A Series of Firsts

Dear Detective Randall Hawthorne,

I am writing in response to the ad placed in the Sunnyvale Post on May 21st, 2021 (pg.7). I can’t recall a time I’ve been more delighted to be able to assist in the capture of a fugitive. I've sent in a tip here and there when I thought I could offer some insight, but this one excites me. I can finally contribute in a meaningful way. All my life I’ve found the cat and mouse chase of detective and criminal so fascinating. Strands of DNA discovered years after the initial incident, bones found on the side of the highway, an old murder weapon found behind some drywall… It takes a sharp eye to catch the small stuff and lots of training and skill (or so the documentaries say). But it doesn’t hurt to get a helping hand from an outsider every now and again, right?

Let me start by saying that the image of the old barn in the ad takes me back, reminded me of the farm where I grew up. Made me feel nostalgic. So much so that I made a trip back home for a visit. My family’s gone now, but the old barn on the property still stands. Looking at her now, she’s showing her age. Reddish-brown paint is peeling away from the weather-beaten wood. I remember when that paint was bright red and freshly coated.

Did it myself.

That was the first time I learned about the value of a hard-earned dollar. Dad showed me what needed to be done and paid me for my labor. It was a measly ten dollars for a whole hell of a lot of work, but it was enough to buy a few weeks’ worth of candy and some baseball cards.

That barn was the setting for a lot of my firsts: my first pet (mom surprised me with Chevy, a Dalmatian pup), the first time I broke a bone (I fell off the strutting beam and landed on my forearm), the first time I feared for my life…

That last one was quite the experience. You see, my mother was out of town for a few days and my father took it upon himself to bring another woman into their bed. I caught him, and he caught me catching him. I didn’t understand what was going on at the time, but it all made sense a few years down the road. To ensure I didn’t squeal, my father locked me under a trap door that was hidden in the back corner of the barn.

He left me under there for two days.

No food. No water. It was a tiny space, though big enough for a day’s supply of air for a child. I suspect my father must have let more air in while I slept. The space was devoid of external sound. Sometimes I would mutter something to make sure my hearing was still intact. I tried screaming. I assumed someone would come and save me. I hoped Chevy would hear my screams and bark wildly until I was released. But it didn’t happen. My father let me out forty-eight hours later. Once I was freed, he got down to my level and said, “Did you like it in there?”

I shook my head, my little fists wiping the tears from my eyes.

“You ever want to go in there again?” he asked.

I screamed, “No!” Not intentionally, but instinctually. It was the worst experience of my life.

Still is.

He grabbed me by the shoulders, straightened my face to force eye contact, and said, “If you ever tell your mother or anyone else that you saw me with that woman I’ll throw you in there for a lot longer. Do you understand me?”

I nodded. And until this day I haven’t told anyone. Anyone except for you, detective.

I wondered why my dog hadn’t heard me. So I did a little experiment. I took Chevy out to play one evening and brought him in the barn. I removed the equipment and the tarp that my father had placed on the trap door, opened it up, and placed Chevy inside. I closed the door and locked it. It sealed shut like one of those old refrigerators from the fifties. So began my quick test. I said, “Speak.”

Nothing.

I put my ear to the trap door, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I commanded Chevy to speak again, but this time with my lips close to the handle of the door. Still nothing. Then I banged on the door. I was sure that would get him barking. I leaned close, and could only hear the sounds of the animals out on the farm.

I opened the trap door, I didn’t want to subject Chevy to that horror for too long. I knew what it was like after all. As soon as the trap door creaked open, I could hear a mix of high-pitched whining and barking.

Chevy was never the same with me again. Sure, he would come and play with me while inside our home, but anytime he saw me anywhere near the barn he’d turn tail and run back to the house. That’s one of the few regrets in my life. That dog didn't deserve such a scare.

After the experiment, I couldn’t help but wonder why my father would have such a thing in the barn. Did he have it installed? Was it put in place by a previous property owner? Did it have a specific function? I did my best to avoid the trap door, especially when my father was anywhere nearby in the barn. He sensed my hesitancy.

I didn't avoid the barn altogether though. It was still a cool place to go, and it was a great place to hang out with my friends without my parents hovering over me. As I said, it was the scene of a lot of my first experiences. I had my first kiss (Jenny Spencer), tried my first cigarette, and smoked weed for the first time. I even went all the way for the first time right in the barn.

That was with Gracie Wheeler.

I do believe that was when I experienced love for the first time. Talk about a two-for-one: sex and love. We had some wonderful times in that barn.

On Wednesday nights she and I would hang out with my best friend Frank. The three of us would get high, listen to rebellious tunes, and enjoy each other’s company. Those were the good days.

I had baseball practice on Wednesday afternoons, so I usually didn't get home till later in the evening. They'd usually be there waiting for me in the barn, booze in hand. But one particular Wednesday, I decided to skip baseball. I wanted to hang out with Chevy and catch up on some of my favorite shows before seeing Gracie and Frank. A few episodes in, I heard a low grumbling from Chevy. I looked out the window and saw Gracie and Frank heading to the barn. I ran upstairs and freshened up. I wanted to scare them.

Once I was ready, I sneaked toward the barn. I peeked into one of the ajar windows, making sure not to make a sound.

And there it was: my first heartbreak.

Frank’s hand was up Gracie’s skirt. She was giggling. She’d said that they needed to make it quick in case I finished practice early. So I watched. Every last bit. I was mesmerized by the act. How could two people be so awful? How long had they been doing this? Did she ever love me? But most importantly: why? At that moment I couldn't think of a worse incident in the entirety of my life. Then I recalled something worse: the trap door.

I'm sure you’re wondering why I’m telling you this whole long story detective, but I promise it has a point. The thing is, that barn was essentially a parent to me. It saw me through many of my first experiences. It saw me through both turbulence and bliss. Believe it or not, the old barn is where I took my first step.

So it’s only right that it was the scene of my first murder.

Double homicide actually. You may think that I snapped, but I’d prefer to say that everything clicked into place. My life goal became clear: punish the unfaithful. My dad had it all wrong. I shouldn’t protect someone’s infidelity, I should penalize it.

While Frank was zipping up his trousers, I stormed into the barn, slammed the door behind me, grabbed the shovel to my right, and smashed it into his temple. Down he went. Gracie was horror-struck (which is understandable). She kept apologizing, but I knew it didn’t mean anything. Like when she told me that she loved me. Her words were worthless.

I threatened to hit her with the shovel if she screamed. My mother and father weren’t home yet, so it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I forced her into the back corner of the barn with the edge of the shovel, tied her up, opened the trap door, and threw her in. Now, I didn’t want her to get lonely, so I threw Frank’s corpse in there with her. It was a tight fit, but I made it work. She kept saying how sorry she was and that she wouldn’t tell anyone so long as I let her go. Of course, I didn’t believe it. I shut the trap door.

I’ll admit I wavered. During the first few hours in which I knew she was still alive, I contemplated letting her free. That small space may have held a day’s worth of air for a kid, but it would only provide six or seven hours for someone Gracie’s size. Less if she were screaming. I went by the trap door a few times with my hand outstretched ready to release her. But I didn’t.

After a few days, I went back to the old barn. The deed was done at that point. I walked toward the trap door. You might not be able to hear what's in there, but you can smell it. The effluvium that emanated from it made my nose wrinkle, but once I opened it… Oh god, the stink. But you know that smell detective. I’ve come to like that smell now.

It smells like justice.

The funny thing is that no one ever suspected me of their deaths. And when my dad “left”, again, no suspicion. Everyone believed the note about his leaving for good, getting away from the farm life. The whole town figured him out for the unfaithful piece of trash that he was. You can't hide it forever. It wasn’t an unbelievable story by any stretch. I trapped him while alive with the bones of Gracie and Frank for a little payback (with interest), but have since moved his remains. Had to make room for others. I would tell you where I’ve hidden him, but that would make it too easy for you.

After all these years, I’ve been waiting for someone to discover one of the bodies (Congratulations!). But now I’m bored. You’re taking too long to make the connections, so I’m expediting the process. Help me help you, detective. You have a link, now use it. I do warn you, however, on my trip to Sunnyvale, I’ve taken three captives, and they're all in separate locations. None are dead yet. I’ve personally dropped this letter off at your door—sorry, I couldn't help myself—at around seven a.m. on June 12th. And as of this time, they’ve each got about thirty-two hours of air left.

Maybe less if they're screaming.

Good luck.

Yours,

The former Samuel Widner