Patient 434

It was after midnight on December 25th and that meant it was either really early or really late. The sky was overcast and after a long battle with itself began to give its wet, silvery flakes to the ground. The flakes fell together and they fell apart, but they always fell in silence.

There was no moon to behold, nor to cast shadows on that early Christmas morning. Of the horror was to be discovered in the light that morning many likely would have preferred to have remained in the dark.

Bart Williams had been elected sheriff of Heartsburg in early 1995. In all his time as sheriff the worst he had really seen were a few decapitations courtesy of underage drinking. These such accidents almost always occurred at the hairpin corner just outside of town on Rural Route 3. Such a corner may be called a “dead mans curve” or some other cutesy name like that somewhere else, but here most of the townspeople here are apt to refer to it by the name of the last poor fool to be called home there. Since 1993, its been known as “Morris’ corner.”

In late September 1993, just before the leaves turned and fluttered to Earth and just after a barn burner 21-20 victory against Haynerville in the annual “pigskin classic,” young Mr. Morris; Tom to some, Tommy to all, failed to negotiate the aforementioned corner and at a high rate of speed. This failure was in no doubt courtesy of a little oral persuasion of the 4 foot 8 blonde cheerleader type.

Now, if you’re like most folks and think it’s bad to come across one headless teenager, it’s even worse to find two. It’s needless to say there were two funerals that week in Heartsburg with two separate caskets. Between you and me, I didn’t think two caskets were necessary. You could have easily fit what was left of them into less than one. Oh well, closure and all that.

So far as anyone knows, Bart Williams wasn’t at the old Abernathy farm early on the morning of the 25th of December, but even if he had been, the grounds would still have been reticent to give up any secrets. Some things just die hard. Sorry. Poor analogy.

Something very bad and very ugly had occurred there and it hadn’t been the first time. The farm was long abandoned and was well known for supposedly being haunted. It was also known as a place the troublemaking kids liked to congregate at. This latest crime at the farm was a mystery, like most crimes tend to be, and it was quickly becoming a real irritating head scratcher, especially for Bart Williams.

As I said, this wasn’t the first time the farm was stage to a tragedy. We don’t refer to it as Abernathy farm for no reason. The terrible events that occurred at the farm had one thing in common. Whoever carried out these murders was very bad and very ugly.

The town of Heartsburg was small. Its population was perhaps 3,000, give or take and that was on a day when the wind didn’t blow. A generous grant from the state recently allowed them to build a new high school, a replacement for the original built in 1924 that was literally falling apart. In the middle of town was a small building that housed the volunteer fire department. A few blocks down from the fire department, was small Citgo station. The town had two stoplights, but all one did was constantly flash. This wasn’t intentional.

The cemetery was located conveniently next door to the First Baptist Church, the largest building in town. Across the street from that was the Union Church of Nazarene. The cemetery’s population was twice the population of the town and unfortunately, never outgrew new residents. The cemetery gates were closer than the county limit line and served as a constant reminder that for all you may or may not do, this is where it will end.

The town budget allowed for just the bare minimum and that applied to every public office, including the sheriff’s department. The Heartsburg town budget allowed for one police car, one sheriff, and one deputy. An old running joke around town was that Bill’s old fashioned wheel gun was never loaded- he couldn’t afford the bullets. It was a poor attempt at humor and put to bed in a hurry after that bitter Christmas morning. By the end of that week the residents of Heartsburg not only hoped it was a joke, but found themselves loading their own guns, with very real and very serious bullets. It was at this time they also began for the first time to look at one another with suspicion. Few in town found themselves sleeping with both eyes closed, that is, if they were lucky to find sleep at all. Fear and nervousness were coming to a head in Heartsburg.

There was a cold blooded murderer living amongst them.

There were very few places, very few towns left, I think, that still had folks doing old fashioned things like hand deliver fresh milk, eggs and cream, but Fred Johnson did just that twice a week on Monday and Friday.

Fred Howard Johnson, no relation to the hotel magnate, was a born and bred native of Heartsburg. When the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor, like many other patriotic young men, he signed his life away and enlisted in the Marines. Before Fred’s tenure of service for Uncle Sam began, Fred had never been more than 20 miles outside of Heartsburg in any direction.

Fred was of the old guard. He had no truck for gossip and abhorred the younger generation he grew older around.

“Bunch of wise ass, lazy motherfuckers. Their parents are wise ass, lazy motherfuckers too.” “You can quote me on that” he once said. Public opinion was not high of Fred and he “don’t give any fuck about them or that neither.” He paid none of it, or any of them any attention. He was fond of saying “ask me no questions and you won’t get no lies.”

The Brown family was by all accounts your typical Midwestern unit. They were soild middle class and kept mostly to themselves. The exceptions to this were the Saturday morning farmers market and Sunday morning at the Union Church of Nazarene. Sunday was their only real downtime of the week. The last day of the week usually saw them just as busy as the first. Saturday morning they always set up their tent in the same spot and peddled their crop of the week they could spare. Every little bit helped out and it gave the ‘youngins something to do. It was hard work, but it kept them out of trouble. Serious trouble anyway.

The Brown family had been set up at the old Abernathy farm for going on about a year. Maybe a year and a half. It wasn’t much when it was new, so it having sat empty since the… for the twenty years, well. It was a little worse for wear let’s put it that way. The current owners, an elderly couple by the name of Maxwell, took pity on the family and let it to them pretty cheap. It was four semi solid walls and a roof without too many holes, so as far as the Browns were concerned it was good enough.

There was five of ‘em all told and I heard it through the grapevine it was soon to be six. Yeah, I guess ‘ol ‘lizabeth, that was the misuses name, Elizabeth June, was damn nearly ready to pop at the seams. I never did catch wind of if it was to be a girl or a boy. I guess it doesn’t much matter now anyway. Still, every now and then and especially at my age, you can’t help but sit around and think about shit.

Anyway, as I was saying, Heartsburg was not a big town. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Its population of about 3,000 meant that to the state of Vermont, it was an afterthought. The town saw very little funding, if anything, and they damn sure didn’t have the budget for a full blown mass murder investigation.

The most recent edition to the Heartsburg sheriffs department was a young deputy named Bryan Stratford. Brian was a recent graduate of Heartsburg High, class of 2016. This was also the year the Boswell twins graduated. That year was a special year for the school as it marked the largest graduating class in its history. Seventy three young men and women walked the stage that day to conclude one chapter of their lives and embark on another, or so I hoped.

Turns out, of the seventy three young men and women that graduated that day, most took up jobs in and around Heartsburg. Only one I am aware of showed any interest in college and that was Nancy Boswell.

Julie and Nancy Boswell were attached at the hip, or at least they used to be. They were born at the same time and were literally fused at the hip. A risky surgery when they were eleven finally saw them become the individuals they both so strongly wanted to become. The union was not all for naught though, as Julie and Nancy became the very best of friends.