Simplicity Lane

Simplicity Lane

Lethal greed exists in places goodness is ignorant of.

By Steven S. Walsky

Copyright 2007 by Steven S. Walsky

Smashwords Edition

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Simplicity Lane is a work of fiction; to include the village of Tamplation, Simplicity Lane, places described in the village, surrounding towns, events therein, and the people participating in the story.

—////—

Jumping Rope

Tap, tap, tap

don’t look back

tap, tap, tap

eyes straight ahead

tap, tap, tap

jingle in your pocket,

waking up the dead.

Tap, tap, tap

Timothy has a secret

tap, tap, tap

Mary has the key

tap, tap, tap

hanging from the rafters,

falling to your knees.

Tap, tap, tap

toys in the attic

tap, tap, tap

book on the floor

tap, tap, tap

hiding in the darkness

he’s coming through the door

—////—

Chapter One

August 3, 1965

"When death is the greatest danger, one hopes for life; but when one becomes acquainted with an even more dreadful danger, one hopes for death. So when the danger is so great that death has become one’s hope, despair is the disconsolateness of not being able to die." (The Sickness Unto Death, by Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, 1849.)

They say death comes slowly to a small town. Nevertheless, some overachieving historian will endeavor, attempt to pinpoint the watershed moment. The event so noted, the closing of an industry, a new highway, or possibly a natural disaster, is but an involuntary death throb of the corpse. But maybe, just maybe the real reason for death was a catastrophic loss of heart. The inhabitants simply lost their desire to be called townspeople, and the noted ‘watershed moment’ was merely the singular event that signaled the town had finally crossed the threshold from life.

The exact paradigm shift moment of death for the Village of Tamplation was so overlooked. Like a hospital emergency room, those fighting the individual symptoms could not see the overall picture; the vital signs of a terminal illness had been missed in uncharted waters.

What was pinpointed is most assuredly the funeral wake. For the Village of Tamplation, its wake commenced on a warm, humid Saturday night, the third of August, nineteen hundred and sixty-five.

Ned Hawkins was working late in the tin shed office from where he operated the Village of Tamplation Towing and Salvage Company. The thirty year old structure stood just off State Route 29; two hundred yards south of the Nice’N Good Diner and directly across from Oxford’s – a two pump gas and go – and Coventry Opticians. Ned’s trusty civil defense radio was providing mood ‘music’ as he brought the company accounts book up to date. Business had been good thanks to the tourist trade, antique hunters buying up anything that looked like the small town life they mocked while out of ear shot, and the occasional out-of-town visitor to the Village’s principle source of income, the shirt factory. Then, being the only AAA hauler in the immediate area was very good for business. Cars were Ned’s life, however he had a disdain for any car built after 1957; the last year Ned felt Detroit built anything decent.

For background chatter, Ned listened to the police band; least he upset himself by awakening repressed anger and memories brought to the fore by the fire band. Volunteer fireman Ned was now ‘too old’ to drive anything but the Village ’57 Dodge Power Wagon brush truck, or the dogged ’47 Mack 700 gallon tanker. He was resigned to sit by and watch the kids drive one-handed as they wolfed down Crystal Burgers held in the other, while listening to strange sounds called music; Ned was not sure who loves who in that She Loves You song by those Beatles kids. Besides, the fire band was mostly static this time of night; except for the on the half-hour time checks. Been that way since 1961 when 'them airways control folks' in Washington said fire departments could not operate on the police frequency. If anything went up in flames his tone-actuated alert receiver would wake the dead. Ned was also sensible about physical activity. Not so old as to repair himself to some front porch rocker, yet old enough to know when not to exert himself; drive the wrecker on the easy calls and get the yougens to excel in feats of youthful exuberance like tire changing.

When the voice on the radio called out to Pepper and Harris for the third time, Ned looked up at the radio. Damn, them two are probably stuffing Moon Pies in their dumb faces! Ned spoke more to himself then to his old dog curled up on a rug by the door. Ned thought Officers Paul Pepper and Nathan Harris were too young to be police; let alone responsible enough to carry loaded weapons without parental supervision. Pepper was married to Ned’s cousin’s daughter. Harris was Ned’s sister’s middle child. Small town relations; everyone knew everyone, and everyone who stayed after high school wound up marring someone else that stayed after high school. Thankfully, out of town professionals – teachers, doctors, and ministers, etc. – brought acceptable donations to the village gene pool; albeit sometimes in unprofessional, one-sided ways.

Radio crackle, then Pepper, damn it, get your butt on the horn! The dispatcher, the Chief’s daughter Susan, was obviously pissed. No doubt angry she was pulled away from her TV. The girl liked Bewitched, and loved one of those kids on My Three Sons.

Pepper? Her voice now starting to show concern, because normally the ‘get your butt’ part got their butts on the radio. Pepper? Ned could hear the hesitant pause in Susan’s voice. Pepper? Ned was now staring at the radio, waiting.

Morgan, you copying?

Doing it love.

Morgan, drop the love BS! The Chief wants you to go over to their area and check on them, pronto! Her voice clearly worried.

Will do. Probably goggle-eyeing that new waitress at Spanky’s. And, thought Ned, ‘it better not be Pepper.’

A man’s voice replied, Officer Morgan, it was Chief Danny ‘Dan the Man’ Kalt, You get your ass over there and call me as soon as you spot them. Don’t spook them. You just call. Got that!

Yes sir! Morgan knew when to drop the BS, and this was one of those times. So Officer Jes Morgan, after one last kiss through the open window of his patrol car, turned off Roy Orbison, and started whistling Oh, Pretty Woman as he eased out of his girlfriend’s driveway and headed towards the east side of the village.

Ned put his pencil down and leaned back in his chair. Those two are in deep shit, girl. The dog seemed to understand something was up and moved next to Ned’s feet.

Five minutes. Six. Ned waited. Every now and then he would take a swig from his Royal Crown Cola. You know dog, if them two dopes would just keep their minds on work, they might turn out to be halfway decent police officers.

Susan, you there?

What’s up Morgan?

Nothing. Don’t see their car yet. You tell the Chief.

You sure, knowing friends protect friends.

Susan, just tell the Chief. Okay!

Okay!

Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. Ned had lost interest in the ledger; he was absorbed by the silence emanating from the radio.

At 2051 hours Ned almost fell off his chair. In real life, not like in the movies, he had never heard anyone as scared as Morgan. Morgan’s voice was chilling.

Susan, put your father on. Morgan, no one, referred to the Chief as ‘your father.’

Morgan?

NOW!

Susan was so flustered she left the talk button pushed, so Ned and the listening world could hear her calling the Chief, having to force the words out of her mouth.

Chief Kalt tossed the copy of Ian Fleming’s You Only Live Twice on his desk and flew to the mike, Morgan, what the hell?

Chief… in a tone reserved for the funeral home visitation room, Chief they’re dead. Morgan seemed too shocked to place emphases on his pronouncement.

At 2051 hours, on a warm, muggy night in August, the Village of Tamplation passed from irreversible cardiac arrest to handfuls of dirt tossed on a freshly lowered coffin.

Ned answered the wrecker call himself. Half out of the need to be there, to do something – even if it was only to pull the patrol car out of Stedman’s Pond – and to be there as family. Ned’s sister would appreciate his gesture. Pepper’s wife would be too far in shock to care about anything.

The patrol car was easy to locate; simply follow the tire tracks from where the vehicle left the road and slid downward through the damp embankment into the pond. Once you walked close enough you could see the tail end of the Ford sticking out of the water. You could also see the tail of the vehicle sticking out of the water if you were standing on the porch of the house across from the pond. But Morgan never made it to the porch. He had put the cruiser in park when he could plainly see through the windshield their hands were tied behind their backs. On foot, he stopped as soon as he saw the two bodies – laying side-by-side half in the yard, half in the street – had blood pooling around their heads.

Officers Pepper and Harris lay dead on the gravel path, as if their bodies had been so arranged to point the way down the path, to the porch, to the door of the small wooden house at One Twenty-Three Simplicity Lane.

Pepper and Harris had died from single gunshot wounds to the back of the head. The initial report would say the two Patrol Officers were in a kneeling position until the projectiles struck them, propelling them forward, faces meeting the ground. Two shots fired at the same time – if fired in sequence, the second Officer would have moved and the projectile would not have been centered on the back of the neck – thus indicating the possibly of at least two assailants. The final, official report would add that the bodies, now, as if by magic no longer ‘Patrol Officers’, were moved; likely realigned to ensure symmetrical positioning. Whoever shot Pepper and Harris took the time to arrange the bodies; this was not a haphazard murder.

Ned completed the recovery of the patrol car from the pond and hooked the vehicle up to his wrecker. The patrol car’s windows had been rolled-up because the air condition, a symbol of pride for the Village Fathers, was on when it went into the pond; yet the vehicle still filled up with water. Even after the doors and trunk had long been opened, so the Crime Lab team could get pictures, the water continued to drain from the vehicle now tilted towards the sky, slung behind the wrecker. Ned reverently drove the wrecker to the State Police Crime Lab. He drove as if the bodies of Pepper and Harris were somehow still attached to the vehicle; as if they were now forever joined with the car. As Ned pulled away from the scene, Chief Kalt turned his head so no one would see the tears welling up. The scene took on an eerie quiet once the sound of the wrecker’s engine memoried down the road. The actual bodies of his two dead Patrol Officers had been taken to the morgue an hour earlier in the Village’s Cadillac Eight, Metropolitan ambulance. It was the departure of the patrol car that seemed to signal this surreal event was truth, not fiction. The officers would not be coming back.

To manage the wrecker backwards into the Crime Lab parking lot, so the hoisted vehicle would be rearward to the overhead bay door, Ned had to drive past the entrance to the fenced-in yard and then back in. Both sides of the street outside the Crime Lab were lined with the media and citizens. The media, unable to get into the yard, stood atop their vans, or pressed the lenses of their still and 16 mm cameras against the spaces in the chain link fence. Flashes of Number 5 bulbs and strobe lights lit up the area as Ned maneuvered his way through the crowd and into the yard. Ned felt disgust at their behavior. While there was nothing illegal or morally wrong, just their need to know, Ned felt the solemnity of the moment was lost. He kept his focus on the job, not wanting to make eye contact with any one particular person in the crowd; least his building anger would get the best of him. The wrecker was met by Crime Lab personnel who directed the unloading of the patrol car and its sequestering behind the overhead door.

As Ned was delivering his charge, the State Police were combing the crime scene looking for anything that would answer the 'who, what, why, when, and where' and explain, better yet define, the event. Les Winford, a twenty-six year veteran with a habit of chewing on an unlit cigar, was in charge. ‘Les-the-Mess’, referring to his gory work, was respected for his abilities and common sense. Yet, it would be disheartening work this day. For all of their efforts, all that was and would be known for certain was simply two Officers were shot dead, their patrol car ended up in the pond, and the responsible party was not identified. No one heard the shots; no one saw any suspicious individuals; no one heard or saw anything out of the ordinary; and there was no physical evidence found that even hinted that ‘nothing’ would become ‘something.’

Officer Morgan meanwhile sat motionless on a hard-backed plastic hospital chair, except for eyes darting left, right, left, right in some sort of tattoo. He had been fine at the crime scene until Ned started to wrench the patrol car out of the pond. With each groan of the cable, as tension was applied, like the groan of awakening consciousness, Morgan slipped further into himself. He stood there until someone noticed him transfixed on the half submerged patrol car; shallow breathing, unblinking eyes. Now in the hospital under the supervision of Dr. Ray Price, Emergency Room, Morgan sat in the same motionless trance, with the exception of his eyes darting in their left, right, left, right tattoo.

When Morgan had first seen the two bodies he was unsure of what they were. Was it his mind playing tricks, protecting him. But as his patrol car closed in, as the forms grew larger, it became obvious they were bodies; soon it became obvious they were dead bodies.

Morgan managed to get out of his patrol car and he subconsciously remembered to follow a minimum of procedure, like taking precautions against an armed attack. Then Morgan knew he would not be attacked. He would later ask himself why he just knew this for a fact. Pepper and Harris were waiting for someone to find them. Someone else had long past left the scene of the crime. What Morgan forgot to do was call in his position and status before exiting the patrol car; the same basic procedural mistake made by Pepper and Harris. Thinking back over his actions, as their patrol car was being winched out of Stedman’s Pond, Morgan recognized the potential of his mistake; the jeopardy he had placed himself in by becoming lost to the central control of the station. Morgan started to admonish himself; allowing the gravity of Pepper and Harris’ mistake to pull him inward. Morgan lost control of his physical being.

A review of radio and in-vehicle patrol logs revealed nothing out of the ordinary except for the fact that Officers Pepper and Harris failed to respond to Susan’s inquiries as to their location. There was no indication they veered from their patrol area. Simplicity Lane was not a side trip. Nil, zip, nada, nothing. The Crime Lab would report the same. Two Patrol Officers ceased to exist.

Chief Kalt was shattered. Les Winford was shattered. Officer Morgan was shattered. Ned, third generation born into the Village, lost the desire to live in Tamplation. The Village of Tamplation buried its dead, an act of shoveling dirt on its collective grave.

—////—

Chapter Two

May, 2005

Millie Peterson eased the mouse on the pad, idly thinking about where to land the cursor. She had been ‘idly thinking’ far too long, I need to get on with this, to herself, nevertheless too loud.

Yep! It was her boss.

Okay, I get the message, with an added BS under her breath.

Her computer screen was displaying base information from newspaper articles arranged for cluster analysis. The clusters were groupings of the results of her searches, with each cluster representing key word terms that shared a relationship with each other. In theory, Millie needed only to select the largest cluster first. However that was theory. Real life required perception analysis – an understanding based on knowledge of the search criteria and desired results – to guide the choice. Thus, the largest cluster may not always be the one to start with. The hard part was to decide which groups made the cut. For ‘death and tax rate’ was equal in hits to ‘death and displacement.’ Personally, Millie was tired of ‘death.’

Besides, Mille was not really interested in working any longer this afternoon because she had larger fish to fry; namely, her cheating boyfriend. Nevertheless, Millie did get paid to work, and no progress could mean redundancy; a word she had learned from the British detective novels she liked to read.

Millie made her decision and double-clicked on the cluster, opening it to reveal a list of article topics. She selected the topic with the most relevance and she double-clicked to reveal a list of the headlines. Boy Hears Wall Talking. Millie’s eye caught the headline as if it was a neon sign. Boy Hears Wall Talking. Millie right clicked and dragged the item to the search box, adding it to a host of other interesting items. Yet for some reason, some unexplained reason, Millie’s hand, working on its own, highlighted the item and hit print.

Handing a printed copy of the results to her boss, Don’t ask me how I got this for you. Maybe it was so out of it I found it interesting. Anyway, here’s your future, a joke referring to making his promotion, but an unbeknownst prophesy. I sent it electronically, but holding it your hands is so much…more real.

Ted Dantary took the article from Mille and read it slowly. "Boy Hears Wall Talking. May 20, 1965. Freedom-Harold special. A six year old boy claims he hears a wall at his day care talking to him during nap time. So far Danny, a Village of Tamplation kindergartener, has amazed his family and neighbors by knowing in advance about the deaths of two villagers. Earlier this month Steff Nortin died as the result of a traffic accident, and Bessie Whatts died of natural causes a week later. The boy’s parents are not concerned, believing the talking wall mischief is their son’s way of dealing with, not understanding death…"

Tamplation? Ted knew that name. His grandparents and mom were from Tamplation. He also thought he knew Bessie Whatts. Why? Nortin did not ring a bell; however Bessie Whatts was somewhere in his memory banks. Ok, play word association. Bessie Whatts…shots…pots…dots… slots…cots…box…that was it, box. What did Bessie Whatts have to do with boxes? He was so engrossed thinking about the article he had forgotten Millie was still standing there.

So, Teddy, you want me to stand here for the rest of the afternoon?

Sorry…Millicent! Run this one, you did good this time.

I always do good…you just don’t appreciate fine women, laughing as she went back to her work area, swinging her hips in a mock ‘you’d love to, eat your heart out’ rhythm.

Ted went back to memory lane. When did I hear her name? Granddad told me before he died…I was, what nine, ten…we were living in Maryland…Fort Meade. Mom knows about her, Bessie Whatts was…what did she say? Boxes of cookies. Bessie always had warm cookies for the children. But who was Nortin?

He knew very little about Tamplation. Ted’s family rarely, if ever mentioned life before his parents got married and the Army became their collective family history. It was the spring his family moved to Fort Meade that his grandfather visited. It would be the last time Ted saw his grandfather, who died the following winter. Ted thought about that particular time. He was too young to really care one way or the other about some town, ('no village, got to get that right’) that meant nothing to a ten-year old. Now, space travel and wild game hunting in Africa would have kept his rapt attention.

But a village of seemingly no importance? Nope, that was not interesting enough for a ten-year old to remember. His grandfather persevered and explained how the family moved from the Village when Ted’s mom was six; yet stopped short of explaining why. Nor did his grandfather mention that grandma was upset about the move. This Ted knew because he once overheard his mom and grandma talking about the move, both were crying. The family history Ted knew was that of his dad’s; where he grew up, how he met his mom, when they got married, and the Army years that followed.

Teddy, you awake in there? Millie was once more standing next to his desk, curiosity reflected in her eyes as she watched Ted awaken from his daydreaming.

My mom’s home town, holding the newspaper article up as if Millie was not aware of the article. The article is about my Mom’s home town.

Damn, no wonder the cloudy eyes. You know the boy?

Millie, I know you think at twenty-six I am well advanced in years, but the boy would be, what? Looking at the date on the article, forty-six and downright past the point of ‘cognizance of living’ to a twenty year old like yourself. And by the way, the WAY you swung those hips a few minutes ago, you are getting too… He saw her look of ‘okay dad ease up’ and decided to drop it. My family, before my mom met my dad, moved from Tamplation. My granddad told me a few stories, but that was when I was ten. Seems as if Tamplation was forgotten memories to the family.

To others as well, handing him a printout. Some very interesting items popped up, look. The village seemed to rise up the bell curve of newsliness, then, right at its apex, about a year after the talking wall story, gone. Drops off the face of the earth, so to speak.

Ted looked at the list of stories and the dates and had absolutely no clear idea why the stories just stop in 1966. One reason could be all the old papers may not have made it to microfilm records, or from microfilm to electronic copies. Millie just looked at him like he was really stupid if he believed what he just said. Sure there were lost articles, or at least paper and microfilm records that needed to be reviewed manually, nevertheless the printout she hand just handed him indicated a sudden unexplained news blackout. It had to be a news blackout, because people continue to make news every day.

Millie’s look was not lost on Ted. Almost to himself, Forgotten memories of my family seem to fit a forgotten village. He put the new printout on his desk and looked back up at Millie. She may be twenty, but she was one of the brightest students at the University. Millie was worldly beyond her years; having spent most of her life overseas attending international schools. Then again, she had no understanding of small town America. Let’s go with Tamplation. At least for the next couple of weeks. Even if it does not pan out, you and I can get some good research experience, and maybe I’ll learn something interesting about the family roots.

You don’t like the hip swish routine? Millie loved to tease Ted, and maybe, you never know, he might drop his twenty-three year old girlfriend for a young vivacious, extremely pretty, well-built – no modesty problem here – soon to be twenty-one year old.

Millie!

Okay boss, departing the area with a hip swing that almost knocked a chair over.

Millie could care less about the ‘research experience.’ Her motivation was sitting next to Ted as they researched and analyzed data. This was the order of business: you analyzed the current data to identify the direction and depth of additional research, leading to new data to analyze. This was a circular process. However always open to branch out, lest you got caught up in the old trap of writing the question to fit the answer. She thought sitting next to Ted was fun, and the closeness was exciting, even if Ted refused to show the interest in her she felt had to be lurking within. ‘You never know,’ she