A Straw-Stuffed Mystery

Written by Nicholas LeVack, Published on 1/23/2009

The detective surveyed the scene enthusiastically, taking in all of the surrounding area. He examined each square foot of land as if it was a puzzle, trying to piece together a picture in his mind. Frank Albertson stood nearby, his son Bill at his side. Bill was holding a shotgun he had earlier been sent inside to find, upon discovering their scarecrow.

You see, Frank Albertson awoke early in the morning, got into his overalls, and went out into his fields. But when he arrived, he found his scarecrow and much of the surrounding produce in ruin. At first he thought the crows had been wise to his scheme, and that they had torn the scarecrow apart. But when he found the scarecrow's head, and its straw for brains scattered nearly twenty yards away from where its body lay ravaged, he concluded that the offender was a bigger, stronger creature.

“I don't think it was an animal,” muttered Detective Johnson, now examining the scarecrow's torso. “These slashes are too clean to be from an animal. This was done with a knife -- one with a wide blade. The cuts run deep, and yet it doesn’t look like any fabric was torn. So it was done with more of a stabbing motion, I'd say.”

“Someone stabbed my scarecrow?” Frank grimaced, raising an eyebrow.

“And look at this,” the detective continued. He reached into the straw-lined body of the scarecrow, and pulled out a sunflower seed. “Do you grow any sunflowers on your farm, Mr. Albertson?”

“’Fraid not” he answered briskly.

“Can you tell me the names of any nearby people? Perhaps any rival farmers?”

“Well,” he answered, “there is Professor Surenie. He’s a schoolteacher. He doesn't farm himself, but his boy has been looking into the business. He might have done something.”

“Anyone else?” the detective asked.

“Bill, could you give us a few minutes?” he asked, turning to his son.

Bill glared at his father and walked away.

“As to your question, detective. Yes, there are other people I have in mind. There’s Rachel Beaton, the wife of a wheat farmer. Or Mr. Fletcher, a grocery store owner who was recently hurt financially by some rotten vegetables I sent in. … And, there’s my son.”

“You suspect Bill?”

“Bill and I had a bit of a tiff last night,” the farmer explained, removing his cap momentarily and scratching his nearly hairless scalp. “Wouldn't surprise me if he took it out on me.”

“What was the fight about?”

“He was upset about losing something he’d just bought. I may have been a bit hard on him … telling him that he’s irresponsible and that he loses everything. … It started there at least.”

As Frank spoke, the detective came upon a footprint. He took a picture, and then slid the sleek digital camera back into his pocket.

The detective called the town's police station, and managed to convince the police chief to dispatch a car to round up the three other suspects. An hour later, they were there, lined up, awaiting the detective's word. “One of you,” he said, “is responsible for this mess. And I want to know who.”

The grocery store owner, Mr. Fletcher, replied in a hostile manner, “I've been at my store all day, and was doing inventory all night. Couldn't have been me,” he said, spitting a seed on the ground.

The detective nodded, then looked at Professor Surenie, the next in line. “I was out of town until morning -- at a teacher's conference in Denver.”

Once more, the detective nodded. Next, he looked at Rachel. “I was … err … indisposed last night.”

Bill interrupted: “She was passed out at the bar -- I passed there when I was in town, picking up a new hunting knife.”

This triggered the detective's interest. “And where is that knife now, boy?” he asked.

“I don't know,” he answered. “I must have lost it when I was in town.”

“How convenient,” the detective noted. He stepped towards the footprint he found earlier, lining it up with his own boot. It was the same size as his shoe -- size 11. He got his camera, and took another snapshot of the print, but this time with his foot on it.

After this, the detective turned to Frank Albertson. “Sir, when did you say you sent in that shipment of rotten vegetables to Mr. Fletcher?”

“About two months ago,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”

The detective ignored him, and went on to ask Bill a question. “Bill, you say you lost your recently purchased hunting knife. Is this correct?” Bill nodded. “Where, might I ask, did you go while in town after purchasing it?”

“Once I got it, I went to the grocery store, and then after picking up some food for my dad, I came right home.”

“Uh-huh, I see,” said the detective. Suddenly, he clapped his hands together, and addressed the suspects. “All of you may go home tonight. I will call for you to return to this farm tomorrow afternoon. Then I will give you my findings.”

The next day, they all dutifully returned, looking a bit nervous. When they were settled down in the Albertson living room, the suspects looked at one another curiously.

“If you would all be so kind, I ask that you would each take off one of your shoes,” said the detective. The four suspects complied. After they had each taken off a shoe, he compared each one to his own boot. All of the men’s shoes were about the same size, while Rachel’s was a good deal smaller.

“Now, just to remind you all … unlike a scarecrow, I have a brain and the capacity to think. And I think I know who our offender is.”