Carnival of the True Crime Blogs: Pulp Fiction Edition

On Tuesday morning I crawled out of bed half the creature I was when I’d crawled into it, and smelling even worse. I knew it would be a hellish day, because they all were hellish days, and there was no reason to think otherwise. That was just the way I liked it.

I hosed myself off and settled in for a nice breakfast gin, followed by my morning glory… marmalade on toast, a cup of coffee, and… wouldn’t you think it… one more breakfast gin.

When I got to my office Baby Doll – my Girl Friday who always thinks it’s Monday – gave me a stack of messages. People I was supposed to call. People that needed my help. People that were desperate. Some, even in worse shape than me… if you can imagine what kind of low-life scum that would be.

I didn’t care much for most of them. There was only one message I was interested in. Only one that mattered. Only one that would make a difference.

It was from Trench.

I knew it by the way Baby Doll had scribbled the name, sort of with a shaky hand, as if just marking it down had chilled her to the bone.

I opened my desk drawer and took out “Ole Blue”. I’d like to tell you it was a bottle of prune juice but you know damn well it was Bombay Sapphire and I was just getting started.

I read the message. Trench had the goods.

It seems that dirty rat Jack Thompson was at it again, sticking his honker where it didn’t belong. A Florida lawyer with some pretty rickety ideas of how people should live, he’s kind of goon who would shake you down for a nickel. Yeah, you know the type.

Anyway, Trench had a plan and I had to meet him. I was just about to get my coat when the door swung open and in walked a hurricane.

She was sleek, and sexy in a sinister way. Legs like silk that went on for days, striking red hair, and curves a BMW couldn’t handle.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” I said, “but I’m late for an appointment. See my secretary and she’ll set you up for a meeting.”

“Oh, I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say, Mr. Harding. That is, if you’re a dangerous man.”

About as dangerous as a drunken mouse, I thought, but didn’t let my intoxicated eyes give up the goods.

“Depends on what I’m driving,” I said.

“Maybe then we should go for a ride,” she said.

“I’ve got the keys in my pocket, if only I could remember where I was parked, and who my passenger was.”

“My name is LiLO, Mr. Harding, and I have something that I believe will interest you very much.”

She wasn’t kidding.

It seems Jack Thompson wasn’t the only clown in the judicial circuit. A Judge by the name of Daniel Howsare was muddying up the system. This mutt couldn’t even get his own job straight, and was on the verge of letting a sick criminal out on the street.

It’s the kind of work I go for, and she knew it. A fellow in my business can take a lot of abuse, but one thing I can’t handle is a gimp who lays a hand on his spouse or his kid. Those kinds of dirtbags need a special touch. One that puts them down, permanent.

Unfortunately, these cases were hard to shake. They got into your blood and they stayed there for good. Like this one case that Trish brought me.

Trish is a fellow P.I. who looks for the Missing, and the Murdered. She digs up some scary facts and sometimes they’re not so pretty. Like this one case of a Runaway Girl who ended up a Jane Doe. Stories like that shake your soul.

(Remembering Trish, I made a mental note to read the latest True Crime Magazine, which included an interview with her!)

“Have a seat Ms. LiLO," I said, "and tell me all about it.”

She sat down and I worked harder at not staring at her legs than I did to get through the police academy. I never did graduate the police academy… and was failing here too.

As luck would have it, I was saved by the bell. The phone rang.

An operation I did some field work for back in the 90’s was looking for some leads. True Crime UK was hot on the trail of the Minstead Rapist, and hoped I could shine some light. I’d spent some years in London, back when I was half-sober, and they were good years. True Crime UK was a class-op, always keeping tabs on England’s biggest wankers, and grabbing them by the bollocks.

That was the time I met Ole Blue, and haven’t had clear blood ever since.

I got off the phone but before LiLO’s precious lips could part, Baby Doll was in the room.

She always has the worst timing.

Or the best… depending on how you look at things.

“Mr. Harding, there’s a Mr. Steve Janke here to see you. He says he’s a fellow Canadian.”

Like that would make a difference. When there’s a toss and it’s between a Canadian and a redhead… the redhead wins every time.

But this guy had something I needed to know. It was a tip, see, about my shrink.

Yes, I see a shrink. You would too if you looked in the same mirror at the same time with the same eyes as mine.

Anyway, it was time to change docs, it seemed, because Mr. Janke got me wise to good ole Doctor Gregory Nye… a doctor with a black history. One that involved the assault of a patient.

As if my blood wasn’t at a boiling point.

I thanked Mr. Janke and tried to get back to business. I hoped that Ms. LiLO would forgive my interruptions, and not hightail it out at her first chance.

“Mr. Harding,” she said, “Do you always drive this fast?”

“Only when I have somewhere worth getting to.”

“Well slow down and enjoy the scenery. I’d hate you to miss the best part.”

“My foot is on the brake—

That’s when the envelope slid under the door. I sighed heavily and grabbed it and ripped it open. “This better be somebody’s death certificate” I said.

It wasn’t. It was from Ima.

Ima was a bright eyed kitten I knew back in the 40’s. She had sweet lips and jazz in her hips. She was a dame you never looked away from, out of fear of turning to stone.

Anyway, she had worked this kicker called the Chloe Davis Case, involving potential matricide. It was a murder with a lot of mystery, and she was onto something. Her story was pretty gripping, I tell you. It left me wanting more.

Ms. LiLO was losing patience, and I was losing steam. I needed another drink. I poured one for me and one for her and another for me. Then my computer dinged and a message popped up. Apparently I had “TWO MESSAGES”.

Life was easier in the 40’s… before the damned internet.

The first message was from Home. Home Sweet Home. Home is where the heart is. Home is where hell is. Home is not always so safe, and this message was proof. It told me about the Crash that happens when domestic bliss runs sour.

The second message was from L’Undone. It was a tale of high-weirdness, big love, cyber-crime and the mutual insane obsession of two people that never even met. Just the kind of story I could sink into.

But now was not the time.

I looked up to Ms. LiLO and all I saw was the shadow of where she used to be. On the desk was a note, clearly scribbled by her hand…

“It seems you’re not right for the job after all, Mr. Harding. You may be a fast driver… but you take too many U-turns… and indulge far too heavily in…

True Crime.

I sat back in my chair and poured another drink.