first and last chapter

The air smelled of the promise of rain and a surprisingly intoxicating mixture of pizza and wet dog. It was deep enough into the night that the June-bugs has amassed in biblical proportions around the streetlights, and the symphony of cars and far off conversions had become numbing background noise. Detective Ghost Bear could only shake his head with bewilderment as he scanned the motley evidence scattered across the uneven sidewalk: one pair of black ballet shoes, a Penthouse magazine, a bag of miniature marshmallows, and three wildflowers.

Ghost Bear recognized the flowers as a buffalo clover, a prairie-fire, and a plains Blackfoot –better known as a Bluebonnet, an Indian paintbrush, and a Blackfoot daisy. These were familiar friends from his many walks in the prairie with his paternal grandmother. His inquiries as a child were more along the “hows” and her feedback was more along the “whys.” He just wanted the facts, and he ended up bombarded with tradition and lore.

Nothing was special about the evidence before him, most of it looked as if it was just dropped, released, surrendered to gravity –except for the ballet shoes. They seemed to be placed with intention, resting on a large, invasive root that had slowly fractured the sidewalk over the years. It belonged to one the three veteran oak trees growing nearby.

The scene was secure and the witnesses had been detained, but kept separate. Their stories all end up sounding like the same tale if left to mingle on their own for too long. One would think that all the accounts of what happened should be the same –that it would reflect a truth then. But that would only provide a misrepresentation of the truth. If you can capture each witness’s story fresh from their own personal, intimate reality, then you are able to layer the facts to bring into focus a blueprint for the foundation of a truth –an imperfect truth, but sufficient enough (to ease the analytical mind, to answer the questions, to check the boxes, to quench the fire).

After several hours of narratives and antidotes that varied more than the types of characters that frequented Sixth Street on any given Friday night, Detective Ghost Bear was left with a transcript that resembled more of a folktale, a legend than a report. Yet surprisingly, he felt content –satisfied. As if the inner dreamer had won the match against the inherent scientist, and it was permitted to lessen the grasp on the expected.

The original call was for reports of a drive-by shooting that may or may not have resulted in an injury. The initial officers on scene could not find a shooting victim. They became more and more confused with each question that was asked of bystanders. The descriptions revealed nothing of a shooting on the main street, but of a saga that played out on the adjacent side road.

If a sketch artist was present on scene, the image of the person of interest would be of a woman who resembled a mysterious, dark elf with big brown eyes and translucent wings. Detective Ghost Bear was summoned for his poetic skills of being able to deduct logic from chaos, while still respecting the beauty of the unexplainable.