The Case of Dead Stan, By Sara Spring

My name is Charlie McPhearson and I’m eight years old, three months and two days shy of a ripe old age of nine. I was in third grade until my teacher realized that I was reading Treasure Island and understood the premise, now I’m with a bunch of fourth graders that all look down at me since I am so short for my age. Adjusting to these strangers was difficult but I have been befriended by a boy named Chaz. We usually buddy around and go exploring. He tells me all about his dungeons and dragons cards which I am still not sure I want to participate in as I think it might stunt my emotional growth but maybe give me access to a larger group of peers- at least that is how he puts it. I got assigned to this case a few hours ago when Chaz decided to see his girlfriend a couple of blocks over. She isn’t really his girlfriend; he just sort of hangs around her house sometimes and says stupid things to her about what she’s wearing. When I first arrived at the scene, it seemed likely that the Olsen’s twins were involved but when I looked over everything again, I realized that the MO was completely off.  The Olsen twins liked to pull the legs off of spiders in their spare time but since the victim’s head was immersed in water, the cause of death by all accounts was drowning. Scanning the area for clues, I came upon empty boxes of Parliaments and broken small bottles of Schnapps. Scratching my head I wondered to myself who drank Schnapps? Then I remembered that old Mrs. Skeener, who liked to bake me sugar cookies with bright orange frosting, was always drinking out of small bottles and even though I sure liked those sugar cookies I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she could be my first suspect in the case. My stomach began to emit loud noises of hunger as I walked in the direction of her house.

Ringing the doorbell, I peered anxiously inside her house through the screen door. “Mrs. Skeener!” I called out. Her shaky voice came from the kitchen telling me to come in and join her. Eagerly throwing open the screen door, the smell of freshly baked cookies made my mouth water. Sitting down at the kitchen table, I watched greedily as she loaded them onto a plate for me, my eyes widening at the sight. Excitedly, I drummed my fingertips together and licked my lips in a display of delight.

As I sank my teeth into the soft, warm cookies a grave thought entered my head. What if she was involved and Olsen twins were bribing her for more treats? “Are you going to give any of these cookies to the Olsen twins?” They were still suspects and in the likely event that they were guilty, I wanted to make sure that as part of their punishment they were deprived of my cookies.

“Well, if they want some they can stop by and ask.” She offered kindly.

I’d have to gather more evidence to present to her if I was going to get my way. Pointedly, I asked if she smoked Parliaments.

Displaying horror she replied adamantly, “Oh, heavens, no! Why do you ask Charlie?”

“I was down by the lake and I found some. I’d like to return them. Do you know anyone that does?”

“Mr. Blake, but I don’t think he could have been down near the water.”

“Why’s that?” I asked with my mouth filled with sweet orange frosting.

“Well, he is in a wheelchair.”

“Why, what happened to him?”

“I believe there was an accident at the mill when we were all younger. Broke his back and couldn’t walk again.” She sighed, her watery eyes glazing over as she recalled her youth.

“What was he like then? Were you in love in with him?” I could sense her nostalgia. Focused her watery eyes on me she smiled wistfully. It was time for me to go, so I thanked her politely for the delicious cookies and headed out to Mr. Blake’s house.

Licking my sticky fingers, I traded her doilies and living room for the warm sunny weather. Mr. Blake only lived a few blocks away and as I walked to his house I stopped in at the mini mart. Putting a crumpled few dollars onto the counter, I ordered a pack of Parliaments in a gruff voice like what the adults do when they buy smokes. Mr. Singh peered at me curiously, “What are you going to do with those?”

“Mr. Blake needs some more smokes.”

Satisfied with my answer he slapped the new box on the counter.

Mr. Blake sat in his wheelchair on the front porch with a blanket over his legs, “What are you doing here, kid?”

“I thought I would stop by with some of these.” Holding the pack out to him as a peace offering, he gave a gruff grunt as his fast thin cold fingers snatched them up.  Promptly he lit two cigarettes handing one to me. Mimicking his puff, I let out the smoke with a large cough and the elderly man laughed, “You didn’t have to take it, kid.”

Deciding to take it like a man, I straightened my back, peered at him through the slits of my eyes and said in a cool voice, “I’m glad I did.”

Mr. Blake shook his head in amusement. “What do you really want?”

None of the kids in the neighborhood ever came around to his place, but as I surmised the area I took a liking to what I saw. There were bits of wood and carved miniatures that Mr. Blake had created and the intricate workmanship was impressive. When I was finished with this case I resolved to learn more about his hobby. “If you ever need any cigarettes I can get them for you if you teach me how to make these figures.”

The old man looked me up and down and didn’t say a word.

“I was just advanced a year ahead at school.” Offering this bit of personal information should show that I wasn’t your typical flighty child.

“What grade does that put you at?”

“Fourth, but I wish that my teacher would put more of a challenge in front of me. I have potential that I am not exceeding. I can feel it wasting away.”

“I usually get myself a new pack of smokes once every two days, about four o’ clock.”

“Yessir! I have to go now but I will be back in two days by four o’clock.”

I bounded off the steps of his porch and rubbed the cigarette out on the road with the bottom of my shoe. The old man was in a wheel chair so there was no way he could have murdered the poor opossum of whom I decided to call Stan. Setting off in the direction of the water’s edge, I wanted to see if there were any other clues to gather. Upon reaching the scene of the crime, I bent over to examine the dead animal. The state of decay was momentarily interesting; I’d never seen anything like it before. Pondering as to when the death had happened, it occurred to me that eventually I would suffer the same fate. My body would stop working and I would die, my flesh eventually matching the same state of decay. I wonder what would happen to my thoughts when I die. I wonder where they went. Trying to imagine living without thoughts, I started to visualize someone drowning poor Stan out of anger only to sit near his poor lifeless body and smoke a cigarette, maybe drink a bottle of Schnapps to refresh his self. Why would someone kill an opossum?

Bicycles came up behind me and I heard the familiar voice of an Olsen twins shout out, “McPhearson, what are you doing?”

I didn’t say anything.

“McPhearson!” Keeping my back to them I remained silent as they taunted me. I wished Chaz was here.

“McPhearson is that a dead animal that you are staring at?” I felt my face getting hot, and I flashed them an angry scowl.  With a grin they both looked at each other, I could see this was about to get out of control.

“McPhearson is a freak!” They laughed.

I started to head home, behind me I heard them breaking into a chant, a television show I wanted to watch was probably close to coming on.