The Spokes Critter Killings
Detective Dirk Wagmore dumped his coffee cup in the trash before donning nitrile gloves. The forensics team had been on site long enough to wiggle into their bunny suits, cover the body, and cordon off the area with police tape.
“Victim’s some kind of cartoon rodent,” his partner said. “Fisherman found him floating in the river and called it in.” Detective Liz Torres wore a jacket that covered the 1911 pistol, chambered in 10mm, she wore on her hip but nothing could cover her disdain for Mexican food. It didn’t take Dr. Freud to realize that the heiress to the Guillermo’s Taco empire had daddy issues. The police academy was her way out of a life of carne asada and refried beans. Once she got her badge, she never looked back. “Victim has no ID but from the animation style, I’d guess he was in his mid-forties.”
“What do we have, Joyce?” Wagmore asked the coroner kneeling by the body.
“Choked to death on a 42-ounce cannister of oatmeal.” Dr. O’Brian pulled back the sheet to expose the rodent’s face and neck. “Bruising indicates it was forced down his throat. Lack of swelling means he can’t have been in the water too long. Open sores and bleeding gums indicate the victim had diabetes. Finding his identity’s going to be tough. Cartoons don’t have fingerprints. I’m not sure about DNA and dental records. We might try to run the ink through a gas chromatograph.”
“You must not have watched Saturday morning cartoons in the 80s,” Wagmore said. “That’s Lenny the Cornflake Chipmunk. He was always running scams to get breakfasts that rodents weren’t supposed to have. Looks like we’ve got ourselves…”
“Don’t say it, Wagmore.” Torres put her fingers in her ears.
“…a cereal killer.”
***
The demon Mephistopheles appeared in the scholar’s study.
“What is your wish?”
“That you will provide me with Bruckner’s Cornflakes as long as I live.” The disguised Lenny the Chipmunk closed a leather-bound book of spells.
“I am a servant of great Lucifer and may do nothing without his command.”
“And what would convince Lucifer to command thee?”
“Your immortal soul.”
“I would be damned a thousand times for just one bowl of Bruckner’s Cornflakes,” Lenny replied.
“Then sign this contract in blood.” Mephistopheles handed Lenny a parchment and a blade to nick his finger.
“Woo Hoo!” Lenny ran around the study and his robe fell off revealing a rodent body.
“Foolish Chipmunk. Cornflakes are for humans!” Mephistopheles disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Bruckner’s Cornflakes – So tasty you’ll sell your soul for just one bite,” the announcer said.
“That’s one of the tamer ones.” Captain Barkless turned off the VCR. “No doubt, Lenny made a lot of enemies with the Decency Council. Start by interviewing people who knew him.”
“Got it, Captain.” Wagmore and Torres left Barkless’s office.
***
“Seen this chipmuck before?” Wagmore slapped a photo on the bar.
Of all the cereal cafes in all the world, Skim City had to be the worst. Even in mid-afternoon, teens with pimply skin, gaunt women with bitter frown lines, and overweight bikers whose denim vests revealed prison tattoos crowded the dimly lit room with their desperate craving for sugar, corn syrup, and carbohydrates. A TV over the dispensers showed an animated Wanda, the Woke Walrus, emphasizing the importance of inclusive language. The cereal tender picked up the photo.
“Naw, we don’t serve no rodents in here.” He was too skinny to be sampling the product.
“Look again.” Wagmore tapped the photo.
“Hey!” A biker sprang from his stool and grabbed Wagmore by the shoulder. “The man said he didn’t see him!”
Torres swung the biker around. After two quick slaps, she captured one of his hands in a wristlock and pointed her big pistol at his eye.
“Nice place you’ve got here.” Wagmore showed his badge. “Be a shame if the health department found some expired cereal containing red dye number two. We’re investigating a murder so look again.”
“All right. I seen him.” The cereal tender wiped spilled milk off the bar. “Understand we can’t keep rodents out of here if they wearing disguises like top hats, football jerseys, of they dressed like pirates. Always going on about how he used to be famous and hitting up my customers to buy him puffed rice. Felt sorry for the guy so I gave him a little oatmeal now and again.”
“When did you last see him?”
“About a week ago. Said he had some big score that would put him back on top.”
“Any idea what?”
“Said something about getting the old gang back together.”
The TV cut to a commercial with a man in a plaid shirt standing by a horse.
“Seems five-hundred-million dollars doesn’t buy as much as it used to. Like you, I’ve had to cut back by buying my daughter a Porsche instead of the Bugatti she wanted.” He placed a saddle on the horse and continued talking while tightening the straps. “Used to be, you could kill a hooker and pay the police chief to make the body disappear. Those days are gone thanks to the Washington elites and their big-government allies. I still believe America is the land of opportunity where anyone from a wealthy family can build a sweatshop or dig a strip-mine in a national park. That’s why I’m running for mayor. Even though I’m a billionaire, I need your checks for twenty-five, a hundred, or twenty-thousand dollars. I’m George Kintsugi and I approve this message.”
***
Disguised in a trench coat, Lenny entered the Soviet embassy. The scene cut to an interview room where a man with a large jaw sat behind a bust of Lenin.
“You wished to see the resident?”
“These are the specifications for an x-ray laser used in the Strategic Defense Initiative.” Lenny slid an envelope across the desk. “I can get more.”
“And what do you want in return?” The KGB agent opened the envelope and studied the papers.
“A lifetime supply of Bruckner’s Cornflakes.”
“We prefer an ongoing relationship. How about a month’s supply for every batch of documents you deliver?”
“Woo Hoo!” Lenny danced around the room and his trench coat fell off revealing his rodent body.”
“Foolish Chipmunk. Cornflakes are for humans!” The KGB agent pocketed the secrets.
“Bruckner’s Cornflakes – So tasty you’ll betray your country for just one bite.”
***
“Dean Shumway?” Wagmore showed his badge. “I’m Detective Wagmore and this is Detective Torres. Mind if we come in?”
“Sure.” Shumway ushered them into a living room, gestured to a leather sofa, and took a seat on a bearskin rug in the middle of the floor. He was wiry with blue eyes and a beard that was white with age.
“Do you own a gun, Mr. Shumway?” Torres pointed to the antelope and cape buffalo heads mounted on the walls.
“Bow hunting,” Shumway replied. “Just like our ancestors did for thousands of years.”
“When was the last time you saw Lenny, the Cornflake Chipmunk?” Wagmore asked.
“Saw it on the news. Real tragedy but it was bound to happen.”
“What do you mean?” Torres asked.
“If somebody didn’t kill him, the processed foods would have gotten him eventually. After I starred in all those cornflake commercials, I realized the human body wasn’t designed for that kind of diet. Tried to convince Lenny but he wouldn’t listen. Had a blow up three years ago. Haven’t spoken to him since.”
“Where were you on Tuesday night?” Wagmore asked.
“Giving a seminar at the Mukherjee Center.” Shumway pointed to a hardcover he’d authored, titled The Neanderthal Diet.
“Know anybody who would want to hurt Lenny?” Torres asked.
“You might check with our costar, Maggie,” Shumway said. “There were rumors of sexual harassment on set.”
As they were leaving, Wagmore noticed a Kintsugi for Mayor bumper sticker on Shumway’s Porsche.
***
The interview had to wait because Wagmore got a call about a dead body in the hills. The deceased was none other than Wanda, the Woke Walrus. Her maid found her unresponsive by the pool and called it in.
“Energy drinks, Adderall, and methamphetamine.” Dr. O’Brian pointed to the cans and bottles strewn by the body.
“Could it be foul play?”
“My guess is an overdose or suicide. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“Seems like she couldn’t get woke enough,” Wagmore said.
***
Adolph Hitler shook his fist and ranted in front of a giant eagle and swastika while thousands of fanatical followers cheered.
“Excuse me, Mr. Fuhrer,” Wanda, the Woke Walrus, raised her hand from the front row. “You forgot to tell us your pronouns.”
“He, him, his.” Hitler slapped his forehead. “Mein Gott! I’ve been wrong all this time.”
Black-and-white, newsreel footage played backwards. A building reassembled as a bomb rose and attached to a Stuka’s belly. German troops marched backwards retreating through the Arc de Triomphe.
“Always remember.” Wanda wagged her finger. “Language has power.”
***
“Two advertising mascots dead in two days! There has to be a connection, Captain!”
“Damn it, Wagmore! Homicide doesn’t have the budget for you to chase wild-goose chases. Dr. O’Brian said the walrus died of an overdose so drop it.”
“Yeah, just like the aardvark killer. The department never has the budget when it comes to saving toons’ lives.”
“That was thirty years ago.” Barkless fixed Wagmore with a stare he’d perfected over decades as a beat cop, a stare that could fill gangbangers’ intestines with icicles. “These deaths are isolated incidents. Now, get out of my office.”
“Come on, Dirk.” Torres put a hand on Wagmore’s shoulder. “We’ve got work to do.”
***
“My parents never liked him.” Maggie Haywood sipped her drink through a straw. Taking a break from shooting a toonbang, she’d covered her nudity with a blue, nylon robe while a herd of toon rhinos and their ox pecker fluffers waited for the next scene. “Lenny and I were both sixteen but dad said he was over a hundred in chipmunk years. Anyway, the studio offered a cash settlement for my parents to forget the whole thing.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Torres asked.
“Twenty years ago. After the settlement, my parents moved us to Ohio. Said it was a more family-friendly atmosphere.” Air bubbled in the straw as Maggie finished her drink. “I followed his career, though. He was more than a mouthpiece for cornflakes. He wanted to play King Lear.”
“Know anybody who would hurt him?” Wagmore asked.
“My parents but they cashed in that big poker chip in the sky after a fifth-wheel sideswiped their minivan in Vegas.” Maggie nodded toward the director. “I got to go back to work. If I can help, let me know.”
“Thanks for your time,” Torres said.
***
His hair cut in a mohawk, Dean approached Lenny, who was disguised in a fedora and muscle shirt.
“I’m looking for some action,” Dean said.
“Officer!” Lenny held his wrists together as if in handcuffs. “I’m clean.” He showed that his arms had no tracks. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”
“I ain’t a cop,” Dean said.
“Then why are you asking me for action?”
“She sent me.” Dean pointed to Maggie who wore sunglasses and shorts.
“One box of Bruckner’s Cornflakes for fifteen minutes. Two boxes for twenty-five.”
“I don’t know,” Dean said.
“I promise you ain’t never had pussy like that.”
“All right.” Dean produced two boxes from beneath his olive-drab jacket.
“Woo Hoo!” Lenny danced around and his fedora fell off, revealing his rodent head.
“Foolish Chipmunk. Cornflakes are for humans!” Dean retrieved the boxes.
“Bruckner’s Cornflakes – So tasty you’ll pimp your sister.”
***
“Looks like a flightless bird took a swan dive off the thirteenth floor.” Dr. O’Brian pulled back the sheet for the detectives to see the body bleeding purple ink.
“Can’t say I feel sorry. That’s Oscar, the Obedient Ostrich.” Torres leaned forward for a better look. “When I was growing up, my parents told me and my sister to be more like Oscar. Funny thing. They never said that to the boys.”
“Detectives, I think you should see this.” A uniformed officer motioned Wagmore and Torres to a stairwell marked with an arrow and a sign that said, “This way.”
The detectives trudged up the stairs, followed the signs to exit onto the roof, and stopped by one that pointed over the edge saying, “Step here.”
“That dodo was too dumb to live,” Wagmore said.
***
Oscar and an eel sat in a secure room.
“These documents prove our government has known the Vietnam war is unwinnable for decades.” Eelsberg pointed to a stack of papers marked Top Secret. “We need to inform the public.”
“Don’t do it.” Oscar grabbed Eelsberg by the shoulders. “Even though we have security clearances, President Nixon knows more about the situation than we do.”
“You’re right. We must trust our superiors.” Eelsberg sat down.
The following day, Oscar showed the headline on the New York Times that said, “Hanoi Surrenders!”
“You were right all along.” Eelsberg shook Oscar’s wing. “Always obey the authorities. They know more than you do.”
***
“So, you were right, Wagmore,” Captain Barkless said. “What do you want? A citrus, caramel sundae?”
“With toasted almonds.”
“Damn it, Wagmore!” Captain Barkless left and returned thirty minutes later with Wagmore’s sundae. “There! So, some serial killer is bumping off the most annoying cartoon characters in Jupiter City. What are we going to do about it?”
“Shame we have to do anything at all.” Torres picked an almond off of Wagmore’s sundae. “Jupiter City would be a better place without those lowlifes.”
“Agreed!” Captain Barkless looked at the dessert and touched his expanding waistline. “The citizens don’t care but mayoral candidate George Kintsugi’s making noises. If he gets elected, it could affect our budget.”
“We could. Excuse me.” Wagmore swallowed. “Stake out potential victims.”
“Who are the most annoying cartoon characters in Jupiter City?” Captain Barkless stroked his chin.
“For my money, they would be Barry, the Union-Busting Bear, and Gilbert, the Gospel-Quoting Gopher.” Torres answered.
“Sounds like a plan,” Barkless said. “Wagmore, take the gopher. Torres, you’ve got the bear.”
***
Wagmore parked his Ford Crown Victoria in front of an A-framed church on Inspiration Way. He entered and found the cartoon gopher kneeling in front of a large cross behind the pulpit. Even in animation, Gilbert’s suit looked drab and unflattering.
“Excuse me, Mr. Gopher. I’m Detective Dirk Wagmore. We’re concerned about your safety. Have you received any threats?”
“Do you believe in Jesus, Detective?” Gilbert adjusted his plastic-rimmed glasses.
“I don’t think about it much.”
“Whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
“Right.” Wagmore realized it was going to be a long day. “Let me check the locks on your windows.”
***
Later that night, Wagmore’s cell phone rang.
“Dirk, I’m screwed,” Torres said. “I stepped out for fifteen minutes to get some chicken and waffles. When I came back, I saw Barry, the Union-Busting Bear, getting into a limo with George Kintsugi. I tailed them to the abandoned plutonium mine on Racine. I need backup but if I call it in, the captain will have my ass.”
“On my way.” Wagmore dashed to his car.
Even with lights flashing, it took Wagmore twenty minutes to drive across town. When he skidded to a halt in the parking lot, there was no trace of a limousine or Torres’ Dodge Charger. He rushed to the entrance and peered inside.
“Hello.”
The only response was the sound of his echo and smell of alpha particles. Wagmore called Torres but there was no signal. His police radio had no reception, either. It must have been the radiation.
“Shit!” Wagmore slapped his head. “The gopher!”
He jumped in his car and raced back to the church.
***
“Drop your gun or the gopher gets it!” Torres held Gilbert from behind with her pistol to his head.
“We can talk about this, Liz.” Wagmore placed his pistol on the floor and raised his hands.
“Sucker!” Torres fired two rounds into Wagmore’s chest. The hollow points expanded as they ripped through his lungs and he died choking on blood.
Torres scooped up Wagmore’s pistol and executed Gilbert, the Gospel-Quoting Gopher, just like she’d killed Lenny, Wanda, and Oscar. She’d hated cute characters who propagandized little minds, too young for fact checking, ever since Marco, the Manteca Marmot, had crashed her quinceañera. Once the heat cooled down, she’d introduce Barry, the Union-Busting Bear, to an industrial shredder. After that, she’d knock off Frances, the Family Values Fox and those porcupines on the toilet paper ads. She wiped her fingerprints off Wagmore’s pistol, placed it in his dead hand, and prepared for the best acting of her life.
“This is Torres,” she sobbed into the police radio. “It was Wagmore. He killed all of them. I tried to save Gilbert but I was too late.”