Pain In The Neck

• Jacob Masina, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2010

Pain In The Neck
By Jacob Masina 2500 Words 8ENGLISH5
In 1970 the Concorde made its first supersonic flight, Richard Nixon was president of the United States and Paul McCartney announced the Beatles had disbanded. It was the same year I solved one of my favourite yet revolting crimes.
Screeching microphone feedback over powered the Jimmy Hendrix song, as our bus driver and tour guide introduced herself. With a thick French accent containing specks of newly learned Australian we learnt her name was Lola LaPlante and how we would be spending our five days touring Dubbo. Her hair and makeup could be compared to the flamboyance of Dame Edna and the tattered bus driver boots and gloves stood out like the white keys on a black piano.
As everyone took their seats the aura of this trip settled in my mind. Everyone acted as though they were having a good time but underneath all the niceties and sharing, there was an aroma of discomfort. A variety of people had decided to take this trip together; an anonymous muscular man with the voice of a baritone; Madame Battfry, a wealthy foreign visitor with an assistant, Elizabeth Fluth; Racheal Morrison, a middle-aged mother with two red-cordial fuelled kids-Josh and Joel; Father Parslow, a stout priest with a thick moustache; John Bollinger an avid newspaper reader with his fiancée, Holly, Adel Tuelum and Dorris Beetrus, two elderly bun-haired grandmothers who were never seen apart, and me a grizzled ex cop detective.
The discomfort lifted on the first night in the hotel, when Father Parslow had acquired the courage to invite Doctor Holsholm into friendly conversation. At first the ambition was cut down, as the doctor gave the lame excuse of tiredness. However, the priest was a strong believer and he persisted. In the end the Doctor gave in to the father’s complicated mind tricks, and though he introduced a few ‘yeahs’ and ‘uh huhs’ you could see he was clearly not interested, because of how his eyes wandered out the window, or to the front of the bus.
By 9:30 pm the chatter had moved to a heated argument of Scientology versus Catholicism. The father pointed out that scientology is usually considered a cult and they believe that psychiatry is rubbish. The doctor claimed that if there was an Adam and Eve than where was the proof, like the bones or the “sacred tree”. The father eventually gave up on the basis that God would not accept this blasphemy.
That night I fell asleep wondering about what unexpected events might happen tomorrow.
Turns out I didn’t have to wait too long for my wonderings to be satisfied. Usually I am an early riser and the next day was no different. I was out on the balcony of our bed and breakfast motel having my cigarette and contemplating my trip so far when I noticed Doris, one of the two elderly grandmothers, walking to the bus. As she climbed up the stairs I heard a piercing scream from the direction of the bus.
By the time I reached the car park Doris had already made it to the kerb and was crying into her half made wool jumper. I went to calm her down but all she did was point a shaking finger towards the bus. With the smoke from my cigarette swirling around my sleep-covered eyes I puffed to the bus. As I reached the steps I noticed a few blood specks splattered on the floor. I lifted my head to find the short, wrinkly body of Adel, Doris’ alter ego. There was one anatomical problem with her body, there was no head.
It had been garrotted cleanly from her neck and the sight of it made me realise my vulnerability as a human. In her hands there was a broken bottle of whisky as well as a pair of knitting needles. I felt faint and pale; I needed some fresh air to focus on what was happening. I casually stepped out of the bus onto the warm tar, flicking my burning cigarette over my shoulder. I heard glass shatter and felt my body thrown into the air like a lifeless dummy.
I woke with a massive headache and a bandage around my head in the local hospital. I struggled to get out of bed and discovered that the explosion had grazed the left side of my body from head-to-toe. Fortunately I managed to stand up. The nurse came in with Father Parslow who had apparently taken to caring for me.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“When the bus exploded I saw you fly into the wall, I called the ambulance and they brought you here.” The father quietly explained.
“Thank you father. Nurse Do you know when I am allowed out of the hospital?” I agitatedly enquired.
“I believe you are due to be out this afternoon, sir.” She replied adjusting my IV.
In the afternoon Mme LaPlante came to get the father and me, and on the way back to the motel she filled in the gaps between the explosion and when I went to hospital.
“Everyone is angry because they paid for bus trip yet there is no bus, I need to get back to the, how do you say, terminal to pick up next group and the old lady, Doris won’t tell us what she saw. She just sits in corner crying, looking up to ask for a glass of water, or tissues then she cries again.”
For the rest of the trip we travelled in silence, the father frequently saying a prayer for Doris. It allowed me to ponder the possibilities of the murder.
When we reached the motel I gathered everyone in the kitchen and explained to Doris’ disgust what I saw on the bus yesterday. At the mention of Adel everyone gasped, while at the same time someone knocked on the door. I got up and opened it to find an inspector.
“Hello, my name is Jack Stroy, detective” I introduced myself. “I take it you are in charge of this case?” I asked.
“Yes, my name is Phil; a parole officer told me that his ex-prisoner was involved in a murder case so I got on to it.” He verified.
“If you don’t mind me asking who is this ex-prisoner?” I questioned.
“His name is Peter Heathshaw, the alleged murderer of Ginny Shorp.” This response brought everyone’s eyes to the anonymous baritone.
“Yes, I am Peter Heathshaw,” responded the baritone. The confession, answering the nagging question in everyone’s mind.
“Why did you kill Adel?” Doris screamed, unexpectedly lunging at Peter. Peter easily grabbed her wrists.
“Excuse me lady, I didn’t murder your friend. Why would I? I have no motive? And besides after almost ten years in gaol I’ve learnt my lesson.”
Doris shuffled back to crying in the corner.
I didn’t see the police inspector for the rest of the day. In fact, I didn’t see any of the others that day. I believe Doris stayed in her bedroom, Peter spent most of the day on the lobby couches, the newspaper reader and his fiancée stayed in the bar, while the visitor and Lola LaPlante were nowhere to be seen.
I had expected an exciting holiday and hadn’t packed anything much except two 100 dollar notes, and a camera. I settled on inspecting what was left of the murder scene and seeing if any clues popped up. I started with the basics going through the motives, methods and opportunities. Unfortunately this didn’t provide any solid results because everyone had the opportunity to do the murder. However no one had a known motive or a known method. I became bored running things through my head and decided to do some detective work instead. Fortunately, this provided something to work with.
In the car park there was still a circle of ash around the former bus’ parking spot, and when I brushed my hand over the barrier I found some more blood, but this blood was a different colour to that on the bus. It was a richer red showing the blood owner had oxygen rich blood. Besides that specimen there was nothing else in the burnt ashes other than disappointment.
My frustration increased because the murder site, weapon and victim had disappeared, meaning I had no starting block for my investigation.
I plunged into a deep sleep that night having nightmares about all the criminals I’ve imposed justice upon, coming back to chop my head off. And my early waking the next morning didn’t cease the nightmare.
I was woken by a gentle hand on my shoulder I found myself eye-to-eye with our bus driver, Lola. At the moment when our eyes met I realised how beautiful her face was, with her soft, blue eyes and red, slightly curled mouth. But that wasn’t what she was here for.
In the kitchen the priest, maid, mother and Phil, were huddling together. The maid was in a state of shock and everyone else was attempting to calm her down.
“What’s the commotion about?” I asked.
“Why don’t you see for yourself” Phil questioned leading me around the corner to the dining room.
It had happened again. For the second time a seemingly innocent person had been murdered right under my nose. But the scary truth was that the body had been garrotted just like Doris on the bus. However, unlike Doris, there had been a small flap of skin left on the neck, dangling just over the edge. I crept closer and found on it some light, pink ladies lipstick. I felt like throwing up. One thing was clear however, the same person had murdered both people.
“Doctor Holsholm I presume?” I asked Phil, almost slapping myself because it was so cruel.
“Yes, poor guy.” Phil grimaced.
To my stomach’s dislike I checked out the body. By inspecting the neck I determined that the murderer had used cheese wire for a garrotte, most likely purchased at a hardware store and when I brushed away some of the blood clumps I found a long brown hair, unlike the doctor’s curls, confirming that the suspect was a woman. The most interesting clue though was what I found in the Doctor’s pocket. In the doctor’s coat pocket I found a crumpled letter and a key. On the piece of parchment it said “Remember the mujer?” in slanted handwriting, whereas on the key there was a Toyota sign and on the back the numbers 13/04. I had a hunch that ‘Arbousier’ was an important clue and that the numbers on the car key symbolised an important date.
After the inspection I had a meeting with Phil Warney. He allowed me to help the police force, classifying me as an ‘unexpected consultant’ on the case file. He also allowed me access to the police files when I told him about the crumpled letter.
“The worst thing about this case Phil isn’t about the identity of the suspect surprisingly. What’s worrying me is where the heads have gone.” I pointed out.
It was like a horror movie, every time I turned the corner into a room I was afraid to come face to face with a pale head that had no eyes or had its face in a fixed state of shock. Fortunately the police had removed the body for testing.
What I had gathered about the suspect and the murder was that the suspect was a lady with brown hair that wore pink lipstick; she had met Doctor Holsholm before. Something important happened between both of them on the 13th of April that made the woman garrotte the Doctor.
Delving further into my research I discovered that “mujer” is French for a woman. At a firsthand observation this was meaningless but I knew that the note was important to the discovery of the murderer.
“Hey Jack. I found some stuff from the files about this group of yours.” It was Phil with his heavy outback Australian accent. He had brought his investigation to the other end of the motel.
“What does it say” I replied leaning back in my chair.
“Well for one thing it says Doctor Holsholm was an ENT, one of those throat doctors. Ironic, huh? Also, it says that Elizabeth Fluth, the maid, had a recently deceased father and turns out Doctor Holsholm was the prescribed practitioner.”
“I guess that could be a motive.” I said.
As the words came out of my mouth Phil dropped out of my sight crashing to the floor. I went over to see if he was alright but found something even better. In the spine of the chair was the garrotte. A long piece of cheese wire tied between two pieces of wood. It was a smart place to hide it. I ignored Phil and found that on the wire there was crusted blood. I also found that there were two types of blood the same as in the car park. The murderer was either extremely clumsy or was taunting the investigation.
I spent that day interrogating the female tourists asking questions
“Did you know Doctor Holsholm? Are of French origin? Do you speak French? When I say the 13th of April what does that mean to you?”
Most of the women gave me difficult answers but there was Elizabeth, who said that she didn’t know Doctor Holsholm and that her grandmother was French. This was interesting because I knew for a fact that Elizabeth did know the doctor which meant she was lying. However there was one more person I hadn’t thought of and that was the tour guide, the lovely Lola LaPlante.
I found her outside smoking a cigarette.
“You mind if I join you?” I queried leaning against the wall.
“Non, monsieur, I mean detective.” At least I knew she was trying to hide her French.
“It is sad about what happened to Adel, is it not?” she shivered at this comment.
“And Doctor Holsholm, yes?” At this statement I could see her face go pale that was enough for me. I knew that the murderer was a woman of French origin who had long, brown hair and wore pink lipstick. Besides the lipstick, Lola LaPlante fitted the description perfectly.
I asked Phil Warney to check up the name LaPlante in the files. He came back an hour later saying he had nothing. I asked him to check the foreign files. He came back much later; this time he had some papers in his hand.
“Turns out Mme LaPlante used to be married to a Mr Médecin who divorced her three years into the marriage and took all her money on the 13th, thanks to the French legal system. However this was later proven only to be because Mr Médecin had bribed the judge. However by then Mr Médecin was already long gone. I searched Mr Médecin and found something fascinating, turns out Doctor Holsholm, was an alias and Mr Médecin is the victim’s real name.”
I sauntered down to Lola’s bedroom to find the bed sheets in a mess and pink lipstick stained the pillowcase. I heard rushed footsteps on the tiled floor outside, I dived for the door and I saw Lola at the top of the stairs. She turned around and our eyes met, I saw her grief and I saw how scared she was. Then she tripped and before she hit the bottom I knew this case was closed.