AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’ve long been a big fan of the Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. One of my favorite features of the monthly publication is the “Mysterious Photograph” contest, where the publisher prints an ordinary photo, sometimes of a nonsensical subject. They challenge readers to create and submit a narrative, which includes a crime in 250 words or fewer. The editors pick the best of the submissions and print it in a later edition under the obvious title of “The Story That Won.” Also, the editors award “Honorable Mentions” to a few entries, giving the authors’ names and hometowns. Occasionally, I have written and mailed stories to the periodical. I’ve never sent in the winning story. But I’ve been fortunate enough to receive several honorable mentions–alas, always a bridesmaid, never a bride. The offering below is an expanded version of one such submission. The photograph in question was of a hole in the middle of an open field. Extending up from the opening was a man’s leg, clothed and shod.
The Farm Subsidy
As he emerged from his car into the afternoon’s oppressive heat and humidity, Chief Investigator Harold Ash scanned the area. He sighed heavily and approached the young plainclothes officer standing beside a dead man lying in the field. “What is it, Paul?”
“I dunno, Lieutenant,” Detective Paul Callicott answered, shaking his head. “The wife over there,” he continued, nodding to a woman with a teenage boy at her side, “found her husband like this and called for an ambulance. She looks awfully cool for a woman who’s just become a widow.”
Ash noticed that the woman fidgeted slightly. Otherwise, she appeared calm, resigned to the circumstances. “And?”
“And when the EMTs got here, they determined he was dead and called for the coroner.”
“So?”
The junior detective hesitated. “It just seems odd.”
Ash studied the scene. The deceased man, who looked to have been somewhere in his late forties, lay sprawled on his back. His contorted face reflected a painful death. The deceased, a farmer, wore bib overalls, a plaid flannel shirt, and a pair of heavily scuffed brogans. An old, sweat-stained fedora sat upturned close to him. A shovel lay between him and a hole he’d been digging. The lieutenant caught Callicott’s eye and jerked his head toward a fellow standing nearby, making notes in a flip notebook. “What’d the coroner’s man say?”
“Well, he says it looks to be a heart attack.” The detective saw the weary expression on his boss’s face and quickly added, “But it just doesn’t feel right.”
Despite his exasperation, Ash took a fatherly attitude toward the younger investigator. Gently placing his hand on one of the young man’s broad shoulders, he turned the junior detective so their backs were to the small gathering. He didn’t want the others to overhear him. “Look, Paul, I know this job is new to you. And I don’t want to chill your enthusiasm. But you’ve got to stop seeing a crime in every scenario. What’s the problem here? It’s a heart attack, for Pete’s sake.”
Paul half turned toward the dead man. He made vague gestures with his hands. “But look at the hole he was digging, Lieutenant. Doesn’t it appear to be the size and shape of a grave?” he pleaded quietly. “Isn’t that odd to you? Out here in the middle of this field?”
Ash’s patience was at an end, but he maintained a low tone. “Did you find a dead body waiting to occupy the thing? I mean, I don’t see another stiff anywhere.” Callicott answered with a sharp headshake. “Who knows what the man meant the hole for? I’m not a farmer. And neither are you. Wrap it up as a natural death and go back to the office.” He paused. “Now!” The older man saw his subordinate’s crestfallen expression and realized his tone had more of an edge to it than he’d intended.
In a more relaxed tone, he went on, “I know you have a number of open cases waiting for resolution.” Before the young man could voice a defensive response, the lieutenant raised a restraining hand and added, “We all have pending investigations. A lot of ‘em, Paul.” He chuckled, trying to take the edge off the conversation. “We work in a rough-and-tumble city, son. Crime’s a popular activity hereabouts. And we’ve got more missing persons reports than some small towns have population, for Pete’s sake!”
“Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” Paul said reluctantly.
Lieutenant Ash gave the man from the coroner’s office and his assistants a quick nod, releasing the body to their care. Both cops moved across the dusty field to their cars. After opening the car door, the older detective reached down and slapped the dust from the cuffs of his suit pants. “See you back at headquarters, Paul,” he called out. Detective Callicott nodded sheepishly and climbed behind the wheel of his unmarked unit.
The coroner’s people made quick work of loading the dearly departed into their “meat wagon” and leaving the area.
The farmer’s widow watched carefully as the group of official vehicles drove away across the several fallow acres. When they disappeared beyond the tall corn that shielded this field’s view from the main road, she smiled and shook her head. “Had to call ‘em. Couldn’t have a bunch of questions come up later if we hadn’t sent for an ambulance like normal folks,” she said to no one in particular. The woman leaned over the hole, giving it a quick but critical inspection.
Turning to the young man standing by her side, she instructed, “Okay, Luke, wait about a half hour to make sure those snoopers leave for good. Then finish the chore your daddy started. That fella’s not gonna keep long in this heat. And be sure to mark this location on the plat of the field when you get back to the house.” With that, she turned and moved over the rough ground with a practiced stride.
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke called after her. He smiled, too.
The police had not detected the corpse hidden just under the edge of a nearby haystack. Nor the nearly seventy other murder victims carefully buried there in the uncultivated field over the years by Luke and his old man, on the pay of the neighboring city’s mob. ©