Silent innocence Ch 5

Chapter 5


“How you doing kid?” he asked as his usual greeting.

“I’m ok Sheriff.”

“Ok is better than most people could claim son. I guess you can make do with that.”

“Yeah, that’s true enough.”

“So to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

“I had another dream.”

“Ah” he said in a heavy tone, “more car wrecks?”

“Not exactly. It’s a bit worse this time.”

“Can’t get much worse than people dying son.”

“It’s children sheriff,” I blurted, “Someone is going to murder a little girl and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Alright, first thing you got to do is calm down. Now, tell me what you saw.”

         Not wanting to miss any detail, the story was told slowly and I paused to let the sheriff ask questions where he needed to. I couldn’t tell him anything about the perp, only what I remembered about the scene and the victim. Knowing it wasn’t much to go he told me there wasn’t a lot that could be done. The sheriff’s office was mostly relegated to serving subpoenas in our county and the state and local police handled any investigations. He certainly couldn’t be expected to take this to his peers with only the word of a crazy kid with a dream, but I hoped he could do something, anything. I told him my feelings about Doyle.

“Aww dammit kid, you know without any hard evidence we can’t touch him.”

“He’s bad Jaime and I can feel it.”

“Well, I don’t have a date tonight so I suppose I can drive by Doyle’s house more often than I would otherwise.” he said in a lighthearted tone, “You sure about this son?”

“I really wish I wasn’t.”

“Me too son. Me too.”

         The sheriff promised to keep me abreast of anything he found out. I felt better with him on the case. He had been a detective in his early law enforcement days down in Santa Fe. He was also married then. His marriage fell through like in a detective movie when the man spends too much time out on the job and the wife can’t handle it. I hardly feel Jaime was to blame from what I’ve been told about the situation. He was trying to track down a serial killer and spent every moment he could on the case. I guess his wife cared more about herself than the greater good of the community because she took off back to Arizona to live with her sister. The internal affairs people used this as a reason for Jaime’s breakdown in judgment. When he had finally tracked the man to an abandoned warehouse he got caught up in a hostage situation. He said that the man was going to kill the hostage and he had no choice but to fire on him. He killed him but the hostage fell 50 feet over a railing and was killed as well. Suspended and placed on probation, and not wanting to deal with the restrictions that were placed on him by his department, he resigned and moved up north to Raton to be closer to his mother.

         He got a job as a deputy sheriff and has built a career on delivering notices to unlucky people. It just so happened that my father was one of them. The sheriff had to give word that the local veterinarian was suing for thirty-four dollars for an unpaid bill. While at the house he noticed my father’s ugly powder blue and rust colored ’52 Chevy. Dad had wanted to restore it for awhile but had never really gotten to it. It seemed they both had a passion for classic cars and bonded over it. They spent many a weekend tinkering with the old car or watching football. When my father was sick and finally needed dialysis it was Jaime who drove him to the nearest clinic in Pueblo, Colorado. When my father died he was probably as devastated as we were. I’ve known the sheriff all my life and if there was one person I was glad to have in my corner it was him.

         After hanging up with the sheriff it was tough to ignore Sam waiting to hear what he had to say. She listened intently as the sheriffs plan was relayed to her. It wasn’t much, but right now there wasn’t much that could be done. Hopefully, his work would lead to something more. All I had to work with was my intuition and revealing dreams. If only the power within my head could be harnessed…..

         Sam called her sister to get a ride to the dollar store to pick up a few odds and ends for the house.  I asked her to pick me up some conditioner. Sam thinks I use too much and I suppose I have to agree with her. I handed over twenty of the last fifty dollars we had for the week. It was a good thing payday was coming up. Maybe I should use my power for profit and get me a 900 number. My great grandmother had used the same gift to her advantage. She read palms and tea leaves and all that good stuff back in her day.

         I had sudden surge of inspiration. Hoping that my mother hadn’t cleaned out her attic I called her up. There could be something up there that told me how my gifted ancestor dealt with her condition. Maybe it could help me out some in my current situation. There was no hurt in looking into it.

“Hi sweetie.”

“Hey mom, how you doing today?”

“Oh not too shabby I suppose.”

“That’s great mom,” I said a bit too hurried, “Can I ask you a favor?”

“And here I thought you were calling to say how much you loved me.”

“Aww ma I do love you but I need some help.”

“What is it son?”

“Do you have any of Grandma Angelita’s old stuff up in your attic?”

“I’m sure there’s a few old things up there but I don’t know what exactly. Why do you ask?”

“Oh just curious. Saw a thing about psychics on the History Channel and thought of her and figured I wanted to know more.”

“Well the key is in the usual place but don’t go making a mess up there you hear?

“Thanks mom.”

“Thanks mom and what?”

“I love you mom”

“I love you too Lee”

         I jumped on my bike and coasted down State St. As luck would have it the High School had just let out for the day and Tiger Drive was as busy as it could be. I peddled up the hill until I got to Fifth Street sure to watch for teen drivers the whole way. I glanced up towards Mt. Cavalry Cemetery where my father was buried. Once on Fifth Street it was a straight shot eighteen blocks to Moulton Ave where my Mom lives. The houses on Fifth were simple middle income homes, most with wrought iron fences and fruit trees and evergreens in the yard. White is the dominant color. A few of the homes have flowers in the window sills or rose bushes near the porch. Nothing too fancy though. Raton is a small town with few worries and even less crime.

         I was five blocks short of my destination when I came to Goat Hill. I took a moment while coasting to look up at the big letters that spelled out the name of the town and the giant American flag that flew right beside it. At night a spotlight would illuminate the flag and RATON would glow red. With my attention elsewhere it was a miracle I didn’t get hit by the rickety car that blasted its horn at me and screeched to a halt a few feet away.
         I knew the driver. Derrick Collins was the kid in school who everyone avoided because of his family’s social status. As a result, he was always quiet and withdrawn from the social goings on at school. We met eyes for a second and I almost felt pity for the guy. Surely, his life hadn’t been easy then or now by the looks of things. I gave a curt nod and pulled off to the side of the road. He drove on to places unknown.

         I reached my mother’s small, white house with green trim and parked my bike on the porch. The key was difficult to extract without tweezers, but I finally got it out from the crack beneath the window sill. As the door opened the scent of vanilla drifted out and made me feel at home. My mother’s house had always had that fragrance in the air as far back as my brain allowed me to remember. The house had reminders of my youth all over its walls. There was the trip to Cave of the Winds in Colorado Springs when I was nine and school pictures from when I had my front teeth missing. Suppressing the need to delve into reminiscing about things so long ago, I made my way to the attic.

         The attic entrance was one of those pull down staircase contraptions. The steps didn’t slide down and break my face when I lowered the hatch. It was actually quite a struggle to get them to come down. As I tried to ascend I found out the hard way that the third step had loose nails on the right side. I had to thank Joe Pesci that I only tweaked my ankle a little instead of shattering it completely. I negotiated the rest of the steps carefully now, not enjoying the sharp pain in my ankle every time I put my full weight on it. When I reached the top I tried to will away the injury with a hokey pokey shake to no avail. Time was the only thing healing this wound.

         My mother’s attic isn’t as cluttered as you would think for someone over 60. A few boxes of Christmas decorations and old clothes mostly. There were a few old toys from my childhood as well. I noticed the head of Teddy Ruxpin poking out from one box, his storytelling days long gone. It was easy to find my grandmother’s worldly possessions. They were shut in a chest that looked like it should be buried under 10 feet of sand with a big red x marking the spot. I opened the box and took a moment to watch the motes of dust spiral in the light.

         My first impression was one of skepticism. The contents were so horribly cliché. I wondered if granny was really psychic or just another con artist out to fleece the unsuspecting public. Then again, I had to get my gift from somewhere. The first things that caught my eye were a crystal ball, a purple shawl, and a headdress with a single black opal in it. I guess I should’ve expected it. What else were fortune tellers gonna use in their day to day operations? The only thing that seemed out of place was a tanned leather journal that was held shut with a strap and a belt buckle.  I opened the journal and read the first line: “El regalo de la previsión debe ser perfeccionado.” I am rather proficient in Spanish due to my mother’s heritage and frequent encouragement to take bilingual classes in school. Reading that first sentence gave me a surge of hope. It translates roughly to “The gift of foresight must be perfected.”