Great Plains: Chapter Zero
A Monumental Murder
As murders go, this one was peculiar. While I wasn’t officially considered an expert on murders and I never previously witnessed an actual murder, as an aspiring medical doctor I presumed to understand the basic process—dead body, murder weapon, and probable perpetrator.
And… I watched a lot of television.
Reaching adolescence in the golden age of television (circa 1960s), I witnessed untold fictional murders, many performed by notable celebrities. Drunken cowboys, foreign spies, vindictive spouses, and even mask-wearing psychopaths commonly committed these entertaining murders. The weapons of choice were often high-powered rifles, blazing six-shooters, poison darts, razor-sharp knives, and even fireplace pokers.
But… toy arrows?
As far as I knew toy arrows never achieved murder weapon status. But there it was—a toy arrow next to a dead body. Piled at my feet were the mangled, disjointed body parts of what was once a living human being. That is, this pile of matter had previously exhibited all outward appearance of a living human being. A more definitive assessment might have been possible had I moved beyond the status of aspiring medical doctor.
Intertwined in this mound of flesh was a bloodied, but otherwise intact, save for a detached suction cup, toy arrow. I was unable to confirm the fact, but it seemed to exhibit the smug satisfaction of a job well done.
It was a peculiar murder, no doubt about that. It also seemed to be a murder of some importance, perhaps even one of monumental importance.
Unfortunately I was a lifelong member in the club of minimal importance. Events of monumental importance were beyond my realm of understanding—at least at that particular point in my personal space-time continuum. A point commonly designated as September 4, 1972 AD on the campus of Wichita State University, Wichita, Kansas, United States, Earth, Universe FR873BQ9U23. It was a Monday.
People of minimal importance seldom witnessed peculiar, monumentally important murders involving toy arrows. Neither were they involved in presidential assassinations, complex space-time manipulations or talking vegetables. Yet there I stood, a person of minimal importance, watching as the lifeblood oozed from the mass of flesh.
Had I given more than cursory thought to circumstances leading to this possible human’s separation from his vital organs, I might have realized something important was afoot. In the morning leading up to the demise of this unfortunate soul, circumstances definitely leaned toward the peculiar. First, there was my encounter with an incredibly beautiful, but clearly mysterious, blonde woman. Second, I crossed paths with Thomas Jefferson. Or more precisely, I was nearly run over by electric golf cart driven by the third president of the United States.
And of course, my arch nemesis Johnny Stockton made an appearance on that rain-drenched morning—not peculiar so much as annoying.
A few bizarre events, which I’m not sure I should relay at this point in the story, also occurred.
Then there was Canoby Markloy. We had a brief conversation minutes before (in linear time) the death of this unfortunate fellow. I mention Canoby Markloy only because his name was etched on the apparent murder weapon.
But that was the past, at least for those moving in a linear temporal direction. Looking to the immediate future, I faced a dilemma. Standing over a newly deceased body suggested that the appropriate action would be to notify the proper authorities.
However, in lieu of contacting authorities, I had the option of attending my 8:30 a.m. biology class, a task that had thus far proved elusive; a task that would be imminently achievable given the classroom was but a few dozen steps away through a gapping hole in McKinley Hall. Doing so would not only officially inaugurate my collegiate career but also move me closer toward my lifelong goal of medical doctor—probably a highly paid, well-respected, monumentally important surgeon.
Of course, the devastatingly beautiful blonde also professed her undying love, suggesting that she would be willing to spend the rest of her life with me. Perhaps, pursuit of her companionship would be the ideal course of action.
I had no idea how monumentally important my ensuing decision would be.
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