I

George Faires never had much station in life, and never much imagined he needed it. He was still young, 23 after all, and if he hadn’t come into much yet, it was sure to be around the corner somewhere. He was handsome and fit enough, though his opinion on that front went rather farther than anyone else’s did. Well, if they didn’t love him, so much the worse for them! It was surely jealousy over his all conquering charm, especially with women.

He was free and easy in his manners and dress, and never seemed overly bothered over anything he was asked to do on the farm he had been hired to. He would see that it was done, and done well, by his assistant. How a simple hired hand on a small dairy farm came to have his own assistant is a matter for another history, but suffice it to say here, that there are some men who are so thoroughly convinced of their seductive charms, that even if there is little evidence of their appeal to the fair sex, they will overawe the mind of some simple taciturn, who will believe the tales of conquest, and will imagine in some dim recess of his mind, that this Lothario is the key to his own romantic endeavors, and he will learn something important, if not have something fall into his lap entirely, and he will henceforth be a thrall to his striding warden.

His assistant was named Jemmy. What kind of a name was that? George didn’t know, and he didn’t ask. His interest was not in Jemmy, but in what Jemmy could do for him. Jemmy was shy and simple, he never knew what to say, and marveled that anyone ever did say anything. The farmer and his wife and his supervisor were so filled with thoughts. Jemmy wondered at where they could all come from, all those thoughts.

One fine July morning, I say it was fine because the sky was clear and the sun shone, but if we were all transported bodily to experience that July morning in the rustic countryside ourselves, we would have found it infinitely uncomfortable. The weather was hot and stuffy, and the very fence posts perspired in the muggy heat. The sundry animals of the farm lazed about in what shade they could find, even in the early hours where shadows do first appear. I say, then, on this July morning, perhaps not so fine, that Jemmy was deputized to clean out the cow stalls in the barn. This was one task that George would normally do, but Jemmy was not one to question his charming supervisor, and he assumed his governor had good reasons-never selfish-for anything he asked for. George was probably tired after a night of womanizing, so Jemmy imagined to himself. Someday he too might find himself similarly fatigued, if God would be so good to him.

“Say boy,” said George, who was only a few years older than Jemmy, “Say boy, if you’re real sharp about it, I might have a trick this Friday. Two ripe ones, and they are mighty keen after me! And well, you may find yourself coming into an opportunity. We shall see my boy, we shall see!”

“That’d be just fine George.” said Jemmy, “I’ve missed some fair few opportunities you’ve had for me. I don’t think I’ve come into one.”

“Well, I’ve had my own difficulties, you know. It’s not a straight line, you know, pursuing women. They dart this way n’ that. It’s a hare chase is all. You can’t come in with too many expectations you know, just motives, that’s all!”

Jemmy could never doubt George’s confidence; for, he could never discern a crack in it, and if George did ever feel some disquiet over his own successes, he never let Jemmy see it.

“Would you wanna help me maybe?” Jemmy tried.

“No, I would not go to the cow barn for love nor money this fine morning.”

Jemmy trudged off to the horse barn and it was not long later that the lazy peace of the sweltering morning was pierced.

“Mr. Picket, he dead!” the shout of Jemmy was heard in every peopled corner of the farm.

Jemmy then appeared in the gravel driveway outside the house and called to all its inmates various versions of his previous announcement, in varying degrees of sense, all which intimated in one way or another that, Mr. Picket, the farmer, was dead, and his body lay in the cow barn.

The various folk of the farm streamed forth from the house, across the driveway, and to the cow barn, with George following carefully behind, attentive to every word in the bustle. They were soon crowded around one of the cow stalls, gazing in grim shock at the grizzly scene. Mr. Picket did indeed bear all the outward ornaments of a dead man, right down to the blood and absence of breath. His crumpled form lay in the filth of the pen and was dirty and bloody, his head in particular bore a huge gash, which seemed to be the very trouble at the root of it. It looked as if the cow in the stall with him had given him a few once overs.

While the crowd stood in shock, Mrs. Picket, a most estimable and formidable woman, raven-haired and buxom, if we may say so at such a delicate time, pushed her way through the people to behold the situation. She quickly set her jaw, and ordered Mr. Picket to be brought up to the house and laid on the couch, and that the doctor should be summoned immediately.

The doctor wended his way from his office in town, over dry dusty roads, to the small farm. Any call from a farmer worried him. They were not a folk to call frivolously. If anything, they only called when it was too late, and there were only corpses to sort. There was some screaming on the phone about Farmer Picket having been “kilt”, and it was hardly the hour for this to be an episode of drink.

As he pulled into the driveway, he could see he was just beaten by a cavalcade of police vehicles, their lights swinging to and fro. There was a gaggle of officers just exiting the vehicles, and beginning to huddle around a man wearing a suit and sunglasses. This man noticed the doctor and approached him in his car, as the doctor rolled down his window quizzically. A large man from the group with a bullet proof vest followed the suited man and stood next to him, with his hands holding the collar of his vest and his elbows pointing out.

“Excuse me, you must be the doctor?” the man in the suit said in an arrhythmical rush.

“Yes, is it bad?” the doctor asked, unsure of what else to say. If he was truthful, he was a little worried he was wandering into the midst of a gun fight with some crazed murderer, who wanted the cops to come to him there.

“Bad? Well, we haven’t seen a thing yet, just got here, but it sounded bad. No, I didn’t like the sound of it one bit! But, if you’ll please, we’ll follow you in.”

“You’ll follow me in?” the good doctor stammered.

“Yes.”

“But officer…”

“Detective.”

“Detective…

“Detective Schmidlkoepfer.”

“And your associate?”

“Officer Tim-Bob.” the detective answered for the hulk.

“Well Detective Schmidlkoepfer, isn’t this like, an active crime scene? Shouldn’t you and your men lead the way in? Who knows what’s inside?” the doctor reasoned.

“That’s just what I’m thinking good doctor.”

“Well I don’t want to be killed...”

“There’s no way the brute or brutes inside would ambush a medicine man.”

The doctor was incredulous, “But...how will they know I’m a medicine man? I’m dressed just like you.”

Detective Schmidlkoepfer and Officer Tim-Bob looked at each other gravely. It was clear the civilian had raised a point the lawmen had not considered.

“Oh hey.” said Officer Tim-Bob. “I got this CPR certification card just the other day. Look at the backside there.” he said, taking it out of his wallet and holding it out. “It’s a white background with the red cross upon it. Now that’s as sure a sign of a medicine man as any there is I’d wager. You present this, well, the fiend or fiends inside could hardly bear to shoot you.”

Detective Schmidlkoepfer, who was now smoking, looked with pride and astonishment at Officer Tim-Bob. If it had not been for the sunglasses we might have discerned a watery mist forming within his eyes.

“How do you mean present it? Surely this won’t be a presentation sort of affair if there are brutes or fiends or any other such thing in there! Surely I have to be wearing some insignia if I’m to have any chance of…”

Detective Schmidlkoepfer, who for a brief moment had looked away in despair at yet another impediment discovered by this wily doctor, suddenly exclaimed, “We’ll use a belt!” and without waiting for further disputation, he unfastened his own belt, reached into the doctor’s car, and fastened the CPR certification card to the good doctor’s head, as a proclamation to all evil-doers in the county that he was, in fact, a doctor, and his person sacrosanct under the laws of Heaven, which even dull brutes must surely obey. The detective was no less impressed with himself and his ward than the doctor.

“Say, we could use you around more. You have, as we say, a nose for the business!”

As it was, the good doctor and the lawmen who crowded behind him, were not shot dead by brutes or fiends. They were not assailed with firearms at all even, much less kilt. What they did find was curious enough. Farmer Picket was laid out on the kitchen table, and the household was crowded about the room in a diffident stupor. The doctor went to feel his pulse, while regarding his watch, placed his discerning hand on the man’s chest, and bent his ear to it, in short, all the most modern procedures were duly performed, and the medicine man proclaimed, “Dead.”

“Yes, he is dead. I knew it the minute I laid mine eyes upon him. I’ve seen many cases like this.” said Detective Schmidlkoepfer, who felt the government must have its say in these affairs for them to have any merit.

“Like what?” asked the doctor, looking up momentarily from his liturgies.

“Where the subject is dead before we even get there.” said the detective simply as Officer Tim-Bob nodded contemplatively. “Say,” he continued, “Can you good people show me to where the body was found?”

The detective and several of his entourage were shown to the very stall in the cow barn that had contained the body of Farmer Picket. Detective Schmidlkoepfer stepped into the pen and produced a tape measure from his pocket, and began a cryptic series of measurements, which, judging by his exclamations to himself, were extremely probative. He whispered something to Officer Tim-Bob and lead the party just away from the stall.

“And which the cow?” By this they understood to mean which cow had been in the stall with the farmer. The beast was indicated to him. “And who moved the creature after the other creature was discovered?”

“That was me.” said a terrified Jemmy. “I didn’t want her in there after all that.”

“Curious.” said the detective.

The detective gave a nod of significance to his hulk, who went over to the animal, as Detective Schmidlkoepfer gently placed his hand on Mrs. Picket’s elbow and led her on a slow stroll about the parking lot.

“You know they really are magnificent animals when you think on ‘em, ain’t they Mrs. Picket?”

“What, the cows?” she asked angrily.

“Yes, the cows.”

“I’d just as soon have ‘em all in my meat freezer. It’s wretched work.”

“Well, I’m not so sure. You know, the Hindus worship cows, so, you know, you have to think about that sometimes.”

“I most certainly do not think of that Detective, and I ain’t planning on it neither. You certainly can’t want to talk to me about cows right now, of all things!”

“Well that’s just it madame. At the moment cows are at the very bottom of it. That’s why Officer Tim-Bob is conducting a forensic-zoological interview with the animal right now.” he loved when he could smash two such words together. He was two such words smashed together.

“You can’t mean that that officer is interviewing the animal!”

“Just so.” Looking over at the officer, who was holding the cow’s head still by a bridle and whispering into its ear, and regarding it diligently, “He’s received the best training, methods that would turn your face white!”

Mrs. Picket was not in a civil mood that morning or any other, and the detective was trying her patience dearly.

“I’m sure cows are at the bottom of it detective. Just look at where he was found and what he looked like! But what’s the cow going to tell you?”

“I don’t how it works madame, but, he gleans somethin off ‘em, that I do know.”

“This cow, is not the murder!” Officer Tim-Bob said finely, approaching them on the conclusion of his forensic-zoological interview with Jenny.

“Now really officers, this is too much.” the exasperated Mrs. Picket growled.

“The methods are sound Mrs. Picket.” said Officer Tim-Bob.

“It’s true madame.” added the detective. “We have to do this thing by the book you know.”

Detective Schmidlkoepfer proceeded to question the farmer’s widow concerning the various details of the night, the residents of the farm, and the history of her relationship with the victim. Through this conversation the lawmen learned that the couple kept separate bedrooms, that the cow in questions was rancorous one, and that, according to Mrs. Picket’s description, their marriage had as many problems as anyone else’s, neither more nor, so God ordained it, less.

After dismissing Mrs. Picket to attend to her duties, which on a farm, not even the murder of one’s husband can adjourn, one of the attending officers approached Detective Schmidlkoepfer and his attendant.

“Say Schneider, what do ya got for us?” asked Schmidlkoepfer of the woman.

“Just finished talking with the various members of the household detective. Couple of things you might want to know. Couple were in separate bedrooms last night, so she says.”

“Yes, we heard something of that.”

“Not just that. Everyone in this house was sleeping on the second floor. Only Picket was sleeping downstairs.”

“On a night like that? You could eat the air with a spoon!”

“And moreoever, it is not the typical practice of the inmates of the home to sleep like that, even on a cool night.”

“Curious.”

“Also, that cow, the boy Jemmy says her name is Jenny, and she is the most docile cow in the county. She won’t even flick her tail at a fly.”

“Curiouser.”

“One of the hands said they were a regular pugilists, these Pickets. Even told me not to get the wrong idea, that she whomped him as good as he ever whomped her.”

“Now say, the lad you mentioned, Jenny…”

“Jemmy is the boy. Jenny is the cow.”

“Yes, he’s the one who found the body, correct?”

“Him indeed sir.”

“And it was part of his regular duties to be out in the cow barn at that hour?”

“No, sir, it is not. His supervisor, a George Faires, is assigned that duty and normally performs it.”

“Well, let’s have a talk with George Faires then.”

It did not take long for Detective Schmidlkoepfer and Officer Tim-Bob to form an instinctive dislike of Mr. Faires, and they packed him up in their vehicle, under arrest for the murder of Farmer Picket.
“I’ll tell you,” the detective said to his ward, “If we don’t hang both this rooster and the widow before the end of this, we are going to rue it!”

II

It was the normal course of business in this county for the detectives to work from the Sheriff’s Department offices in the county courthouse. Detective Schmidlkoepfer, as I believe we have shown in previous pages, was not interested in the normal course of business, and defied it whenever he could. He had asked that his office be moved to stand upon the fruits of his labors, and that he and his would work from offices at the county jail. He argued, “The smell of the men inspires me.”

So it was that his staff packed up their effects from the mahogany paneled rooms, with warmly lit sconces, shuffled out between the stately, towering pillars of the Romanesque courthouse, traveled down the street, and established themselves in the Brutalist concrete mound that was the county jail. Here their offices had no windows, and they were accounted the lucky ones for the sights not afforded them.

It was in this dingy, sterile, fluorescent, concrete bunker that Officer Tim-Bob brought his written report concerning information he had extracted from one George Faires, new resident of the county jail, to his direct superior, one Detective Schmidlkoepfer. We will not attempt to present that report in its precise language, for the fertile mind of Officer Tim-Bob, schooled in diverse schools of scientific criminal justice arts, would baffle any civilian who attempted to parse his report’s precise profundity, its depth of deduction, its elucidating link of cause and effect. No, but we shall do our best to recreate the essential points of that weighty report for our readers, which are as follows:

George Faires no longer denied any knowledge of the death of Farmer Picket, and was even eager to tell all he could. He now told the lawmen that he had been seduced by Mrs. Picket and coerced into helping her carry out the fell deed.

It was well known to anyone that knew them that the Picket’s possessed a poisoned marriage, replete with bickering and, (here we endeavor to reproduce some of the reports glittering original language) ‘whompings’, given and received by both parties in near equal measure. It was further well known, so Mr. Faires asserted, that he held a certain irresistible allure to the female sex, which the investigators could neither understand nor detect. The combination of this two sets of facts on one farm could lead to only one thing. One day, after another row, the buxom vixen, Mrs. Picket, burst into the chicken shed, weeping after administering a beating to her brute of a husband. Here she fell into the consoling arms of Mr. Faires and they shared a passionate kiss.

The illicit romance blossomed in the quiet recesses of the farm. Long and passionate love letters were exchanged. The pair allegedly slipped away to dark haunts to (and here we are indebted again the original language of the report, which could not have been dreamed of by a shaggy-haired civilian) “engage in criminal intercourse”. There were stories of them rustling the ears of corn when they stood tall, of George Faires slipping into the married woman’s bed in the deep of night, of sojourns to the cellar, where pickled cucumbers took nigh on minutes to discover, and most of all, their first and most cherished retreat, the chicken coop. George detailed how one of the lovers would slip to the shed and pull back on a loose board, and let it go with a resounding thwack, to announce to the other their desires. To hear George Faires tell it, this board thwacked out the hours like a regular church bell and could be heard from one end of the property to the other.

The position was untenable to the mind of Mrs. Picket, he said. She began searching high and low for methods of ridding herself of her miserable husband. She begged George to go to Chicago to acquire a poison that would shuffle the man off quietly. It must be here stated that the rural mind imagines all fell things thrive and are available in Chicago, and that is, in the main, a true assertion of the state of affairs. It must be also noted that any dairy farm in the Midwest is stocked with myriads of poisons that do as well as any artisinal shop in the city can provide, and in industrial quantities no less, but it is difficult to perceive the dangers of a position we so constantly occupy, and we must imagine they dwell far off, not close at hand. George refused this request for several reasons, not least of which, he did not own a car, and driving a tractor from the farm to Chicago would have taken a week. Besides, he did not know the way to the city, much less where its salubrious poison purveyors operated.

At the last, Mrs. Picket, tired of looking for far off solutions, took matters into her own hands, according to George. That fateful morning, she had woken both Mr. Picket and George, and walked them both out to the cow barn at the business end of a revolver. She then bashed Farmer Picket over the head with a loose board sitting close to hand. She had George dump the body in the stall with Jenny, and conducted the bovine over the body numerous times with much difficulty, to simulate a trampling.

After reading the report Detective Schmidlkoepfer smiled at his ward, “Remember what I told you when we left that accursed farm the first time, we should arrest and hang both of them. Bad law. Bad law.”

The buxom Mrs. Picket was taken into custody shortly after this report found Detective Schmidlkoepfer. Through the contrivances of the same, who because of his proximity, could arrange the jail as suited his whims, she was placed on the tier just above George Faires’, on the excuse that the women’s block was full.

III

One fine morning, we may call it fine, but for the residents of the county jail, any fine day is little more than a taunt by Providence, on this fine day for the free, Detective Schmidlkoepfer and his attendant, Officer Tim-Bob, had Mrs. Picket taken from her usual routines and held in a windowless, concrete room to await questioning. They had her wait some time, all by the book of course, before whistling their way down the hall from their offices, and joining their suspect in the interview room.

“Well I really can’t understand what you and your men are up to Detective Schmidlkoepfer.” she said boldly, as the lawmen seated themselves across the table. Mrs. Picket’s hands were handcuffed together, and she was further tethered to table, which was bolted to the floor. She was provided with a rubber pen and piece of paper, torn from the back of the detective’s legal pad.

“Everything is by the book you know.” he said simply, not looking at Mrs. Picket and instead perusing his notes leisurely. “We have procedures according to the science of criminology, which my associate here knows better than anybody.”

“Is it according to these sciences that you have brought an innocent women to rot in your vile jail?”

“Yes.”

“I should love to hear more.” she snarled.

“And you shall! That’s the very purport of our meeting with you this fine day.”

“Fine day, ha!”

“Nevertheless. Would it surprise to you to learn that George Faires has indicated to us, that you two had entered into an illicit romance, which blossomed into a criminal intercourse some time prior to Mr. Picket’s decease?”

“Would it surprise you to learn that George is ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag, and the excess falls out his mouth every day, into people’s ears?”

“No, it would not. But what is your view of your relationship with Mr. Faires?”

“He was hired, and he worked for us, and he didn’t do a very good job, or much of jobs at all.”

“Did you ever share a moment of physical intimacy with Mr. Faires?”

“Is that the story he’s spinning now? Well, I will tell you the little imp did get a kiss off of me, but it was stold.”

“Stold?”

“Yes, that is to say stolden. I was making apple pie…”

“Let the record show that is a moonshine, not a baked dish.” said Officer Tim-Bob.

“And what of it? Well, he tries talking real sweet and he got fresh and leaned over and kissed me while I was sitting at the table.”

“And what was your reaction?”
“I told him if he ever got any cute ideas in his head again I could remove his head for him and save some time.”

“That doesn’t seem to be George’s assessment of your relationship.”

“Never mind what he makes of it.” Mrs. Picket growled. “I’d assess him if I ever got that chance, that much I can tell you!”

“Make a note,” said Detective Schmidlkoepfer to his ward, “that she has made threatening statements concerning her co-defendant.”

“Co-defendant?”

“Yes mam. We didn’t bring you here for the view.”

“Just as well. It’s a sorry one.”

“What can you tell us regarding your husbands wounds?”

“Well you saw the cow trampled him down.”

“Yes, but his head, it’s a gash, not a mash. What do you make of that?”

“Oh that,” she laughed. “I gave him that.”

“You did?”

“Yes, the night before the wretch was choking me on the staircase. I grabbed the only thing at hand, a steel cribbage board, and gave a whack. I got away and locked myself in my room until he came to his senses.”

“So you struck him?”

“Yes, the night before. By dinner time he knew what he was about, and more importantly what I was about. I had one of the girls dress the wound and he was fine.” she said untroubled.

“Well Mrs. Picket, I believe that’s all we have for now. We’ll let you know if we have any other questions.”

“You know where to find me.” she growled. “And how long will I have to rot here?”

“Everything according to the sciences madame, you know that by now.”

“So when the science says the cow did it, I’m out of here?”

“Even so.”

After the newly bloomed widow returned to her cell Detective Schmidlkoepfer and Officer Tim-Bob looked at each significantly, the type of knowing look only lawmen can deliver unto one another.

“You know,” said Tim-Bob as he reviewed his bundle of paperwork, “There was nothing I saw, and nothing in the reports to suggest that head wound was treated in any way.”

“You don’t say so, my love?”
“I don’t say so.”

“Curious and curiouser, my man.”

Later that very day the swamper on the tier-a swamper being an inmate janitor-I say a swamper knocked softly on Detective Schmidlkoepfer’s door and upon admittance, revealed to the detective a bundle of letters, written that very day by Mrs. Picket, widow, intended for the hand of George Faires, seducer. Contained within these letters were the usual maudlin fare, along with testimonies of eternal love, desires for acts of physical intimacy inappropriate to our genteel story, and a pleading for George to retract all of his statements and confession, and to blame it all on Jemmy. It seems the widow imagined that she had prevailed upon the swamper’s sympathies, among other things perhaps, and believed she had a faithful courier in her employ. For a small negotiated canteen settlement, the swamper agreed to conduct all letters to the detective, prior to resealing and delivering to Mr. Faires. And not a peep from Mr. Faires the detective noted.

IV

The county had one judge. Whether it needed more was debated in some circles, but it could afford only one, and that is where the matter stayed. Judge Milfordina Daley had served on the bench for twenty years, and she had no doubts she would serve twenty more. She fit right in. Certain judges keep an ear to the ground of public opinion, they are elected after all, but the Honorable Milfordina Daley was public opinion in this county, and was above any such stooping. She managed a courtroom of short shrift and sharp elbows. She dispatched her duties with the perfunctory briskness of a woman who did not have to guard her flanks from anyone, and hadn’t looked over her shoulder in decades. Every criminal in the county passed through her judgment, and she spent so much time with the District Attorney and the handful of defense attorneys in the area that she had grown quite weary with them.

The District Attorney, Mr. Steven Geigel, had no assistants, and his secretary worked part time. He was the District Attorney’s office in near total. He was a harried and feeble looking man, with stooped shoulders and a balding pate. His suits were two sizes too big, and always in a tone of olive green. His only succor, and his chief antagonist, were both contained in the person of Judge Daley, who out of familiarity and professional expectations, held Mr. Geigel to a standard she did not hold defense attorneys to. This might have been the undoing of poor Mr. Geigel, but for the fact that Judge Daley was even more interested in obtaining convictions than he was, and after lambasting Mr. Geigel in front of his court, would find a quiet way to helping him obtain a conviction.

“You must study the sciences of criminality Mr. Geigel.” She would tell him. “It’s the only way for you to understand these minds that pass through here.”

“Yes, it’s all very clear when you describe it.” The feeble man would conceded.

“Then see to it man! I can’t have these guilty men walking free you know, and there’s only so much I can do from up there.” She pointed up to indicate the imaginary bench her mind was descrying in the ether.

“There’s guilty women too, your honor.”

“You have a twisted sense of humor Mr. Geigel, and I ask that you keep it to yourself.”

As the only judge in the county, Judge Daley, in due course, came to preside over the trial of the alluring Mrs. Mary Picket (widow), and Mr. Geigel, as a matter of course, came to prosecute the matter. Of the handful of defense attorneys who worked the county, there were two who stood out from the rest, and generally took every high-profile criminal case whose nativity was contained within the jurisdiction, Trevor and Travis Killgore, twins. They were barrel chested, purple-faced, and tall. They were also bald, but not in the way that Mr. Geigel was, they shaved their heads to the nub. They were always reading papers and growing angry, and then losing those papers and getting angry about that. Owing to their resemblance, and Judge Daley’s exactitude in the courtroom, they were frequently required to submit proof of their identities to the bailiff. The judge did always want to know who she was speaking with.

The good Doctor, who we have not heard from since his brave storming of the murder scene, received an invitation in the mail from Detective Schmidlkoepfer to attend the trial, for he had reserved a seat just for him, so that he could try his preternatural criminalogical intuitions. The good Doctor agreed to attend under some dread of his proposed company, but, like all good doctors, he secretly loved juicy gossip, and where better to get it than straight from the cow’s teat? So it was that he entered the courtroom, and was motioned over to sit between Detective Schdmidlkoepfer and his faithful Officer Tim-Bob.

“We could have used you the other night!” the detective said excitedly. “We had a guy holding himself hostage. Imagine that! Threaten him as we could, we couldn’t get the brute to unhand himself. We were plum out of ideas and we said, remember Tim-Bob, we said, ‘I bet the good Doctor would know what to say to this fiend.’ Do you remember us saying that?”

Officer Tim-Bob did nod gravely.

“Well, what happened?” the doctor asked.

“Oh,” the detective darkened, “He got shot. I’ll give you a little tip though, a little secret of the trade, they all get shot, one way or another.”

“Then why in God’s name did you want me there?”

“Well you’re a doctor aren’t you?” scoffed Detective Schmidlkoepfer.

“But yes, there is much I wish to sound you on Doctor.” the detective continued. “It is my intuition, and it’s never been wrong before, old gumshoe that I am, I say, it is my intuition that you are a special one, and it would be very literary of me to have a doctor in my company, wouldn’t you agree?”
The doctor didn’t agree at all, but was saved from responding by the entry of The Honorable Milfordina Daley and the hushing of the courtroom.

“Say,” the detective whispered, “Make note of anything of interest. We’ll compare at the end. And once in a while I will lean over and whisper something to you. Just nod gravely. Maybe take out a medical notepad and write something down so they know you’re a doctor.”

“What is a medical notepad?” the doctor whispered back, reddening in the face at his current social predicament.

“You don’t have special notepads?” Schmidlkoepfer asked incredulously.
“No. I write on the same things as you.”

“Well...do you have one of those metal things on a headband that doctor’s wear?”

“A head mirror? No. We don’t use those anymore.”

The detective looked disappointed, the medical field had precipitously tumbled from its lofty perches in his imagination, “Do you have…”

The Honorable Milfordina Daley cleared her throat with a clang that resounded in the courtroom. “Detective Schmidlkoepfer, do we have to go through the rules again?”

“No, your Honor.” and he fell silent, sat upright, and looked forward, his lips sealed.

Saved for a short time from his persecutor, the doctor did begin noting all that he took in. He noticed the widow standing before the judge, veiled in black, her face blank as any stone. He listened as the defense made their case. It was Travis Killgore who spoke first, as Judge Daley did stop him, “Now which one are you again?” and he produced such documentation attesting to the fact that he was Travis and his brother Trevor was sat at the table with the defendant currently, that the court did allow him to continue in its benevolence. Travis argued not only was the widow innocent, and now hard tried by the wretched system-it was here he lost his temper and had to be spelled by Trevor, who produced suitable documentation to the court of his identity, and who was more even tempered at the moment, as he had not read the same article in the paper that morning. Trevor continued the argument that in fact George Faires was responsible for the murder, and it was to erase debts he had to the late Farmer Picket, and that all these tales of affairs with the widow they were to hear were a lie and an outrage upon a desolated woman, invented entirely by a deranged detective and his sottish underlings. All during this time the detective did, to the infinite embarrassment of the doctor, lean over and whisper syllables of glossolalia, which the doctor did gravely nod to, so mortified was he.

Eventually the swamper was called to testify, and boy did he! The dear swamper testified that George Faires had told him that he had framed the widow Picket, that he was in dire debt to Farmer Picket, and that he had taken such steps as to frame the poor woman.

Judge Daley heard this testimony and looked hard at Mr. Geigel, willing him to know to her mind. To no avail. She said sternly, “Mr. Geigel?” and raised her eyebrows. “Anything? Any?...Any Ob...Any?”

“Oh um...yes, um certainly, um that’s an objection your Honor, from me.”

“On what grounds?”

“I should think it’s hearsay, but I’m a bit...right now…”

“It would be hearsay. Overruled. Get on your toes Mr. Geigel.”

Detective Schmidlkoepfer had started at the news.

“The Mede has turned on us!” he said, leaning over the doctor’s back to talk into Officer Tim-Bob’s ear. “Where’s he come up with this?” He began writing in a menacing hand all manner of ominous notes on his regular notepad.

The next day, the poor assistant to the barn-hand, Jemmy was called, and came shaking to the stand. He had his own wrench to throw into the case. Through much difficulty for the defense twins, who each reestablished his identity in due course with the court, and who took turns as each reached exasperation with Jemmy-for they had each read the papers that morning-they drew from poor Jemmy that Mrs. Picket had in fact struck Farmer Picket the night before, and had seen to his treatment then too. He saw no way his mistress could have murdered the man, who was a hard man after all, and had probably provoked the cows to it anyway. He did admit to much of the tales of mutual abuse the couple had heaped upon one another, as the widow scowled at him hard.

The widow Picket sat motionless and stoned faced throughout the proceedings, her visage obscured in a veil of black mourning. For years people would speak in solemn tones of the veiled woman in black, receiving the verdict of “guilty” without stirring, without so much as a single lonely tear on her hard baked cheek. The people did wonder over all of this.

The trial of George Faires began some days thereafter, with a different air, more befitting of a carnival, or the festivals that accompanied the old trials they used to have in fashionable Paris. The detective, his ward, and his doctor were again in attendance. Folks were not sure of the widow during her trial. They were sure about George Faires. They were certain he was guilty, if for no other fact than that no one liked him. Well, the law can be given wings after all.

It seemed the only question that was to be answered at trial concerned whether the accused was a coward and an accessory to murder, or if he was a manipulative, homicidal liar.

“In my professional opinion,” Detective Schmidlkoepfer was saying to the good Doctor. “One does not preclude the other. Fine bedfellows, those!”

“So you’re sure of his guilt?” asked the doctor.

“My good man, in my line of work, one cannot be sure of anything! It’s a professional liability. You must be alive to a world of possibilities, man! You must wake up to meet the sun, my guy! You must be sensible to the teeming chaos, pulsing at the center of creation, good chum!” The detective turned away darkly, “Thou must stare deeply into the abyss, and that abyss doctor,” he said leering crazily into his face, “that abyss in turn stares back into thee!”

The good Doctor and Officer Tim-Bob eyed each other uneasily while the detective thusly crashed out. Luckily for them, Judge Daley called the court to order, and promptly and peremptorily shushed Detective Schmidlkoepfer specifically, who sat again as a chastened child. In addition to Judge Daley, there was again Mr. Geigel and the Killgore twins, who we have all met before, and who all still labored under the previously described ailments.

The trial hardly itself hardly had much narrative interest. Mr. Geigel made a dog’s breakfast of his case, and Judge Daley both chastised him and propped him up when he began to droop. The Killgore twins rotated their speaking assignments between their varied phlegmatic bouts, for the papers were very full that week, and were continuously required to confirm their identities to the court, to prevent any shenanigans. Detective Schmidlkoepfer did still require the tribute of a studied nod from the good doctor from time to time. The doctor had been outfitted with a head mirror that Officer Tim-Bob had reclaimed from the evidence room.

“Don’t worry about it. It won’t be missed.” said Detective Schmidlkoepfer. “We’re never gonna solve that one!”

Judge Daley did take issue to the headgear being worn in her court, but the detective was able to conquer her protests, and ignore the feeble pleadings of the doctor, and explained to the entire court room that this was a medical man with whom he consulted, and his position required him to retain his equipment, and he prayed the court will take no umbrage with this grim professional duty. The doctor was duly awarded the privilege of wearing the device on his head, in the court’s nigh on unending benevolence.

“Guilty!” the hammer banged in the end, and George Faires was shuffled off to await sentencing. Judge Daley took especial pains to lecture Mr. Faires on the lascivious details of his supposed affair with the widow. She may have forgotten to mention the murder entirely during the course of her rather discursive remarks upon the subject.

“You remind me of Mr. Geigel here.” she said flicking her head in the direction of the district attorney. “You need to get your head on straight, but I’m not sure you will ever be able to. I’ll see you again when I’ve determined how to best cook your goose, you loathsome Lothario. Heave this man amongst his like!” A circuit court judge can be inspired to such language, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

“Well, that’s everything, settled and pretty, just like we dreamed, eh boys!” Detective Schmidlkoepfer beamed to the doctor and Officer Tim-Bob. “Two fiends in the pen, under my watchful eye no less! Oh, to smell the jail anew!”

“Um, detective,” said the doctor, who had taken off his head mirror and was examining the band. “I assume you folks tested this dried blood on the band of the head mirror?”

“By God doctor!” the detective exclaimed, snatching the device and feverishly examining it himself. “You’ve blown this case wide open! I though it would haunt me right down through my grave into the bottomless chasm of eternity! You sir,” he said taking the doctor’s hand in reverence, “You sir, are destined to be a special one, and we have need of the likes of you!”

V

It would serve as a neat and pretty ending if we reached the close of our tale at this juncture, but it was not be. Even God’s judgment can be appealed, and circuit court judges are subject to the same indignities. The widow appealed her verdict was granted a retrial. This matter was decided by a room of people in the capital with prodigious educations, who had no foibles, and so had risen to the loftiest perches of society, and suffered none of its dubious vices. These people have no interest for us, so we will ignore them and their personal habits in their entirety. The earth is full enough, we need not badger heaven.

This retrial was notable for two particular witness. The first was an old convict by the name of Donkey Knees Pritchard. After informing the court that he had been paid for his testimony, which occasioned much whispering and nodding between the detective and the doctor, who were again in attendance, he informed the court that he had previously been embroiled in an affair with the widow Picket, and that not only had she declared her love for him, but had she had asked him to rid her of her husband in no uncertain terms.

Another creature was conspicuous for his absence, Jemmy. He could not be compelled to testify by poor Mr. Giegel in this trial, for he had been sealed in a marriage compact with the widow Picket. Through what wiles and guiles this came to be, our imaginations must provide. We can make no more of it than you.

The widow was ultimately acquitted, in no small part owing to Jemmy’s missing testimony, and it became Detective Schmidlkoepfer’s cruel duty to open the doors of the jail, and allow the woman to walk into the free air again.

“The air has taken on a fetid aspect.” he said to his ward after she had left. “For me, this jail will always be missing something.”

The widow was never retried. Tales were spread about the countryside that her and her young husband were residing in Minnesota. The widow breasts now drooped and she was described as having become precipitously ugly and desperately poor, farming little more than dirt...so we always imagine those we hate have tumbled to ruin while our eyes were elsewhere, and that this is inevitable and natural, among other inhuman notions.

George Faires, who been proven either a liar or a coward, and for some both, remained in prison for another twelve years. His application for pardon was approved after those long, romanceless years, which had crimped his former style sorely, when it didn’t require a complete revolution in considerations. The board noted his youth at the time of the crime, and believed he had been “unwittingly enticed into the affair”.

VI

After these long years had passed, Detective Schmidlkoepfer sat reflecting on the entire train of events in his office in the county jail.

“Consider that a man was murdered and there were two suspects.” he would say to whoever would listen, “One was convicted as principal in the murder, and was shortly thereafter acquitted. Consider that her accomplice was convicted of assisting in the deed, and sat in prison for 12 years, and was pardoned for being an “unwitting accomplice” to a person who had been acquitted of any crime. Consider that this same person took a young and feeble minded man as a husband, preventing him from testifying in her second trial, much as she had taken in a young feeble minded man as a lover to accomplish the fell deed in the first place. Consider all this and you tell me of the law.”

“I still say we should have hung both of them. Who would stop us? Well, another one to file under good police work undone by bad law.”

So Detective Schmidlkoepfer would reason to himself about the case, before his mind would come to rest on the good doctor.

“And that doctor must have had something to do with it all along. Everything he touched in that investigation turned to rubbish in our hands. The Mede! And we found no match to the blood he found on the headband, probably planted it himself! Oh, that doctor hoodwinked me, but he was the first and the last!”