Late yesterday afternoon, I was working in my yard. Oddly enough, digging holes to plant some things I've had way too long. Odd because the events that followed involved shovels. Somehow, the knockout rose bush I planted got broken off at the base, so I was replacing it with a lilac I got for a song at Lowe's. There's just a big field between my house and the church next door. There's not much activity at the church, aside from Sundays and Wednesday nights. Since the parking lot is usually empty, I tend to notice when there are cars there. Sometimes, there'll be two police cars parked side by side with passengers' sides together. I suppose so the cops can
Yesterday, though, I noticed a black pickup truck pull into the parking lot and head toward the gym. No big deal. Until they pulled onto the grass and parked behind the gym. I thought it was odd, but went on about my business. I wasn't too worried. Until I looked up to see two young men (sans shirts) carrying a shovel to the back corner of the field - directly behind my backyard. Strange.
So I decided to investigate. By sending The Daddler out to investigate. It might sound wrong that I sent my 81 year old father into the corner of a field to interrogate two shirtless men with shovels. But I wouldn't have thought to ask him if he hadn't spent his whole career as an MP in the Air Force, and then in civil service as a detective. I thought he'd jump at the chance to do a little investigation, for old times' sake. I told him he could just nonchalantly walk back there with Sally, say a friendly hello, and report back to me.
He just scowled and told me to do it myself. Normally, I would've, but something didn't feel right, and I figured I needed to avoid getting killed. If that happened, who would take care of The D? See, it was really quite selfless of me to send him into harm's way. So I decided to just go back to my gardening, and hope that's what those nice young men were doing, too. I'm sure they were planning to start a community garden (those are trendy now,) and they had the shovels to take soil samples so they'd know how to amend the soil before they started planting.
I got absorbed in what I was doing, and forgot about the strange goings-on. Then, lo and behold, here comes The Daddler back from the field. I hadn't even noticed that he'd gone. He calmly reported to me that the guys were there to bury a dog. I asked him if he'd seen the dog. No. I continued to give him the third degree, but all I got out of him was the dead dog theory. In the meantime, two other shirtless guys showed up. I suppose they'd parked on the other side of the church, because they walked into the field from behind the gym. So I didn't see their car. Finally, they all left.
So I cajoled The Man of the House into showing me where the alleged dog was allegedly buried. He calmy walked me to the back of the gym, and calmly pointed at the freshly dug shallow grave. Even though I figured the suspects' shovel was for something, I couldn't believe my eyes.
So I did what any sane person would do. I called the non-emergency police number. After a lengthy wait, some schmo finally came on the line. Told me to call my precinct. I asked him what the number was, and he seemed surprised that I didn't know. Do I need to say I was surprised he didn't know? I had given him my address, after all. So I asked him for the number of the East Precinct. The one on Mt. Moriah. That wasn't the right one. They said to call Appling Road. Actually, we're in the Tillman precinct. They didn't know that. I just happened to remember from the neighborhood watch meeting.
So, finally, a cop shows up. A big fat-ass. He left his engine running - I'm sure so the car would stay cool. I got the impression that 1) he didn't plan to stay long, and 2) he didn't care about the earth and toxic emissions or our city's dire financial straits, and 3) that he was a lazy fat-ass and was mad that he had to walk all the way across the field.
When we showed him the ominous pile of dirt, he started tromping around it. I told him I thought we should stay away from the crime scene so we didn't taint the evidence before the CSI got there. No response. I said, "You are going to call the crime scene investigators, aren't you?" No answer. He was thinking. About the fact that he was missing out on the coffee klatch.
When it became clear he wasn't going to do shit about things, I got upset. At that point, he waddled back to his squad car with the frosty windows. Asked me for ID. What? That's right. ID. I should've told him that he was in my driveway and had my name and address and phone number. And to fuck himself. But I didn't. I got my driver's license and gave it to him. He studied it carefully, and finally concluded that I was who I said I was. He called HQ to be sure I didn't have any outstanding warrants. He was disappointed that I wasn't a squatter who called myself a soveriegn citizen - that's the high profile crime these days. I'm sure he'd rather investigate a fifty-something year old woman with her elderly father in a nice safe neighborhood in east Memphis, than traipse around trying to find four, large, shirtless men with shovels, who were no doubt operating a pit-bull fighting ring. I think he had a little cynophobia, judging from the fear in his eyes when he saw Sally, our six month old, retriever mix puppy. So who can blame him for turning a blind eye?
Oh, forgot to mention that when I realized he was going to do abso-fuckin-lutely nothing about the grave, I asked him how he could be sure it wasn't a baby. I think the hole was too big for an adult person, unless they'd been dismembered. Or they could've been a little person (never say midget - they hate that.)
There's lots more to the story, but I don't have time to finish now. Check back later and I'll tell you how I took matters (and my shovel) into my own hands and found the poor victim of this gruesome crime. Who, by the way, is still rotting where I found him, thanks to the apathy, laziness and ineptness of that fat-ass excuse for a policeman.