A week later sheriff’s detective Mills came walking through the door of the bakery. “Are you two ladies Jan Mixer and Jean Pelter?”
“I’m Jean and this is Jan,” Jean answered.
“I’m looking for any leads I can find concerning a missing health inspector Chris Handle. He was last seen the morning of the 23rd when he was supposed to be here making an inspection. Did he show up here?”
“Yes,” Jean replied; “he was here and left an hour later.”
“Did he mention where he was going next?”
“No, we didn’t speak much at all,” Jean answered.
“Ok I’m going across the street to talk to your butchers for a moment and I’ll be on my way.” Mills walked across the road and went in the slaughterhouse. “Either of you two remember seeing mister Handle, the health inspector here on the 23rd?”
The butchers looked at each other and Juan answered: “he was here I think that day, but we were sent to lunch early and then when we got back we were sent home because of the health violation he gave the ladies.”
“What was the violation for?” Mills asked.
“I don’t know,” Juan replied.
“Thanks,” Mills said as he walked out the door. He walked back across the road and into the bakery shop. “Ladies what was the citation for that Mister Handle gave you?”
Both Jan and Jean looked at each other, both getting more pallid by the second.
“It was for a rotten smell he thought he detected, but he never found anything,” I answered.
“And who might you be?” Mills asked.
“Bill,” I answered.
“Do you work here?”
“Yes I do; I’m a handyman here.”
“Did you speak with Mister Handle on the 23rd?”
“Yes, I escorted him around the slaughterhouse.”
“Did he say anything to you about his plans after he left here?”
“No, he did not,” I answered.
“We found his car over on highway 116 about six miles from here. He was scheduled to go back to town, but that was out of his way. Any idea where he was going?” Mills asked.
“No idea at all,” I replied.
“Do you have that citation ladies?”
Jean swallowed and answered: “yes somewhere but I’ll have to look for it.”
“You do that,” Mills suggested. “Thanks for the information and I’ll be back.” He got into his car and sat there writing some notes.
“What are we going to do,” Jean asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “This is still my first murder.” That night I went home and started poking around the Internet, looking for something, anything I could find about anarchists and their doings or soldier of fortune sites. I found a site called http://www.i.do.anything.for.money.com. It had a cookbook list of services performed and at the bottom it gave a phone number to call for things not on the list. I called the number and arranged for a meeting. I didn’t know if this was a legitimate illegitimate person I was dealing with or an undercover cop. I went for the meeting the next day and saw this stranger with a Boston baseball hat at coffee shop in Saint Louis. Something didn’t seem right about him, probably because I wasn’t used to picking out scumbags from undercover cops, so we talked in generalizations about how one would exit a bad situation and never be seen again. He had he said a complete menu of how and where to go for a fee, dependant on where a person wanted to disappear to. He then asked me where I wanted to go. I hesitated, and then decided I didn’t like this situation and just told him I would get back with him in a few days. He pressed for a phone number or a place he could get a hold of me, but I refused any more information and left. I felt sure he was a cop or at least a possible blackmailer. It was a long trip back to home, but it gave me time to think about where we were and what we needed to do to cure the situation.
I got a call from an old friend that night. He asked me what I had done. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Well some cop named Mills was asking me about you today,” he answered.
“What was he asking?”
“Well just what did I know about you and if you had ever been in trouble, things like that.”
“It’s probably nothing,” I said. “Don’t really have any idea why some cop would be asking about me.” We finished our conversation and I called Jean. “Jean, we need to talk, but not on the phone,” I urged.
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
“I’m Jean and this is Jan,” Jean answered.
“I’m looking for any leads I can find concerning a missing health inspector Chris Handle. He was last seen the morning of the 23rd when he was supposed to be here making an inspection. Did he show up here?”
“Yes,” Jean replied; “he was here and left an hour later.”
“Did he mention where he was going next?”
“No, we didn’t speak much at all,” Jean answered.
“Ok I’m going across the street to talk to your butchers for a moment and I’ll be on my way.” Mills walked across the road and went in the slaughterhouse. “Either of you two remember seeing mister Handle, the health inspector here on the 23rd?”
The butchers looked at each other and Juan answered: “he was here I think that day, but we were sent to lunch early and then when we got back we were sent home because of the health violation he gave the ladies.”
“What was the violation for?” Mills asked.
“I don’t know,” Juan replied.
“Thanks,” Mills said as he walked out the door. He walked back across the road and into the bakery shop. “Ladies what was the citation for that Mister Handle gave you?”
Both Jan and Jean looked at each other, both getting more pallid by the second.
“It was for a rotten smell he thought he detected, but he never found anything,” I answered.
“And who might you be?” Mills asked.
“Bill,” I answered.
“Do you work here?”
“Yes I do; I’m a handyman here.”
“Did you speak with Mister Handle on the 23rd?”
“Yes, I escorted him around the slaughterhouse.”
“Did he say anything to you about his plans after he left here?”
“No, he did not,” I answered.
“We found his car over on highway 116 about six miles from here. He was scheduled to go back to town, but that was out of his way. Any idea where he was going?” Mills asked.
“No idea at all,” I replied.
“Do you have that citation ladies?”
Jean swallowed and answered: “yes somewhere but I’ll have to look for it.”
“You do that,” Mills suggested. “Thanks for the information and I’ll be back.” He got into his car and sat there writing some notes.
“What are we going to do,” Jean asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “This is still my first murder.” That night I went home and started poking around the Internet, looking for something, anything I could find about anarchists and their doings or soldier of fortune sites. I found a site called http://www.i.do.anything.for.money.com. It had a cookbook list of services performed and at the bottom it gave a phone number to call for things not on the list. I called the number and arranged for a meeting. I didn’t know if this was a legitimate illegitimate person I was dealing with or an undercover cop. I went for the meeting the next day and saw this stranger with a Boston baseball hat at coffee shop in Saint Louis. Something didn’t seem right about him, probably because I wasn’t used to picking out scumbags from undercover cops, so we talked in generalizations about how one would exit a bad situation and never be seen again. He had he said a complete menu of how and where to go for a fee, dependant on where a person wanted to disappear to. He then asked me where I wanted to go. I hesitated, and then decided I didn’t like this situation and just told him I would get back with him in a few days. He pressed for a phone number or a place he could get a hold of me, but I refused any more information and left. I felt sure he was a cop or at least a possible blackmailer. It was a long trip back to home, but it gave me time to think about where we were and what we needed to do to cure the situation.
I got a call from an old friend that night. He asked me what I had done. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Well some cop named Mills was asking me about you today,” he answered.
“What was he asking?”
“Well just what did I know about you and if you had ever been in trouble, things like that.”
“It’s probably nothing,” I said. “Don’t really have any idea why some cop would be asking about me.” We finished our conversation and I called Jean. “Jean, we need to talk, but not on the phone,” I urged.
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
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