ASK MARTHA—THE LITTERER

Written by Robbie Cutler, Published on 2/23/2009, Re-published on 8/18/2010

Inspector Samuels couldn’t believe his eyes. He stared at the huge man who had just come through the door. He seemed to fill the office all by himself. Why, he was six foot five inches tall at least. “Actually, six foot six,” the man said. “It used to be my nickname, during basketball season. But that was before the football season started. Tech didn’t get many players weighing 265 in those days—that’s when they started calling me Crusher Davis.”

“I can certainly see why,” Inspector Samuels blurted out. “What I don’t follow is this ‘Ask Martha’ business. The call from the Chronicle said that the reporter from the advice column—what we used to call the agony column—was on the way to see me. Martha. Everyone knows that is Martha somebody. Seems like everybody reads that column now. I mean, my wife tells me it’s interesting and well written.”

“This has to be our secret, Inspector. I was a journalism major, and jobs are hard to come by. The Chronicle had an opening, but the person hired had to cover a number of items: City Hall, sports, local crime, and, oh yes, the advice column. Piece of cake for me, except for the advice column. It seems the Chronicle had dropped the syndicated column it used to run, to save money. That’s how I started to write ‘Ask Martha.’

“Funny how things work out. I got used to it after a few weeks. Having had two older sisters helped. And in high school, everyone was always coming to me with their problems, and I got into the habit of listening closely. That’s all most people want, anyway, and it does seem to help. So writing the column wasn’t really much of a stretch, and it does seem to have caught on.

“But please, this must be our secret. For the time being, anyway, until somebody else starts writing the column.”

“Whatever works.” Inspector Samuels was not about to argue with this giant. And besides, Crusher was here because he had offered to be of help with Samuels’ latest annoyance, a messy littering outbreak that had enraged half the city, and all of the taxpayers. “So what do you know about this littering?”

“What everybody else knows: That it is widespread, messy, and deliberate. But I know something else. Based on the letters I received this morning, I think I can tell you either who did it, or give you the clue that will help solve the case. But I don’t want my cover as Martha to be blown. I’d be the laughingstock of the town! So what do you say to my giving you the facts anonymously, Inspector, and you figure it out? That way, Martha won’t enter into it, and I’ll keep my anonymity—and my job.”

“You’re on, Mar—err, I mean Crusher.”

“Good. There are four letters, Inspector. They all contain clues, and looked at closely, one might even tell us who is the litterer. I wouldn’t be surprised if that letter still had some fingerprints, or if the sender had licked the envelope flap to seal it, leaving some DNA. Too bad we can’t get that with stamps anymore. Now they are all stick-on, not licked. But there should be enough here to nail the litterer.”

“Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“The first letter is signed Concerned Neighbor, who has this to say: ‘Every morning I go out to get the newspaper, about 6:45, and for the past week, it’s been getting worse. There is litter all around Maple Street, where I live. Some blew onto my lawn yesterday, and it looked like food wrappings of some sort, maybe fast food, with traces of what looked like mustard and ketchup. This is disgusting. What do we pay taxes for, anyway? The local police must be asleep at the switch.’ Concerned Neighbor then asks my opinion on whether he should organize a neighborhod patrol of some sort.”

“Interesting. And the second letter?”

“It’s from Smug in Suburbia. Smug lives in a gated community, which is locked up at night. Anyone leaving or entering the community from nine at night through seven in the morning has to go through security.”

“So what’s he so smug about?”

“He says, like Concerned Neighbor, that the problem behind the littering is the lack of proper police protection. But he offers a different solution. Hire more police, he says, and the problem would be solved. He admits that it would also lower the community association dues he and others now have to pay for their own private protection, but he says that’s only fair. He is a taxpaying citizen like everyone else. That is a cause that Martha should explore, he adds. He says that he is neat as a pin himself, and can’t abide litter. It’s a real health and safety issue.”

“Makes a kind of sense. Who else is weighing in?”

“It’s Perplexed Dog Walker. This is probably an animal rights person, and the letter, unlike the first two, is handwritten. It looks like a woman’s handwriting. Anyway, she goes out and walks her dog whenever the dog needs to go—no waiting until the morning. She is writing because she actually saw the littering happen. It was along the route she walks her dog, along Elm as it leads into Maple. She saw litter being thrown out of the front window of a car, the driver’s side, and not just once, but repeatedly.

“She admits that she is not always careful with her own trash, the odd chewing gum wrapper, that sort of thing. But this was large scale, and shocking. There was no way that it was not deliberate. She says it must have been about one o’clock in the morning or so. She signs herself Perplexed, because she can’t understand why anyone would do this. Like Concerned Neighbor, she wants Martha to advise her about forming a community association of some sort, to patrol the area. She adds that she has been thinking of selling her home, and the housing market is bad enough without some idiot lowering property values with this littering campaign.”

“Did she get a good look at the car?”

“The car was a full block away, and it was fairly dark out, so she didn’t get a good look.”

“I’m dying to find out what the fourth letter says.”

“It’s from Confused Commuter. This one is also handwritten, a man’s handwriting. The writer says that he and his wife came home late one night from our state capital, after watching their son play tournament basketball. Their son’s team had lost, so he was in a very bad mood. They stopped at a fast food restaurant on Route 12—you know, that strip just outside of town—for a late night snack. He writes that he saw someone in the back, behind the restaurant, stealing one of the garbage containers that had been taken out for emptying into the dumpster when the night shift changed. He wrote Martha because he said he didn’t want to get involved in a police matter. They went home immediately from the restaurant.”

“I think I’ve got it, Crusher. Many thanks, and your secret is safe with me. I look forward to your behind the scenes help with more cases as they come your way.”