The best place in Walmart to cry is the cereal aisle. You will be mostly ignored and occasionally joined in your endeavor. On this day though, my cry was interrupted by the sound of odd footsteps behind me. I turned to see a person in a Goofy costume running towards me. Before my fight-or-flight decision could be made, a small woman, obviously a librarian, ran past me and proceeded to beat Goofy about the head and chest with an aluminum softball bat.
The police were not impressed with my reporting of the crime. I was delighted by my description of the vibrating clang of the aluminum bat bouncing off Goofy’s skull versus the sickening thud of the fleshier strikes. Apparently the phrase “She was obviously a librarian” does not help the police identify the subject, even though it eliminates the billions of people who aren’t obviously librarians.
Hair color, eye color, height, and weight are the things the cops are looking for. My state of shock prevented those details from entering my perception. She was smaller than Goofy, but since Goofy was nearly seven feet tall, that didn’t help. How did I know it was a softball bat? Don’t know, but it turns out I was right.
The man in the Goofy costume died from the attack. We didn’t really know if he was dead or alive till the cop removed the costume head. Sort of like Schrödinger’s Mascot. The bloody pulp beneath left no room for interpretation. Upon seeing the real man’s face, I felt pangs of guilt, having done nothing to save his life. Not that I know CPR, or the Heimlich or whatever you do to help a man bludgeoned by a librarian.
The newspaper identified the victim as a man named Gravely, and apparently he was a saint. He was involved with every kid-centric charity in the county. He gave generously of his time and money. He had no children of his own. The obit said he was married but failed to name his wife. Could she be a librarian thought I.
I am ashamed to say that I was entirely wrong about the killer. She was not a librarian. She was the owner of a bookstore in the next county. The trial was such a mess that the newspaper stopped reporting on it after day two. Rumors flew but proved tame and lame compared to the reality that played out in the courtroom.
When it was all done, the killer got just two years, the sheriff got fired, a local pastor got “reassigned,” and eight families with little children moved away, putting the local pogo stick factory out of business. It is said that St. Gravely should have gotten life in prison, but being dead already put a damper on his indictment.
Out of curiosity I visited the killer’s bookstore. It was just a bookstore, with no indication of its owner's crimes. It did, however, have a used mystery paperback rack with lots of Nero Wolfe books and a cute clerk about my age who now sells me a new used book every other week or so.
