bars as they swarmed toward the McDonalds. “Which
one of you got the job at Mr. Sudsy?” I asked.
“Yo
soy con el trabajo.” A heavy-set man wearing a Diablos Rojos baseball cap stepped forward.
“What
did you call me?” Wesley reached for his gun but I stopped him.
“We
don’t want trouble,” I told him as I backed away. Then I sent Wesley to call for backup.
-------6-------
I had a hard time convincing Captain Wolfe that we
needed to do a stake out. Raoul Gomez
had spent the day looking at hundreds of pictures of suspect Jeeps that might
have gone through his car wash. “Hay solamente dos clases de coches!" The
car wash worker had thrown his arms in the air and glared at me. “Chevys... y
los coches que no son Chevys!”
I tuned the precinct radio to a Spanish station and
cranked up the volume. I thought maybe some familiar music would jar Raul’s
memory. All of the Mexican American officers were dancing and half the Anglos.
Captain Wolfe finally agreed. “Get the hell out of
here!” he yelled from his upstairs office.
-------7------
We
were parked beside a car wash in a bright red Dodge Matador that cost the
precinct a thousand bucks a night to lease. Used car lots that offered specials
on well-maintained Dodges were on both sides of our stake out. I took the first
watch, slowly sipping a two-quart Thermos filled with stand-your-spoon-up-in-it
black coffee while my partner slept.
After
11 PM traffic slowed and I amused myself by showing my revolver to passing cars
and watching them duck as I rolled down my window. Finally at 2 AM I woke
Wesley up and offered him the rest of the coffee. “Don’t need it,” he laughed
as he poured the Thermos out the window.
-------
I banged
my head against the side window as I woke up. We were being towed at high speed!
I had to shake Wesley several times. “How long were you asleep?” I demanded.
“I
just closed my eyes for a few seconds,” he said.
I tried to see what kind of vehicle was towing us,
but the windshield was coated with a greasy substance that smeared under the wipers.
We were swinging wide with every turn and I felt the car snap off several warning
signs. It wasn’t until we passed under a lighted billboard for a mortuary that
I could tell what the oily coating was. Our abductor had written in reverse on
the outside of all the windows with his grease gun so that it could be read
from the inside.
Dear Boss,
Time is short and trouble kind … don’t
let it pass you by. Before too long you’ll wake to find … you don’t need wings
to fly!
Yours truly
Jeep the Ripper
We used up almost a whole
gallon of windshield wiper fluid before we could see what was towing us. The
tail lights and the rear-mounted spare tire of a Jeep CJ were unmistakable.
Thank God the keys were still in the ignition. The car
started but we had no brakes and no power. Wesley pointed to a three foot
section of brake line and the car’s drive line lying across the back seat. I
used my portable CB radio to call dispatcher Molly Hubbard as Wesley stuck his
head out the window trying to determine where we were. Her voice broke over the
tiny speaker. She was a hard as nails veteran with more than thirty years under
her service belt.
“Molly
this is Detective Elmo,” I blurted. “Jeep the Ripper has a chain on us and is
towing us at high speed up …”
“Donkuff Road!” Wesley yelled.
“Help!
Help! Jeep the Ripper has me!” Molly mocked. “This is the fourteenth crank call
I’ve had tonight Buster! You call again and I’ll put a trace on your phone!”
She hung up. When I tried to call back the line was busy.
Jeep the Ripper was playing crack the whip and we
were the snap at the end. I fought the steering wheel to keep us from flying
off into a steep ravine on every outside turn. “Where are we?” I screamed to my
partner. I noticed the quick release at the Jeep end of the tow chain. The
bastard could unhook us whenever he wanted.
“About
a half mile from Devil’s Canyon,” he replied.
We began to pick up speed. The speedometer pointer went
beyond 120 MPH and was buried somewhere in the dashboard.
“One
quarter mile!” Wesley yelled.
Devil’s Canyon was a sheer drop of more than one
thousand feet into a gorge filled with exposed granite boulders and rampaging
white water. It had a turnout for tourists and was a favorite exit point for
Base Jumpers that wanted to see their lives flash before them at high speed.
“One
hundred yards!” Wesley screamed.
I knew there was only time for one shot as I pulled
my service revolver and aimed out the side window. My hands were shaking but I
willed them to be still. My bullet severed the tow cable a split second before someone
in the Jeep activated the quick release.
We both screamed as the car burst through a guard
rail and sailed far out over the canyon’s edge.
TO BE CONTINUED …
