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[HR=3][/HR]Time/Location: 11am/Krenshaw Trailer Park
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Lonnie (@p r i s m)
The year is 2003. Yancey Klump is eight years old. He's just been bitten by a chihuahua named Monterrey Jack.
It's all sound and fury there in the backyard of some long forgotten household. Yancey is screaming bloody murder while the other birthday guests, each head steepled by a colorful party hat, watch from a safe distance. They were just about to cut into the cake. Monterrey Jack has his teeth dug into Yancey's left ankle. Yancey has fallen to the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks. Panicking parents are running across the yard. Monterrey Jack growls as his head moves back and forth, left and right, trying to rip and tear and maim despite his diminutive size. The hired magician smokes a cigarette behind the bushes while the whole scene unfolds. The bouncy castle sits unused. There's blood. Lots of it. Two hours later, Yancey's in a hospital room getting stitches. He develops a lifelong fear of dogs, birthday parties, and magicians.. These things happen. You know how it is.
So years later, when Yancey found himself in a Krenshaw Trailer Park staring down at a dead chihuahua with its head cleaved in twain by some apparent canine terminator, he felt disgust and schadenfreude in equal measure.
"Welp. There it is," Carlos Del Campo, the trailer park's manager, said. "Dead as a doornail. Fifth one since last Tuesday. Hell of a thing, ain't it?"
"Jiminy Cricket," Yancey exclaimed.. "Five dead dogs in five days? That's a heck of a thing, Mr. Del Campo. Heck of a thing."
"S'why I called," Carlos said. "Don't get me wrong; I ain't got much use for dogs. Always been more of a cat person. This has the locals all riled up, though. Someone sneaking around, murdering their pups. It's like murdering family, ain't it? Can't have it. Hell of a thing."
"No sir," Yancey said. "Can't have it. Not at all. Has anyone seen or heard anythingā¦ suspicious? I can't imagine dog killing is a particularly quiet business. It's a heck of a thing, though."
"Not a peep other than the complaints," Carlos replied. "You know how it is. People keep to themselves in Krenshaw. They only come out when something goes wrong and, you know, I can take care of most things. Hot water on the fritz? All right. Neighbors next door getting rowdy? Okay. Someone killing dogs? Not my wheelhouse; it's a hell of a thing."
"Heck of a thing," Yancey agreed with a nod, jotting something down in his notepad. "All right, Mr. Del Campo. I'll ask around and see if I can get down to the bottom of this mess."
Yancey didn't excel at police work. His mind wasn't built for it, and neither was his body. The paperwork was fine and dandy, but he left most of the investigating and fieldwork to Charlie. Unfortunately, in the wake of Morris Blevins untimely demise, everyone was running around the sheriff's department like the sky was falling. In a lot of ways, it was. Missing people was one thing, but for one of those missing people to turn up half dead on a busy thoroughfareā¦ Well, that was something altogether different, wasn't it? After his second fit of hyperventilation before lunchtime, Charlie suggested he take a trip up to the trailer park. It seemed like a good idea.
"Right," Yancey said to himself, tapping his index finger on his chin. "If I were a dog killer, where would I be?" Yancey didn't have the foggiest idea. Despite his discomfort with caninekind, he couldn't imagine himself ever killing one. He walked between the various trailers along the gravel strewn cul-de-sac, eyes kept peeled as he looked for any hints or leads or, heaven forbid, clues. Yancey imagined himself chasing a would-be dog killer through narrow alleyways, vaulting over overturned garbage cans and debris, with guns drawn and rain pouring. "Freeze, scumbag!" he'd scream. "You have the right to remain silent, but I have the right to remain violent!" He'd pistol whip the baddy to the ground. He'd be a hero. They'd throw a ticker tape parade in his honor.
Yancey didn't even carry a gun, but that was beside the point.
Police work in Krenshaw Trailer Park came with a set of rules that one needed to abide by at all times. First and foremost, it was always safe to assume that nobody liked you. Not really. You were an outsider and a threat to their way of life. Second, when investigating this or that, should the notion of knocking on doors for information strike you, the protocol was very simple: Don't. It's not worth it. At best, you'll wind up with a shotgun pointed in your face. At worst, you'll accidentally interrupt a Nascar race and have a full grown cactus bounced off your head. Ask Officer McDonahue. These things happen. Something in the water, they say.
Weaving between rusted old trailers and between stalwart pink flamingos, Yancey was close to assuming the trail had gone cold. There was nothing any stranger in Krenshaw than usual, and he had hardly seen another living soul once Mr. Del Campo moseyed back to his office. Just as he was getting ready to backtrack to his car, an uncommon, pungent aroma assaulted his nostrils. It carried with it memories of 'the cool kids' that would pick on him in high school, of backseats in uncomfortable situations, of skunks and the DARE program and Tom Petty's best work and other nervous things.
The Devil's Lettuce. Grass. Marihuana.
Yancey had never been one to partake. In fact, the very idea of getting high sent an icy shiver down his spine and made his palms get sweaty. Despite his saxophonist heroes having certain proclivities towards jazz cigarettes, his lungs were as pure as a newborn babe. Cautiously, carefully, Yancey crept around the corner to get a good look at the unwashed pot fiend lurking in the shadows. Could marijuana make someone kill a dog? It was a gateway drug, after all. Did that gateway lead to animal sacrifice?
Probably.
There he stood, resplendent against morning's light, a hammer swinging from his left hand while his right lifted a joint up for a quick toke. Tupoc Emiliano Tlacaelel Solis. Lonnie. The bad boy, the rapscallion, the ne'er-do-well. Yancey couldn't recall a time that they had ever so much as exchanged a glance, but there they were a mere ten feet away from each other, one caught in the crosshairs of Tennessee law and the other tangled in the thoroughly confounding business of being a police officer.
Yancey ducked back behind the corner, feeling that old monster panic rear its ugly head once more. He couldn't even begin to guess how he was supposed to proceed. Did he need to radio it in? Should he call Charlie for advice? Was this his chance to play cowboy, John Woo out from behind cover, and tackle Lonnie to the ground? His fingers quaked. His breath got caught in his chest. The telltale signs of hyperventilation kicked in, trembling jaw and sweat on the forehead.
Deep breath. Stay calm. You are the law.
With gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, hands balled into fists and steam fogging up his glasses, Yancey stepped out from behind the trailer to face Lonnie head on. His ill-fitting uniform made for a terrible silhouette and an even worse shadow. Had this been a scene in a western, it would have been soundtracked by Ennio Morricone. Yancey stood staring in silence for a long, uncomfortable amount of time before he opened his mouth to speak with justice's tongue.
"...hi Mr. Solis! Um... how are you today?"
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