JEEP the ripper

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 …