Boxes

His eyes were a deep glazed red and his bright blonde hair matched the sickly pale hue of his skin. He was neatly dressed but ragged in appearance. A rabbit’s foot suspended on a thong hung around his neck. Through the one way glass that separated the interrogation room and the viewing box he looked like a caged animal as he glanced around furtively.

“Who’s this character?” asked Jerry Flanders, a tall lean New Jersey boxer turned cop.

A detective with a gut that suggested a few too many stakeouts shook his head in disbelief, “His name’s Barney Cromwell. Imagine, who names their kid Barney? No wonder he’s so messed up.”

“Why what’d he do?”

“Nothing much. If you believe his story that is, but according to this report he’s a psycho-pet killer.”

“Another one? Is it holiday season at the crazy house or something? They’re letting these loonies go like a fat man with the runs.”

The tubby cop looked amused. It was true. Lately there had been enough incidents involving disturbed individuals that even the most hardened cop would wait until the third alarm to get out of bed.

“Must be something in the water. This one left a little girl’s Christmas puppy on the front porch with its stomach cut out. Poor kid found the dog.”

“Gruesome. Well I’ll work him over and see if I can get him to talk.”

The lone man cuffed to the desk in interrogation room B was now humming softly and rocking gently in his chair. The pudgy detective gave a loud and anxious sigh. He had a six year old daughter to look after and he knew that his soft attempt at humor was no joke. There was something brewing.





One Barney Cromwell jolted from his humming trance to find a tall, well dressed detective with a brown shock of hair leaning against the bland yellow walls of the sordid interrogation room.

“Hello,” he greeted the casually inclined man, obviously remembering his mother’s early lessons on politeness, “My name’s Barney.”

For a brief moment Jerry Flanders said nothing, silently analyzing the agitated man that sat before him. Then easing into action like the seasoned detective he was he firmly addressed the pale man.

“You can call me Detective Flanders,” he said with a piercing stare,” So Barney, I hear you’re interested in animals? Do you like animals?”

“Well sure…” replied the man hesitantly.

“Are you sure about that? How do you feel about dead animals? Do you like them too?”

The man’s fingers twitched violently and his eyes flicked over the interrogation room as if looking for an escape.

“Why would I?”

“Because you like to kill animals don’t you, Barney? You like to cut them up just to see what they look like on the inside. Don’t you?”

“No...no I wouldn’t. I mean I couldn’t! I love animals.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. You mutilated a young girl’s puppy. Cut it open and wrapped it in its own guts. You loved that poor dog to bits.”

“W…What?” stammered the furiously red faced man shrinking in his chair. A bead of sweat ran down from his glistening brow.

“I would never hurt anything! I love animals!” His voice was a barely restrained screech. Flanders couldn’t believe his luck. This fruit-loop was so unstable he could barely control himself let alone fend off the probing accusations of an experienced interrogator.

“Animals? So more than one was it? Didn’t they teach you that animals are not toys at that institute you’ve lived at for the last three years?”

“No! No! No! I would never hurt anything!”

“That’s not what my little folder here says. It’s on your record chum. Turns out that this is not your first time on the rap. Four years ago you tortured and killed an old family dog named ‘Morris’. Were you always so… loving?”

“No! That wasn’t my fault!” The man’s eyes were bulging revealing the red rimmed edges of sleepless eyes.

“Oh so who was it then? Your twin? ‘Coze we found your DNA all over the scene of the crime. Would you like to tell me anything now?”

The man straightened up suddenly, leant back confidently and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yea so what? This isn’t my first gig. I met guys like you last time, Detective suit and tie.” This caught Flanders so off guard that his jaw dropped. He quickly shut his mouth realizing that his sweating quarry would not be so forthcoming after all.



“You’re all alike you men in suits. All of you! Accountants, managers…cops especially! Boxes, just boxes! Your lives are made of boxes! One man goes in this one, the mailman in another, and freaks like me get their own special box, one made of the fragile fabric of a little brown folder.” By now Barney or “Arnold” as he immediately dubbed himself was upright and vigilant. His eyes were still red but now had an animal alertness that they lacked earlier.

“I see,” said Flanders recovering, “So you know the deal. And obviously you’re comfortable with what you’ve done?”

“Good one!” laughed the man confidently, he was in control now and the flustered detective knew it, “You think that because I’m smart enough to fool you that I would be stupid enough to admit to your pleasant little theory? Brilliant logic, Holmes! Obviously we are working on the basis of assumptions now if I am not mistaken, detective?”

He was talking to thin air.  The detective had stormed out of the room.

“Such an amateur!” A loud crunch followed this proclamation as the detective viciously ploughed his fist into the door of the viewing room.

“What was that?” he asked the tubby detective who was standing with a puzzled look on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you even look at his file? It says here that he’s got extreme bipolar disorder. He can’t control his emotions and he is an unstable wreck, but when he’s right in the head, which is quite frequently if you even care, he’s a flaming genius! You don’t think that that might’a been at least slightly important to mention?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.”

Flanders turned away in frustration. He couldn’t believe he had been caught like that. He walked out the door and turned his wrath on an unsuspecting vending machine that ate his coin.

“Rough day?” The owner of the enquiring voice was a cheery middle aged woman, Shelly the receptionist.

“Oh hey Shells! Yea you could say that. Got some nut down in interrogation who does a fairly good Sigmund Freud impression. Just caught me on a bad day that’s all.”

Shelly smiled happily in an attempt to cheer up the detective, “Oh I’m sure you’ll get him!”

Flanders smiled back, “Thanks Shells. You brighten up my day.”

He then wiped the sweat off his forehead with an apricot embroidered handkerchief. The now weary detective returned to the viewing room.





“Mr. Bryce Shultz. Attorney at law,” a short spectacled man wearing a pinstripe suit and a cheap toupee strode into the viewing room, “My client doesn’t need to be here.”

Two startled detectives turned to face the diminutive man.

“You’re client,” retorted Flanders angrily, “is the lead suspect in an investigation. He’s not going anywhere.”

“There is no evidence to convict my client. Mr. Cromwell is rehabilitated and you have no right to hold him here.”

With a scowl Flanders told the overweight cop to release Barney.

Brief seconds later the man in question cautiously poked his head out of the interrogation room and was then ushered through the police station by his attorney.

“Oh look, he’s back to himself again,” remarked Flanders sardonically. The confident gaze of the man had been replaced by the shy, uncomfortable expression of his alter ego.

He continued his cautious march through the station until he came to the reception desk.

“Hello,” he said, smiling at Shelly the receptionist, “Do you like dogs? You remind me of a Labrador.”

Flanders started but held back as Shultz shuffled is client out of the building.

“Nothing like that would hold up in court anyway,” decided the detective silently.

“So much for a confession,” the large, donut-ravaged cop started, “I guess it’s up to forensics now.”

“Yeah. We’ll get him. He’s the guy! I would’a had him if his other side hadn’t shown up. I’m heading home. You take care ok, Henry.”

“Sure thing,” smiled Henry, “Have a good night detective.”

“I sure plan to...”

With that the detective swooped up his overcoat and grabbed the brown paper folder and walked out of the building.





At about four in the morning the red eyed detective was roused from his bed by a call.

“…you’d better get over here, Detective. There’s been a murder. We think it’s your man.”

After five minutes of hurried dressing Flanders was speeding his way to the opposite side of town.

It was a crisp chilly night and the mist hung in limp shrouds about the streets. It was pitch dark at the crime scene but the detective could still make out shadowy figures moving about in an open meadow, illuminated by car lights. Walking over the detective could discern a blood drenched body with its limbs flung out at unnatural angles.

“Sir,” a voice called out from the direction of the body, “Detective Flanders. Over here!”

Henry, the tubby cop was standing over the body with a large coat wrapped around his bulky figure. As the detective drew closer he saw that the corpse was a woman and not just any woman… it was Shelly the receptionist.

The detective cursed under his breath.

“Yea it’s a bloody mess. Can’t believe this happened to poor Shells. What kind of madman would do this?” Henry was on the verge of tears and he struggled to keep his composure.

The body had been splayed open- slit from chest to crotch and the guts were splashed over the torso.

“It’s gotta be your guy,” said Henry interrupting the detective’s thoughts, “Same MO. He doesn’t go after humans but you heard the way he was speaking to her earlier… Oh why? If only… We also found this.”

The cop held a blood stained rabbit’s foot up to the light for the detective to see. It was the same one that had hung around Barney’s neck during the interrogation.

“Oh for…”

“Some of the boys are at his house now. They are going to take that psycho down.”

“Let’s get over there. I want to have a chat with this guy myself,” replied Flanders grim faced. His fists clenched and his jaw tightened as he strode to his car and then drove off into the darkness.





Barney Cromwell’s house was a one bedroom cottage with a front yard full of withering flowers. Two cop cars were pulled up in front of the house with their flashing lights sending an eerie glow through the dark street.  Flanders lifted the yellow police tape that guarded the door and stepped into another world. He was closely followed by Henry and together they surveyed the peculiar home. The place was immaculate and barren of any homely decorations. Instead the house was sterile and cold. However, the one room adjoining the main area, the bedroom, was altogether bizarre. It was dark with no lighting of any sort. A slat bed in the corner and a thick desk with a computer made up the entirety of the room’s furnishings, but the room was filled with assorted paraphernalia. No one object had relevance to another- it was like some compact junkyard with the toys of a madman strewn about. Sitting at the desk in an old creaking chair sat Barney Cromwell. In the dim light thrown out by the computer screen Flanders could see that his throat was cut. A gaping gash ran from ear to ear and layers of dried blood decorated the front of his shirt.

“Well I guess that’s that,” sighed Henry.

“Looks like he killed himself,” interrupted one of the other cops, he had an empty notepad in his hand, “Slit his gizzard with a kitchen knife. The lunatic got off lucky if you ask me.”

The room was silent for a moment more and then the cop started again, “Come on boys lets go. Let’s deal with Shelly’s murder. This one can rot for all I care.”

The other cops left and both Henry and Flanders were left standing alone beside the body.

“I guess someone had better stay behind. I wonder why he killed himself?” pondered the now morbid Henry.

“The guy was just crazy I guess,” replied Flanders.





Flanders left the room and started hunting about in the kitchen. Henry began curiously searching through the piles of junk laying about the room. He came across blenders and road maps, toy cars and statues but nothing of interest. Then he spied a small square piece of cotton sticking out from under the chair. It was an apricot embroidered handkerchief that was drenched in blood. He recognized it as the detectives and was about to call out to him. Then he stopped. The significance of the tiny piece of cloth hit him like a bolt of lightning. He realized that there was no way that Flanders would have just dropped the handkerchief then and there. “He must have been here earlier,” mused the chubby cop silently, “which means that…oh no! This nut couldn’t have been the killer.  Flanders could never have known unless… he was the killer!”

Henry blanched visibly, his face turning white. His breathing became uncontrollable.

“Everything ok?” queried a sharp voice behind him.

Stuffing the cloth in his pocket Henry wheeled round to face the grim Detective, “Sure, no problem here.” The tubby cop’s large fingers trembled. “I just feel a bit queasy. I might step out for some air.”

“Sure, I understand,” said Flanders grinning, his mouth white in the gloom.

Henry slipped past him out and out through the front door into the clean cool air.



Stepping silently away from the house Henry pulled out his mobile and clumsily hit speed dial. A gruff sleepy voice answered seconds later.

“Who is this?”

“Chief it’s me, Henry Crenshaw.”

“Why in the blazes are you calling me at this hour. This had better be good.”

“Listen I think…I think…”

“What’s the matter son? You sound scared silly. Just take it slowly.”

“It’s Flanders, sir. Jerry Flanders. I’m sure that he killed Barney Cromwell…and maybe even Shelly White.”

“Goodness, how do you know?”

The snap of a twig startled Henry and he spun round to meet the cold, hard eyes of Jerry Flanders.

“So you figured it out have you? I always thought you were a slow one. Guess I was wrong.”

“Why’d you do it?” gasped Henry, his mouth dry with fear.

Flanders laughed but there was no humor in his voice when he spoke, “I hated that woman! She was going to ruin everything for me. She somehow figured out that I had been extorting local drug runners and she blackmailed me. I got sick of paying her and she threatened to turn me in. I had to kill her! I made it look like some nut had killed her and covered my tracks by killing the sod. And you just had to go ahead and figure that out, unfortunately for you!”

“It’s too late!” cried Henry stumbling backwards into a swinging metal gate, “I’ve called it in already!”

Flander’s face turned ugly as it screwed up in a gruesome snarl, “I’ll just have to take it out on you then!”

He lifted his hand. In it was a long slender kitchen knife. He lunged at Henry and rammed the blade full into his stomach. Henry sighed violently and slid to the ground, a pained look spreading across his face. Sirens blared in the distance and Jerry Flanders, the famed detective, fled out into the night leaving the gate swinging on its hinges. The buzzing of the phone lying alongside the stabbed cop on the cold, wet grass went out with a beep. Three days later Jerry Flanders was surrounded in his motel room by the police. After an extended gunfight he ended his life with a shot to the head. As the fatal shot was fired Henry Crenshaw woke up feverishly in a hospital bed, his life having been saved by his ample stomach.