With A Little Help From Skippy

“I know I should have told you about the alligator!” the patron shouts into his cell phone.

Frances Fassel puts her finger to her mouth, whispering, “Ssh.”

Anyone who looks at her can guess right away that Frances is a librarian. Five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds, her brown hair is cut in an unattractive pageboy, she has buck teeth, and she wears black plastic-rimmed glasses. Frances has been the head librarian at the Shrub Oak Public Library for so long that the kids call her Frances Fossil.

She rearranges the magazines as the prim-looking college student whispers emphatically into his phone, “But Fritz is a friendly gator, and you signed a contract to be my roommate! Feed him a few mice, and he’ll crawl back to his room. Yes, the mice in the cage in the living room… What do you mean that’s inhumane? … I told you not to open the backroom door. What? Did you just say Fritz is in the hallway? Oh, the landlord’s not going to like that…. I’ll be home in five minutes!”

The student gathers up his papers, stuffing them into his backpack. Heading toward the door, he mutters, “Good thing I didn’t tell him about the tarantulas in Fritz’s room.”

***

A teenager in all-black, wearing a hoodie, a Motorhead T-shirt, combat boots, and dark mascara, trudges into the library. Assistant Librarian Marion Carrion has been keeping an eye on Noah Nesbitt for the past two weeks, worried that his fascination with ropes, knives, and poison is a prelude to violence.

Noah puts his laptop down on one of the far tables and begins typing frantically. He moans, his downcast features screwing into a pained grimace.

He tries to contain his emotions, but they spill out.

“No!...No!”

He takes out his phone, heading to the bathroom hallway.

The hallway provides Noah with a degree of privacy but also amplifies his conversation.

Marion stands nearby, pretending to rearrange the cookbooks, her plump figure poking out beyond the bookcase.

She cocks her ear in Noah’s direction.

“You’re my only friend, Jack… I understand you love her, but what about me? We’re not only friends, we’re family… You’re supposed to look after your younger cousin… No, don’t cut me off, Jack. I swear, I’ll do something you’re gonna regret… That’s right, I’ll kill myself!”

Marion turns away, rushing to the front desk.

Frances notices Marion’s distraught expression.

“Did someone miss the toilet in the ladies' room again?”

“Worse. That Goth boy that comes in, Noah Nesbitt... I heard him say he’s going to kill himself.”

Frances waves her thin hand dismissively. “If I had a dollar for every time some angst-ridden teenager said they were going to harm themselves, I’d be able to buy a tiara and call myself the Princess of Shrub Oak, New York. And yes, that’s a thing for me.”

Marion bites her nails.

“Was he crying?” Frances asks.

“No, more like hysterical. He said his only friend had deserted him.”

“Typical teen melodrama. Every slight means the end of the world.”

“Maybe we should call the police or a hospital.”

Frances readjusts her glasses. “Teenagers really hate it when adults get in their business. I’ll handle it. Where was he sitting?”

“In the back, near the children’s books. He left his laptop there.”

Frances passes Noah squatting in the hallway, sobbing loudly.

She opens Noah’s laptop. A website titled “Cool but Shocking Ways to Die” pops up.

Reaching into her pocket, Frances places a business card for a suicide hotline on the laptop.

***

The monthly town board meeting breaks up, and the weary participants stumble out the door. Frances gathers the leftover sandwiches and soda and takes them to the refrigerator in the adjacent break room.

She heads back into the conference room, her orthopedic, rubber-soled shoes squeaking when she stops short when she hears Hammond Bonaventure’s voice. The local mortician gleefully says into his phone, “You maul ‘em, we haul ‘em, we freeze to please! Aw, c’mon, you never get my gallows humor… What? Now? You know we don’t run the crematorium now. I can’t. It’s against the law, and you should know that too… What? Gaston Gingrass? He got off? I swear, sometimes jurors have their heads up their keisters. Of course, I know that justice must be served. That’s why the Brotherhood of Justice was formed. And you’re right, a fat slob like him is going to smell unless he’s disposed of quickly… How many bullets did it take? Eight? As I said, he was a big man… All right, tonight he fries…”

***

“Shouldn’t an officer handle this?” Detective Ashley Outlaw asks Chief Reed Kronk.

The only female on the staff, the short-haired, athletic redhead, is eager to please, but doesn’t want to incur the wrath of her ill-tempered superior.

A grim-looking man with a block jaw, Romanesque nose, and steely gray hair, the fifty-three-year-old Chief growls, “Frances thinks a murder may be involved, which calls for a detective. You’re the rookie, and all my detectives are investigating real crimes, so it’s on you. This is no more than some dowdy busybody looking for attention. Take her statement, then you can call it a night and go home.”

***

Ashley invites Frances to sit. “So, you overheard a suspicious conversation…”

“An hour ago, after the board meeting. Hammond Bonaventure said he was going to cremate a body, someone the man on the other end of the phone had murdered. I remember the victim’s name because it’s an alliteration…Gaston Gingrass.”

Ashley listens to the rest of the details, her eyebrows rising with each word.

“Hammond sounded so casual, like he’s done it before. With that tan and platinum hair, he doesn’t look like he could harm a flea.”

“Who was the person he was talking to?”

“I don’t know,” Frances replies. “But whoever it is, he’s the one giving the orders. He’s the leader of the Brotherhood of Justice.”

Ashley excuses herself, explaining what she’s heard to Chief Kronk.

“Hogwash. Sure, I’ve heard of the Brotherhood of Justice. They’re an urban myth. They don’t exist. And Hammond Bonaventure is above reproach, one of the most respected people in town. As for Gingrass, I put him on the train out of town myself yesterday. He’s Niagara Falls’s problem now. Thank the busybody and send her one her way. And close my door on the way out.”

Ashley quietly closes the door as Chief Kronk reaches for his phone.

On her way home, Ashley passes the Bonnie Venture Funeral Home, noticing there isn’t any smoke coming from the crematorium.

***

The following morning, on her way to the station, Ashley sees smoke coming from the crematorium, dismissing it as a regular part of its operating hours.

Detective Urban Knox is hanging up his phone as Ashley sits down at her desk across from him.

“Something wrong?”

The lanky detective rubs the stubble he’s been cultivating into a beard. “I called Gaston Gingrass’s number. His wife said she was still waiting for him to come home.”

“Maybe he decided he doesn’t like Niagara Falls, or his wife.”

“Probably. Gingrass said at his last hearing that he’d gotten a death letter from the Brotherhood of Justice. Too bad he destroyed it.”

“According to the Chief, they don’t exist.”

“Yeah, they’re more secretive than the Freemasons. But it’s odd. There was another guy, Rabbit Rohmermann, who kidnapped his kid, but got off on a technicality a few months ago. We were going to retry him, but he’s disappeared.”

Out of curiosity, Ashley researches the number of criminals who eluded justice, finding four men in the past year. Checking further back, the number jumps to fourteen over the past decade.

“They’re criminals. What are the chances they gave false addresses or changed their names?” Urban offers.

“All fourteen of them?”

“Sounds like you want to take a deep dive into the archives. I’m with you… Something’s up… Don’t tell the Chief what you’re up to unless you want to staff our table at the job fairs for the rest of your career.”

***

Urban hovers over Ashley’s desk, picking up the top file from the mountain of papers.

“Tony Cucchi. I remember him. He was supposed to be a leg-breaker for the mob. If you owed money, you’d get a visit from Big Tony. When he was apprehended, he was beating the head of some dude in arrears against the pavement. Too bad for Tony that the man died. Tony was supposed to serve fifteen to life. He supposedly found Jesus in jail and became a priest, which led to his getting out five years early. Last anybody heard of him, he was a priest at St. Raymond’s in the Bronx.”

A scowling Chief Kronk marches up to Urban’s desk.

“What’s all this?”

“Ashley and I are looking through some old files. Did you know, Chief, that in the last decade, fourteen men have gone missing who were arrested here and got out of jail early or beat the rap?”

“Do tell. It just so happens that one of those early birds is getting out today… Ralph Resnick, the scum who robbed that eighty-year-old couple, the Robinsons. You know the rest…”

Urban turns to Ashley. “He and two other mooks heard the Robinsons had a fortune hidden in their house. When they couldn’t find it fast enough, the other two losers beat them to death. Turns out the Robinsons weren’t rich, and what money they had was in the bank. Resnick got a sweet deal because he didn’t harm the couple and testified against the other two.”

“He’s at Sing Sing in Ossining,” Chief Kronk says. “I promised the Robinson’s family that we’d be there the day he got out, and that we’d keep track of him.”

“I hope we can do a better job than we did with these fourteen guys,” Urban comments.

“Sounds like you’re volunteering to escort Resnick home to his shack upstate, Detective Knox. As for you, Detective Outlaw, Frances Fassel called to say a man is sitting in the children’s section of the library without any pants on. She thinks he’s trying to hack into a bank or a government office. That’s a cybercrime, which calls for a detective. Since you two are such fast friends, and you’re so good with computers, I’m sending you to check it out.”

***

Wearing a fashionable pair of cargo pants and an Old Navy shirt, a barely recognizable Noah Nesbitt passes by the front desk, smiling at Frances while holding the hand of his new girlfriend.

Frances’s skin turns scarlet. “I’m embarrassed. He put his pants on and left when I told him I’d called the police.”

“Give me a description of him, and I’ll try and hunt him down.”

“I can do better,” Frances says, showing Ashley a picture of the man on her phone.

“I wouldn’t sit around without my pants if I looked like that.”

“His name’s Kerry Collins. When I talked to him after calling you, I got the impression he’s in the early stages of dementia. He wanted to know what all these books were doing in his living room. I’d appreciate it if you gave him a scolding and didn’t arrest him.”

“I’ll check with the Chief.”

“That sourpuss? He’ll want to put Kerry in the stockade.”

“He does believe in bringing down the full weight of the law,” Ashley replies. “As long as I’m here, I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of the Brotherhood of Justice.”

“A group of zealots. They make the Chief look like Barney Fife. You know who knows a lot about them? Skippy Bohanon. He ran Hammond Bonaventure’s crematorium. Poor guy, he was a drinker. He’s in a sanatorium in Connecticut.”

***

Urban taps the Crown Victoria’s brakes. They feel mushy and worn out and will have to be replaced when he returns to the office.

Ralph Resnick, His hair thinner and seventy pounds heavier since his incarceration, peruses the empty street.

“What’s up with you, Ralph? Why are you so jumpy?”

Ralph reaches into his shirt pocket for a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he hands it to Urban, who reads the message aloud.

“…For crimes against humanity, you are hereby condemned to death by the Brotherhood of Justice…”

***

The first thing the woman notices about Skippy Bohanon’s apartment is the many crosses hanging in his room.

The next thing she notices is that Skippy is not the doddering, senile older man she expected, but a smiling, robust, bearded man barely in his fifties.

When Ashley mentions the Brotherhood of Justice, Skippy’s expression shrivels up like a month-old prune.

“They’re a dangerous group of self-righteous people who dispense justice by getting even with criminals they feel escaped the proper punishment.”

“Is Hammond Bonaventure one of them?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t do the killing, he disposes of some of the bodies.”

“So, who’s their leader?”

“I don’t know. Bonaventure received his orders over the phone. I helped him burn the bodies. It started with Kit Klemmer. He was a college boy who used to come to Shrub Oak for the summer. He annoyed everyone in the bar with his privileged attitude and his lousy harmonica playing. One night, he got blackout drunk and killed a family of four. He walked away from the accident without a scratch, got a ticket to rehab from Judge Nico Nimmo, and seven years of probation. His rich daddy settled with the victim’s relatives. The victims were our beloved Mayor, his wife, and two kids. I remember how upset everyone was when Klemmer mocked us by playing that awful harmonica in the hallway after Judge Nimmo set him free. So, a group of angry, vengeful citizens formed the Brotherhood of Justice. Soon after, justice was served when Klemmer was run over by a car… Once for each victim.”

“Were they involved in Father Cucchi’s death?”

“Three members of the Brotherhood drove down to the Bronx to settle up with Big Tony. No matter how far away an offender may be, the Brotherhood finds them and settles the score. I heard the repentant priest beg for his life. Tony Cucchi’s head was smashed against an altar until it split open, then a cross was driven through his heart. I can’t imagine what they’ve done to Gaston Gingrass. After twelve years in the Brotherhood, I couldn’t bear the cruelty anymore. But once you’re in the Brotherhood, you’re in for life. I took a blood oath never to turn on them. They, in turn, vowed to leave me alone when I left… So long as I didn’t talk.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put you in danger.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been dead for years.”

“Can I ask you a question? Why all the crosses?”

“They remind me that I had a hand in making fourteen people disappear.”

***

Ashley returns to the station late in the day, anxious to share her news with Chief Kronk. Kronk’s blank, jowly expression reminds Ashley of a fat frog on a toadstool.

Kronk interrupts her report with, “Afraid I’ve got some bad news about Detective Knox.”

Ashley shudders. “Has something happened to Urban?”

“He’s dead. The car that he and Ralph Resnick were in went over a guardrail a few hours ago. Still feel in the mood to play vigilante?”

“Urban believed me when I told him that all the disappearances weren’t a coincidence.”

“You’re living up to your last name – determined to be a rebel, an outlaw. You’re pretty sure of yourself based on the tall tales of some drunk in a rest home.”

“There’s only one way to find out if Hammond Bonaventure is behind the disappearance of at least fourteen men.”

“You mean scum.”

“I understand how you feel, Chief. But Judge Nimmo agreed with me and gave me a warrant to search Hammond’s place of business.”

“You know why? Nimmo’s the same idiot who presided over a lot of those men being set free. Nimmo’s wife had a brief affair with Hammond, just before she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Nimmo blamed Hammond for ruining his life. To make matters worse, he didn’t like the job Hammond did on his wife when she kicked. I never understood why Nimmo and Hammond fought over her. That woman could scare Frankenstein. So Nimmo’s spent half his life figuring out ways to get even with Hammond. Now he’s turned you into his agent for vengeance. You’d better hope you find something.”

***

Hammond Bonaventure brims with confidence as Ashley searches his office.

“Where’s forensics and the rest of the squad?” Ashley asks.

“They’re on their way,” Chief Kronk replies.

Ashley rummages through the papers and ledgers on Hammond’s desk. Opening the desk’s middle drawer, she laughs triumphantly, pulling out a harmonica.

Chief Kronk slaps Hammond. “How many times did I tell you? NO SOUVENIRS!”

“So, Chief, you’re the Brotherhood’s leader.”

“And proud of it.”

“How many people who paid their debts for their crimes did you murder?”

“Not enough. Not yet.”

“Did you kill Urban?”

“I put a hole in his brake line. He was becoming too suspicious,” Chief Kronk replies.

“Like you,” Hammond adds.

“When I show Judge Nimmo Kit Klemmer’s harmonica, the Brotherhood of Justice will be finished.”

Three police cars pull up to the crematorium. Half a dozen officers clamor into Hammond’s office. They stand behind Chief Kronk, waiting for his next order.

“I’m afraid it’s you who’s finished, Detective,” Chief Kronk says. Pulling out his gun, he adds, “Light the crematorium, Hammond.”