The news pops up on my phone from multiple sources for which I have free apps. I am stunned. Two homeless guys are attacked by and kill Big Foot.
I want to believe their Big Foot is not Harold Piegrand whom I met yesterday. How do I confirm without breaking my promise not to tell anyone about Harold? I must return to the cave ASAP.
Soon after Melissa leaves for work, I head out to walk the Greenway Passage. I reach the section of the passage just above the section of Pigeon Creek where the cave – the whole in the side of the hill – dwells.
Yellow caution tape used to mark investigated crime scenes are visible even from the walkway. I cannot describe my emotions at that moment when I knew Harold Piegrand was gone. I stand motionless not knowing what to do.
Suddenly, I remember Harold’s journal. My first thought is to head on down to the cave and see if it is there and retrieve it and take it home. Then, I spy again the yellow caution tape.
I move on down the hill closer to the creek until I stand right up next to the yellow makeshift border now dividing public and authorized access.
I look back up the hill to the walkway. I glance left and right. I peer past the overgrown grass and weeds that follow the creek’s path. I see no one around to deny me access. I demand my rights as a citizen of Evansville and assume authority status and cross over into the crime scene.
I begin to feel anxious and guilty. I have rebelled against authority and walked over into criminal status. Almost as quickly as the feeling came I dismiss it. I conjure up justification. This is what my friend Harold would want me to do.
Down deep I have no clue what Harold wants. I only know what I want. I want to read more of his journal. I want to be the one who shares with the world who Harold “Big Foot” Piegrand was.
I enter the cave. I see the bound bundle mix of paper and wood. I pick them up and immediately my spirit tells my mind I am doing something wrong. My will wins out though. I leave with a small stirring of guilt in my heart and Harold’s journal in my hand.
My steps are more rapid as I leave the crime scene. I refuse to look around as I cross the caution tape boundary. I tell myself again that I am doing the right thing. I hope no authority catches me because I cannot think of any good reason why it’s the right thing.
I make it home with the bundle. I didn’t get caught, so now I’m sure it was the right thing to do. I can’t wait to read what Harold has written.
I discover that Harold loves to read. As a lonely kid, Harold found solace absorbed in books.
I spend several hours pouring over scraps of paper bags, ragged notebook paper and even chunks of bark. The content ranges from anecdotes to activities to philosophy to prophecy written in pen or crayon or what looks like blackberry juice.
Suddenly, out of the blue, l become aware of my heartlessness. Like one who sees a blemish when looking into the mirror. I had become self absorbed with this bundle that I nearly forgot about Harold Piegrand’s death.
Where is his body? Is there anyone who mourns his death? What do the good people of Evansville, Indiana do for a homeless person who dies?
My wondering leads to me wandering Google, local organizations’ websites, social media pages and I also made a few calls leaving my name and number. I wait for a response from any of the sources by reading over Harold’s journal.
Around five-ish, Melissa makes it home from work. She looks emotionally drained. Her face drawn and her eyes drooping. I hold off telling her about Harold. We usually sip a cup of coffee and she tells me enough of the events of her day without violating HIPPA regulations or I hear about the amount of work she has disproportionate with the time she has left to get it done or both when they happen to collide.
Some nights, she pours the coffee hands me a cup, takes a sip from hers and begins to prepare dinner. This is one of those nights. The Harold Piegrand story must wait.
While we eat dinner, we watch ABC World News Tonight with David Muir usually recorded. Just as I fork a goodly portion of steamed mixed vegetables, Mr. Muir informs, “When we return Sasquatch killed in Evansville, Indiana.”
Melissa turns to me wide-eyed, “Yes, I heard it on the radio. It happened right around here.” She points toward the levee.
“I heard it on the news, too. But they’re wrong. It’s not Sasquatch. His name is… was Harold Piegrand. I met him yesterday while walking the Greenway.”
Melissa gives me the coldest stare. I think she’s trying to see if I’m teasing her. I think she knows I’m serious, but hopes I’m joking and waiting for the punchline.
“I have his journal,” I says.
Her fork crashes to her plate rattling around in such a clatter that Jasper, our male tuxedo cat jumps from the top of the couch and into our bedroom closet startling Paisley, our female cat lying on the floor to follow him.
David Muir returns and sends us to another reporter who is on live in Evansville at the Greenway Passage pointing to the yellow tape boundary of the crime scene.
“Behind me is where Gavin Simon and Owen Truman were attacked by who they claim was Big Foot.
“During the attack, to save his friend Owen, Mr. Simon stabs and kills Big Foot. They immediately report it to a police officer on duty nearby who also claims he pursued earlier someone or something who fits the description of the deceased.
“Big Foot’s or whoever’s body is now with the local coroner. Mr. Truman and Mr. Simon are being held in custody by the Evansville Police Department.
“This is Alan Langley reporting from Evansville, Indiana. David, back to you.”
“And Doug Knight holds possible evidence taken from the crime scene in custody at his home,” Melissa gives me the evil eye.
Categories: Author Confession
I write about what I'm thinking or what I've imagined in an effort to regain that childhood imagination and marry with my many years of real experiences. I'm getting better at it the more I write.I am a published author of two romantic intrigue novels.My books can be found at Amazon.com or if you want a personalized copy, by emailing me at firstname.lastname@example.org.