Nobody Loves a Bigfoot Like a Bigfoot Babe by Simon Okill Page A
Authors: Simon Okill
Tags: bigfoot
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by the question. She blew out her cheeks as she looked at the crime scene photos on the board.
"They're evidence of a . . . serial case -the Phantom Bigfoot Bather Case. They're what you might call crime scene photos."
WILLIS TURNED SIDEWAYS to look at the photos. "Yuck . . . food on the toilet!"
He had a look of disgust on his face. And that's exactly how he felt-disgust at his leaving her without a word. He wondered when would be the right moment to broach the all-important subject-the real reason he was back in town-that damned letter. Who sent the letter and who was she thinking of marrying? Now was obviously not the time to ask.
"Precisely," Lou said. "Someone is entering Beaverites' homes . . ." She looked a little sheepish, ". . . which is kinda easy, as most don't lock up at night; and uses the facilities. There've been three such incidents so far. The perp leaves clumps of fur all over the place and remains of a doughnut . . . and a smell that's so bad . . . and when I say
bad
. . . I'm not joking. After every crime scene, we have to wash all our clothing in industrial-strength detergent and still it lingers; then shower using a strong solution of fresh lemon juice . . . but that doesn't really help . . . nothing does."
"Sounds like the sort of thing Duane would do," Willis said.
"Yeah, it sure does," Lou agreed.
"This Duane character is popping up like a red flag," Merlot commented. "Any proof it's him?"
"No proof and no witnesses," Lou replied with a sigh. "We've had the fur analyzed. It's not fur and it's not exactly human hair. It's been contaminated each time, but there are those who think they're Bigfoot hairs due to the large, muddy footprints found all about the place." She cleared her throat, "As for the smell . . . well it's not as if we can analyze that."
"No such thing as Bigfoot," Willis declared.
"Well, what we know so far is nothing-a big fat Bigfoot nothing." Lou paused for a moment then added, "We've searched Duane's cabin for anything to link him to the crime, but found nothing."
Willis shook his head. "Duane's smart for such a dumbass."
"How come no one's seen him do it?" Merlot had a fit of the giggles. ". . . Sorry . . . but this is just too much . . ." Merlot cleared her throat, ". . . What I mean is, why Phantom Bigfoot?"
"That's a good question, Agent Merlot," Lou replied seeming somewhat irritated at the question. "MB works for our local paper, The Busy Beaverite. He thought up the name . . . now it's stuck."
16
TO MOST PEOPLE, the only clear sign of the teenagers' camp at the Little Beaver clearing was the remnants of their campfire. But MB, with his keen, skilled eye, knew what else to look for. He noted the footprints left by the teenagers. Saw where they had pitched tent. Even knew where they had sat around the fire. With a chuckle, MB saw yellow crime scene tape, at the spot where Beau had gone to take a leak.
With the patience of someone who had spent a great deal of his time watching, listening and waiting for Bigfoot to show itself, MB was content to wait for the sheriff and the FBI agents to arrive at the crime scene.
He sat on his small camping stool, passing the time, listening to the sounds of the forest animals. He ate a couple of high fiber bars and drank strong black coffee from a thermos. MB was in his element as he identified the staccato calls of Bewick's wrens, blue jays and black-billed magpies.
In the far distance, MB recognized the booming bugle of elk, the roar of the bear and that strange sound which he could not put a name toâweeeeeeoooooweeeeeoooo. This last animal call echoed around the vast forest like native drums.
MB was a man content to bide his time. There was an Old Indian legend that he adhered to-it said that it is best to be patient with time, to ignore the ticking clock, and not to be in such a hurry to reach the end of one's life. He savored the simple things, no matter how trivial, no matter how humble. It was what life was all
"They're evidence of a . . . serial case -the Phantom Bigfoot Bather Case. They're what you might call crime scene photos."
WILLIS TURNED SIDEWAYS to look at the photos. "Yuck . . . food on the toilet!"
He had a look of disgust on his face. And that's exactly how he felt-disgust at his leaving her without a word. He wondered when would be the right moment to broach the all-important subject-the real reason he was back in town-that damned letter. Who sent the letter and who was she thinking of marrying? Now was obviously not the time to ask.
"Precisely," Lou said. "Someone is entering Beaverites' homes . . ." She looked a little sheepish, ". . . which is kinda easy, as most don't lock up at night; and uses the facilities. There've been three such incidents so far. The perp leaves clumps of fur all over the place and remains of a doughnut . . . and a smell that's so bad . . . and when I say
bad
. . . I'm not joking. After every crime scene, we have to wash all our clothing in industrial-strength detergent and still it lingers; then shower using a strong solution of fresh lemon juice . . . but that doesn't really help . . . nothing does."
"Sounds like the sort of thing Duane would do," Willis said.
"Yeah, it sure does," Lou agreed.
"This Duane character is popping up like a red flag," Merlot commented. "Any proof it's him?"
"No proof and no witnesses," Lou replied with a sigh. "We've had the fur analyzed. It's not fur and it's not exactly human hair. It's been contaminated each time, but there are those who think they're Bigfoot hairs due to the large, muddy footprints found all about the place." She cleared her throat, "As for the smell . . . well it's not as if we can analyze that."
"No such thing as Bigfoot," Willis declared.
"Well, what we know so far is nothing-a big fat Bigfoot nothing." Lou paused for a moment then added, "We've searched Duane's cabin for anything to link him to the crime, but found nothing."
Willis shook his head. "Duane's smart for such a dumbass."
"How come no one's seen him do it?" Merlot had a fit of the giggles. ". . . Sorry . . . but this is just too much . . ." Merlot cleared her throat, ". . . What I mean is, why Phantom Bigfoot?"
"That's a good question, Agent Merlot," Lou replied seeming somewhat irritated at the question. "MB works for our local paper, The Busy Beaverite. He thought up the name . . . now it's stuck."
16
TO MOST PEOPLE, the only clear sign of the teenagers' camp at the Little Beaver clearing was the remnants of their campfire. But MB, with his keen, skilled eye, knew what else to look for. He noted the footprints left by the teenagers. Saw where they had pitched tent. Even knew where they had sat around the fire. With a chuckle, MB saw yellow crime scene tape, at the spot where Beau had gone to take a leak.
With the patience of someone who had spent a great deal of his time watching, listening and waiting for Bigfoot to show itself, MB was content to wait for the sheriff and the FBI agents to arrive at the crime scene.
He sat on his small camping stool, passing the time, listening to the sounds of the forest animals. He ate a couple of high fiber bars and drank strong black coffee from a thermos. MB was in his element as he identified the staccato calls of Bewick's wrens, blue jays and black-billed magpies.
In the far distance, MB recognized the booming bugle of elk, the roar of the bear and that strange sound which he could not put a name toâweeeeeeoooooweeeeeoooo. This last animal call echoed around the vast forest like native drums.
MB was a man content to bide his time. There was an Old Indian legend that he adhered to-it said that it is best to be patient with time, to ignore the ticking clock, and not to be in such a hurry to reach the end of one's life. He savored the simple things, no matter how trivial, no matter how humble. It was what life was all
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