THUGLIT Issue Seven Read online

  The first to go missing was named Louann Armstrong. Her husband, Harlan Armstrong, was away in the Marines, so people in the town did not recognize her absence for quite some time. When they saw Alfred Holmes going to see her, they figured that the salesman had landed on a perfect customer. Harlan Armstrong had fought in the Philippines, then came home for a brief spell before coming to the conclusion that civilian life did not agree with him. During that summer, he was in California waiting for the next war. He would eventually go to Haiti a heartbroken man.

  Louann was frightfully lonely, and seemed to fall under the charm of Alfred Holmes, a warm body in a typically cold house. What happened on that day has never become public knowledge, but more than likely, Louann Armstrong was killed like the others in Cleveland, Chicago, and Winnipeg. Alfred Holmes would invite himself into the living room, then would ask to see the house. After all, he would assure the lonely housewives that failures in the home were the leading cause of accidental deaths in America. He would assure them that his inspection would both give them peace of mind, as well as a discount of the insurance prices. Seven women believed him, and two of them were from Quiet Dell. Louann was one of the two, and she was probably strangled from behind, and then violated postmortem.

  Alfred Holmes's next victim was similar to Louann Armstrong in that she was also waiting on her military man. Except for Mary Wyndham, her man in uniform was never coming back. Jefferson Davis Wyndham had been a sergeant in Cuba in 1898, surviving Spanish bullets and Army beef before malaria took him to eternal sleep. Ever since the telegram had arrived at her doorstep sixteen years before, Mary Wyndham had been living in a black-colored world with little sunshine or aspirations for hope. Her Baptist faith took on an increasingly somber mood, and by the time that Alfred Holmes had arrived at her door, people in town were glad to see a man in her life, even if that man was only passing through.

  Again, according to his tradition, Alfred Holmes more than likely invited himself to an impromptu tour of Mary Wyndham's house. The obliging widow said yes, and while she and Holmes were inside of one of the house's bedrooms, she was attacked from behind, strangled, and then ravaged after her last breath. Alfred Holmes usually kept pretty clean crime scenes, and the house of Mary Wyndham was no different. In fact, the only reason why Alfred Holmes was ever caught was because he made the foolish decision to try and sell some items from a victim's home to a Winnipeg pawn store. The Canadian police not only caught him, but found out that he was an American using the false name of Leonard Powers. When they threatened Holmes with deportation, he revealed to them why he was so scared of going back to America. Mistakenly believing that the Canadian justice system was more lenient, Holmes's confession ultimately granted him a broken neck at the end of a rope.

  In Quiet Dell, the crimes of Holmes only came to light when a murder he did not commit was discovered. In July, after the disappearances of Louann Armstrong and Mary Wyndham, people in the town were starting to get suspicious. One of my more eager reporters hinted at white slavery, while old Stanley Woodside suggested suicide. Either way, the mood in the town had grown considerably darker. This was no different on the baseball field, for during the summer months when Coach Adolph Simpson made his Quiet Dell Polar Bears practice twice a day, teammates had begun to notice that Sid Hartsell wasn't throwing with the same amount of gusto or verve as he once had. To them, Sid was listless and uninterested in his sport, his art, his ticket out of West Virginia.

  During one training day, Sid gave up two home runs to Fitzroy Baker, the third baseman who had only one home run in his whole career. After smashing his second out past the tree line, Fitzroy told me that it felt like Sid was handing his pitches right down the middle, as if he was no longer interested in making batters look foolish. Sid was the one beginning to look foolish, and his sloppy pitches had the sports fans of Quiet Dell nervous.

  Sid's increasingly poor performances were later to be revealed as the result of his continuing affair with Greta Long, the girl who had been paid to steal his innocence. Greta and Sid had been meeting secretly since the late spring, and during their early morning assignations, Greta and Sid did more than talk about the price of bread. Before long, a rumor started to spread among the more lowly women in town that Greta was pregnant, and that the father was Sid Hartsell. The high school, team, and the men in town told these clacking hens to keep their mouths shut. Vernon Roberts even threatened some of them with suits of slander. The rumors persisted though, and Sid Hartsell was showing the deleterious effects of too much gossip.

  To make matters worse, Greta, a once demure and agreeable lass, was beginning to show signs of greed and malice. Not only was she going to keep the kid (which was against Sid's wishes), but she was going to make sure that she and the kid would be wonderfully provided for with the help of Sid's major league money. Greta blackmailed Sid with the idea that if he said no, or if he went against her wishes in any way, then she would tell the Mountain Times Informer all about the activities of the Hartsell family.

  This was no hollow threat, for Greta contacted our office one night in a drunken stupor with shouted nonsense about the doings of the Hartsell men. Under the influence of John Barleycorn, Greta not only told us that she had a major secret about Sid Hartsell, but that his father was guilty of rape. I sent Greta home and told her get some rest, while still making a note to remember some of the drunken girl's outrageous claims. Despite my abhorrence of gossip, more often than naught, it proves to be true.

  Sid knew this fact well, and so told his father. One night, while the two were drinking whiskey in the town tavern, Sid pleaded for his father's help in getting rid of Greta Long and her child. According to the tavern's other patrons, Sid Hartsell was crying into his father's broad shoulders, asking for the old sinner's help in any way.

  Andrew Johnson Hartsell told his son to both calm down and to "start acting like a man of sense." He got a little rough with his son, and at one point his backhand collided with the boy's cheek. The tavern's other patrons took this as a moment of fatherly discipline, and immediately ceased their eavesdropping. If they had continued listening, it wouldn't have mattered. Andrew Johnson Hartsell kept his plan secret until he was comfortable with its final details.

  After some rough convincing and cajoling, it was decided that both Hartsell men would kidnap Greta and hold her for ransom. They would not ask for money, only the Long family's reticence about the affair. Sid taught that this would be enough, and outwardly Andrew Johnson Hartsell agreed with him. Inwardly, the patriarch had an extra horror in store for the unwitting Greta.

  On a chilly night in late July, Sid and Andrew Johnson Hartsell set out on foot to the Long family farm outside of town. The night was dark as there was no moon in the sky. Both Hartsell men were wearing their Sunday black, and with them they carried gloves and rope. Unbeknownst to Sid, his father also carried a pearl-handled buck knife in his trouser pocket.

  The two men arrived at the farm around one in the morning. They knew that Greta's room was located near a first floor window, which was mostly cut off from the rest of the house. The original plan was to break through Greta's window, but the plan was made drastically easier by the Long's open front door. The Long's had always been a bit of a wayward family, but they were not wealthy nor did they have any known enemies. They did not fear robbers, and they could not have foreseen kidnapping as possibility. Or murder, for that matter.

  It was Andrew Johnson who went into the room first, placing his hand over Greta's sleeping mouth. Sid took the girl by the feet and tied her up with rope. Working his way up her torso, Sid managed to secure the entirety of the girl's body with the strong hemp rope before Andrew Johnson struck her on the head with the back of his buck knife. While she was unconscious, the two intruders carried her about a mile to the Armstrong house, which Andrew Johnson believed was vacant. Louann Armstrong had been missing for a while, and Andrew Johnson figured her as either dead or another runaway from the state. There were no lights on th
e home, so it was as good as any for what he had planned.

  Sid's later testimony stated that the house stunk something awful, and when Sid voiced his concern to his father, the old man brushed it off with the idea that Louann Armstrong was dead in her upstairs bed. This idea made Sid nervous, and when his father made him write the ransom note on the back of a page torn from a Sears & Roebuck catalog, Sid admitted to the court that his hands trembled and that his mind often forgot whole words and phrases. The ransom note, which was mailed to the Long family the next day, was a confusing jumble of spilled ink and misspelled words. The Longs were illiterate people anyway, so the content did not matter so much as the suggestion. The family contacted Sheriff Montgomery, who, along with his deputy Mort Little, began the investigation into the relationship between Sid Hartsell and Greta Long.

  In a town the size of Quiet Dell, it's not hard to find people. On the same day that the ransom note was found and read (by Deputy Little, an avowed fan of Western novels), the Sheriff and Deputy Little found an obviously emotional Sid in the dugout of the baseball field. Sid was wearing his pinstripe uniform, which was covered in dust and dirt. Coach Simpson had been so infuriated with the pitcher's performance in practice that he had forced him to play shortstop. Sid Hartsell had never failed so much in twenty-four hours.

  Thinking that the boy was upset by his performance, Sheriff Montgomery and Deputy Little were taken aback when the boy started rambling on about Greta Long and the Armstrong house. What he told them turned their stomachs, and eventually led to not only the arrest of Sid Hartsell, but also the apprehension of Andrew Johnson Hartsell, who was put in handcuffs after deputies waited outside the door of Emily Jane Snider.

  When the case was put to trial in August in what was one of the quickest turnarounds in Harrison County history, Sid Hartsell accused his father of not only planning the botched kidnapping, but also the murder of Greta Long. For three days, a weak, crying Sid Hartsell told the jury about how his father had taken Greta Long into the kitchen on the first floor. Greta had still not regained consciousness, and the elder Hartsell believed that it was the perfect time to once and for all rid his son of Greta's demands. What this meant was that Andrew Johnson Hartsell took it upon himself to do the type of thing that old crones are paid to do in the back alleys of Whitechapel. I will not revolt you with the particulars here, but suffice it to say that Greta Long did not survive the night due to Andrew Johnson Hartsell's lack of surgical knowledge.

  When Sid discovered what his father had done, he immediately broke down and started shrieking about informing the Sheriff. Sid was beaten for his outburst and was forced to drag the corpse of Greta Long behind the outhouse, where she was partially buried.

  Andrew Johnson Hartsell and Sid Hartsell were both sentenced to death, not only for the murder for of Greta Long, but also for the murder of Louann Armstrong. While the authorities uncovered the body of Greta Long, they searched the Armstrong house for further clues. In the upstairs bedroom, Deputy Little discovered the decaying corpse of Louann Armstrong, who had been rotting in the summer sun for over a month. The coroner in Clarksburg declared that Louann Armstrong had been the victim of murder, and despite the lack of a confession, both the Hartsells were found guilty of Louann Armstrong's demise.

  It wasn't until 1915 when Mary Wyndham's body was found. A new couple from Ripley were looking to buy the house and stumbled upon a gruesome sight in the upstairs bedroom. At the time, the Hartsells were blamed for a third murder. It wasn't until 1920, two years after the boys had returned from Over There, that it was revealed that both Armstrong and Wyndham had been victims of the murderer Alfred Holmes. By then the Hartsell boys were dead, the victims of a rope's strangulation.

  The Neighbor's Dog

  by Edward Hagelstein

  This young gal moved in next door a while back. She drove a jeep and lived alone except for two dogs, mutts as far as I could tell. She was pretty hot with a tight-looking booty, so I had to go over and introduce myself—but only when my wife, Batty, was confirmed to be at least a zip code away. Her name is Betty, but I haven't called her that in years. It's also why I don't try to glance at, much less talk to other women when she's around. She goes batshit, and I have the punctured nipple to prove it. Batty doesn't care if it's a scoliosis-bent grandmother or a bulldyke in a wheelchair. If I so much as hold a door open for a stretch-pant heifer at Winn-Dixie I'll get a wicked punch to the head as soon as we get in the truck.

  The weekend before this new gal moved in I chatted up a fairly hefty and unsightly broad at the Interstate Lounge when we were playing pool, just to keep in practice. I don't even know what we were talking about, maybe the sudden surplus of Canadian pop stars. Batty took offense, dragged me outside by the wrist in the middle of a shot, and started in screaming and calling me all kinds of filthy whorehound. She flung her beer bottle against the wall so hard a shard bounced back, sliced through my best Harley t-shirt, and lodged in my left nipple. I passed out from the pain and she left me out there.

  When I came to, I pulled the glass out, went inside with half a bloody shirt, and drank a few shots to stem the pain. Hank, the morbidly obese bartender, poured a shot of well whiskey on my punctured nipple to kill the germs. When I picked myself up off the floor from that passing-out, I had a gold ring in the nipple. Hank's part-time woman, Jerkin' Julie, said it was hers and since the damage was already done I should keep it in there because it looked sexy. Plus it wasn't real gold, just something she lifted from a booth at the flea market. Batty had stormed off by then, so I sidestepped a sure beating over that womanly attention.

  I took to walking around shirtless, showing off my nipple earring just to piss off Batty because it was her own crazy temper that made me more sexy. I kept an eye out in case she had a mind to yank the ring out, which she threatened to do. It kept me on edge, so the only time I could really relax was when Batty wasn't home. I didn't think I'd wake up from that passing out.

  One morning not long after the neighbor moved in, I was out back smoking in the hammock, which I do a lot. While I was ruminating about what I was going to say when I went over to meet her, I contemplated those dogs milling around her yard. One of them circled around a bit like it was coming in for a landing, then hunched over, squeezed out a big dump, and trotted away from it like they do, wanting to get out of the vicinity before somebody notices. Right before my eyes, the other one ambled up and started gobbling on the steamer before it barely settled down in the dewy grass. I was so astonished I spit out my butt and had to pick it up off the ground, because I can't afford to be smoking anyway.

  I thought for a minute about what I'd seen and realized that was my angle. I'd inform the neighbor her dog was eating poop and offer some suggestions for stopping the same. I hated to snitch on the poor bitch but sometimes you've got to work the system to get ahead. I sauntered over and was knocking on her front door when I realized I didn't know a thing about how to stop a dog from eating poop, so I wouldn't be any help in that department.

  They say it's bad to bring up a problem without having any solutions to offer, but the door was opening and I didn't have time to come up with anything. She stood there in shorts and a tight t-shirt with no bra and I realized I hadn't even worked out an introduction. So I just said the first thing that popped into my head, which is usually a bad tactic for me, and it was no different this time.

  "Howdy neighbor!" I said overly loud and with too much down-home-lonely-weird-guy-next-door emphasis.

  She actually flinched, but then I started talking fast and I could feel my eyes flitting around her young smooth face trying not to glance at her tits—which is a definite deal-breaker in the first seconds of any female neighborly encounter (or actually any female encounter that doesn't occur in the Kit Kat Club).

  "I just wanted to let you know that you've got a dog eating the other one's poop back there and I thought you might want to be aware of it so you could take some corrective action since it might not be too good for the
dog that eats the poop. I don't think it'll affect the other one, at least not physically. But it might be a mental burden knowing you're being stalked, and every time you pinch out a hot one someone's going to come up behind you and gobble it up," I said. "I think it would bother me anyway."

  She stood there with one hand on the door and looked at me for a second, then glanced over my shoulder, maybe to see if I had someone with me either to back up my sighting or take me away for observation.

  "Are you okay?" she said.

  "Me? Dandy. I just wanted to let you know what I observed going on."

  "Coprophagia," she said.

  "Sorry, I don't speak Italian," I said. "But you're welcome."

  "It's the name of the behavior." She stood there looking at me like something her dog would gladly consume.

  "You mean the poop eating?"

  "It's not desirable but it's not abnormal either."

  I felt a twinge in my jeans when she said desirable. I liked the way she looked down on me all cool even though I was a least twice her age. There we were standing around talking about poop-eating dogs like it was normal.

  "Isn't it unhealthy?"

  "People almost do the same thing," she said.

  "I don't know anyone that eats shit." My semi was subsiding.

  She gave me a wicked grin. As far as I could tell, her only flaw was that her teeth were too small for her mouth. That and a certain coldness around the eyes.