Chapter Six: On the Trail
The morning found Springfield in a state of utter panic. Sometime before the death Judge Snyder, having learned of the death of the mayor, then of the Police Chief, the already unnerved town had broken out in a full-fledged riot. Looting, arson, gun fights, knife fights, and underage drinking.
By dawn, the residents of "America's Greatest Shame", partly subdued from exhaustion, partly by the news of the death of the beloved Judge Snyder, and partly by the rubber bullets and tear gas of the S.W.A.T. team, had settled into a state of suspicion and anxiety. The pentagram at the bus bombing, and the soggy note found pinned on the mayor's corpulent corpse, tied the murders to those of the previous winter. And the note swore that there would be more.
The Simpson house was exemplary of the panic. The children were told to stay in their rooms, while Homer and Marge boarded up the windows. They locked the doors and shoved furniture against them. They broke out the guns and patrolled the house, while listening to the radio for any news of…anything.
Meanwhile, as the revised town charter stated, the smartest adults of the town would serve as the judges and lawmakers. Mister Burns, the wealthiest man in the town, served as the president pro temp, and each neighborhood swiftly elected a representative to the hastily re-organized town council. Skinner, Willie, Homer, and the men of Springfield continued their vigilante search. Armed, they patrolled the neighborhoods at night, placing anyone even vaguely suspicious under arrest, tying them up, and locking them in the nearest tool shed. It was frontier justice at it's worst. But they were the only source of order, as, with the brutal slaying of chief Wiggum, Springfield's police force had disbanded, and its members either joined the militia, skipped town, or simply quit, went home, and waited for the nightmare to end.
Once their mothers agreed that it was safe to do so, under the condition that they would drive them there, wait there the whole time, and then take them home, the children were able to meet in the tree house.
"Okay," said Bart, "We were hit pretty hard this time. We were flat on our feet. We lost many important people. Judge Snyder, whom many hear, myself included, appreciated for being soft on juvenile crime. Ralph, you lost a father."
"Then who's been sleeping with mommy every night?"
"Skinner lost his mother, which will only result in him being harder on us. And Otto, the beloved bus driver, was cruelly assassinated. Let us take a moment to remember our beloved friend and drug source."
The children bowed their heads, in simple, childish prayer. Except Ralph, who continued to stare into space.
"Alright," said Lisa, standing up and walking over to the dry-erase board on the wall, "The murders truly are tied to the original murders, by virtue of the fact that the few witnesses were able to identify the culprits as children around our approximate age. Also, the fiery pentagram, the note, the desecration of St. Andrew's, and the fact that each murder took place sixty-six minutes and six seconds apart, indicates that they too were cult killings. But new elements are present. First of all, the great distance between each killing makes it unlikely that they are the work of one or even two people. The Gypsies swore that the child they saw was a girl. The shoe size found near the bus killing shows that the gunner was a child, but the shoe size is different from either of the previously recorded ones. And the finger prints are not from either of the previous culprits. And the finger prints found on the shower curtain where the mayor was killed are not from either of the two original murderers."
"Some theorize that these are the works of copy-cats, or are simply unrelated. But I believe that the original killers are involved, but have joined forces with other youthful villains. I have some evidence to present. Nelson?"
"Lisa." he said, standing and smiling at his old flame. He walked to the front of the assembly, and produced a sandwich bag containing a bloody steak knife.
"I found this in the dump while lookin' for my breakfast."
"Now, thanks to the lack of morals found in many throughout this town, I was able to bribe the mortician into letting me examine Wiggum's corpse, no questions asked. Nelson delivered this blade to me last night, saying that it might have something to do with the murders. I compared it to the wound in his throat, and it fit. Also, I tested the DNA on the knife using my "Little Meddler's DNA Testing Kit" and it matched Wiggum's. Also, I took special care not to touch the handle before dusting it for prints. I took the finger prints from it and compared them to all those that have been recorded so far. They match those of one of last winter's rapists."
There was much frightened and excited chatter amongst the group, while Nelson and Lisa stood silently at the front.
"Therefore, the killers from this winter are involved. The note said so, and this only validates it. I plan on leaving this blade, along with the DNA test readouts, and some copies of the culprit's prints, on the front steps of the Police Station today.
"I can do it" Ralph said, an unusual seriousness in his now-quaking voice, "We're going there later today to pick up Daddy's stuff."
"Thank you Ralph. I know that this must be a very hard time for you."
"Turkey Jerky…hah-hah, it rhymes!" he giggled as he grabbed the bag filled with vital evidence.
"Lisa," said Martin, politely raising his hand, "This is all well and good, we have found ourselves in our original predicament: who are the killers?"
"Quiet, Poindexter, before I make you a soprano again!"
"Nelson…I was just about to get there, Martin. You see, two pairs of previously-recorded finger prints were found: those on the shower curtain belong to patches, the street kid, whose whereabouts remain unknown, and those on the gas valves of Skinner's stove: Jessica Lovejoy!"
"Gasp!"
"Yes! She was part of the plot, and was caught! But she said nothing, and her rich father bailed her out and has hired the best lawyers in town to defend her. And, of course, he's acting as though she's done nothing wrong and all that jazz. She is the key!"
"Hey Lis!" interrupted Bart, "I thought that you were gonna go Goth and infiltrate their secret underworld and everything. What's the story?"
"I'll have you know, I have." She stepped behind the board. Her jeans fell.
"Woohoo!" called Jimbo.
"Oh, grow up!" snapped Bart in defense of his young sister's purity.
Lisa emerged from behind the board. Her face was painted white, with black eyeliner, eye shadow, and lipstick. A spiky black wig covered her long blonde hair. She wore a black dress with jingling chains hanging from it, and black boots. In her nose was a fake nose ring, and on her fingers were silver rings of snakes, skulls, and bats.
"Say hello to "Erzebet BloodTree"!
"Very convincing," said Jimbo.
"You look good," said Nelson.
"Thank you," she said with a smile.
"If it weren't for the fact that I'm old enough to be your father, I'd say you look hot dressed like that!" said Kearney.
"Umm…thanks."
"So, what have you learned?"
"This: Jessica Lovejoy is a Goth, and is a member of a very exclusive club. They meet in the old spirograph warehouse in Old Warehouse Row. They have ties to Snake, to whom we have traced the murder weapon in the Nahasapimapetilon killings. They also have ties to local drug dealers, as I have been able to discern that they are heavy users. And finally, that they are seriously dark. I mean it. Pentagrams and swastika and everything. They're essentially a mini-coven. They're so bad that even some Goths say that they are a little too into it."
"Can you get in?"
"I can't! Jessica would notice me. She knows me too well. I don't think that I could lie convincingly to them."
"Have you tried?"
"…No…"
"Then do it Lis! This is our only good lead. Meanwhile, me an' the guys will try to get an "internship" with Snake, and see if he'll let us go on the next weapons delivery there."
"Well, it is our only good lead…"
The meeting adjourned. The parents took their children home. Ralph's mother drove past the Police Station on the way home, and came out five minutes later with teary eyes and a cardboard box of her husband's belongings.
The drive home was long and painful for her. Every second, she thought of her poor husband. The funeral would be that Saturday, they had said.
Once home, Ralph ran straight to his room, and bolted the door. He took the bag with the knife, and hid it under his mattress. He then went to his desk, pulled out a change of clothes and a bag of makeup, and went to the bathroom.