The Girl in the Cornfield and Other Stories from the Wasteland

By James Whitmer

Contained herein are accounts from the Wasteland, a curious realm teetering on the Edge of the Abyss between Heaven and Hell. It is in this oddity of mankind’s own making that choices between good and evil hold center stage and are at the very heart of determining if one, in fact, has a soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663221476

James Whitmer

Mr. Whitmer is a retired F.B.I. Agent, a College Professor, a High School Sports Official in 5 sports, and an Attorney. This is his 5th children’s book and 2nd about mermaids. His avocation is writing and he hopes this book will be as much fun to read as it was to write.

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Copyright © 2021 James Whitmer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2146-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2147-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021908183

iUniverse rev. date:  04/16/2021

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"This book is

dedicated to my two

daughters, Jessica and Lindsey."

The Girl in the Cornfield and other sordid accounts of man’s struggle between good and evil from that curious realm known as the Wasteland.

By James Lyle Whitmer

Presented for your consideration are more intriguing accounts from the Wasteland where the Dark Humor of the Police Subculture, Forensic Science, Investigative Psychology, and the Concepts of Religiosity and One’s Third Persona, confront the true essence of Evil and Criminal Behavior, invariably melding into an amalgam of truth seekers teetering on the edge of the Abyss between Heaven and Hell.

Contents

The Priests

A Portuguese Woman

Estafeta Street

Slow Skies

Mercenaries of Love

Who Killed Minnie Wren?

The Girl in the Cornfield

Dark Places

Imprisoned Doves

The Priests

Chapter 1

Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. The Holy Bible; Ecclesiastes – Chapter 1; Verse 2

S he called it a phone screen. In reality it was nothing more than a few oversimplified questions, one of which centered on asking hard questions. Of course, I could ask hard questions and, more importantly, uncomfortable questions. Thirty plus years of dealing with sociopaths had honed that unique skill in my repertoire but that simple inference could easily have been gleaned just from reading my resume. Perhaps she had misplaced it and was ad-libbing from memory or possibly it was the age difference between us, she being in her late twenties or thereabouts, at least from the sound of her voice, and myself, well, caught in a sand trap on the back nine. But hard questions, how could I delicately put it to her without hurting her feelings and sounding a bit callous and pompous in my demeanor, and destroying any chance of employment with the Archdiocese?

Yes, I said. I hope you can gather from my resume that I have an inordinate amount of experience with interviewing witnesses, as well as interrogating suspects and persons of interest in criminal matters.

I prayed silently to myself in a somewhat selfish way that my response was not offensive to her and was vanilla enough for her to digest without discovering my contempt for ill-conceived and poorly attenuated questions, notwithstanding the fact that her lack of experience in these matters was overwhelmingly obvious.

Yes, I can see that, Mr. Kent, she said calmly and with a voice that bordered on boredom. But what about priests and other clergy? Those are the individuals for whom you will be responsible as a case manager. You do understand that, don’t you? Disenfranchised and defrocked clergy can, more often than not, be somewhat problematic when attempting to establish rapport and especially more so when one poses hard questions.

There it was again, hard questions. How could I not understand that? Those were, more or less, the exact words and hidden meanings found in the job description.

Oh, you’re referring to vanity, I presume, I said, my edginess getting the better of me.

Vanity, yes, some say that’s the way of it, she replied almost in a whisper.

Ah, yes, vanity: excessive pride in, or admiration of, one’s own appearance or achievements. That’s the nut that had to be cracked. That’s the lead curtain of self-denial that had to be penetrated with the subtlety of using a butter knife and not a jackhammer. Hard questions, without a doubt, were the keys that would penetrate the keyhole of vanity and unlock unabated truths and concomitant consequences. So I gathered my thoughts together as best I could and replied as a faithful docent would respond to a learned professor.

Yes, ma’am, I look forward to the challenge and to the moral benefits that will, hopefully, result, I said politely but matter-of-factly.

Chapter 2

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together. The Holy Bible; Ecclesiastes – Chapter 3; Verse 5

H aving maneuvered through the obstacles and curious foibles of the phone screen, I now found myself seated directly across from the good Monsignor in his small and modest study and wondering if our minds would coalesce into an amalgam of perceptive understanding on the plain of good and evil in that desultory realm known as the Wasteland.

He was a rather small man with a pale and frail countenance. His gray hair mirrored the faint glow of his eyes and equated to a man-of-the-cloth who had seen the Abyss first-hand and somehow had escaped from it. He was dressed in a non-descript black cassock of his order. Sitting in his over-sized chair, at times he seemed to almost disappear. For the better part of an hour I listened intently to him, attempting to read his emotions, gauge his mannerisms for non-verbal cues and, hopefully, gain an advantage one requires in leveling the playing field so often encountered in matters of this import. He then leaned forward and with a severe line draped across his face where a mouth should be he addressed me.

These clients, he said, clearing his throat in a peculiar manner that cut the cold air that lingered between us into shards of what I imagined were exorcised sins. These clients are, to say the least, to be afforded the highest degree of confidentiality. They have simply strayed from the proper course of their respective vocations for various and distinct reasons.

You mean they are like wayward sheep who have wandered from the flock, Monsignor?

He hesitated for a moment as if he were gauging my response in black and white instead of in color. He then pursed his pencil-thin lips together and responded as if I were a student in his catechism class.

Hmm, exactly, sir, he said. And they should be treated as such and not like common barefaced criminals. Is that understood, Mr. Kent?

The shrillness that accompanied his temper and the abject temerity in his voice struck me as uncommonly fanatical and bordering on over-protection. In short, the quality of his discourse made me singularly ill at ease as I met the stare of his cloudy gray eyes with mine. It appeared as if we were on a collision course to a debate on absolution without contrition.

I think you are referring to exhibiting the utmost discretion in these matters and, more importantly as you said, confidentiality, I said without expression. And all things relating to the benefit of the doubt being afforded to these clients, as well. Approaching these matters with an open mind and leaving any and all preconceived notions of expected patterns of behavior, and deviations from the norms derived therefrom and which lie at the threshold of compassionate inquiry, would be the objective. These clients, as you say, are simply like cast away stones for whatever reason is unique to them. They simply have to be gathered together again in order to restore their dignity and I will be the gatherer. Does that about sum it up, Monsignor?

He leaned back in his priestly chair that exhibited an odd creaking sound as if a confessional screen was being slid open. Then with a knotty and gnarled hand bejeweled with several rings of the Savior he gently pushed a one-page document across his desk in front of me.

You can start tomorrow, he said. And all that’s required, Mr. Kent, is your signature on the dotted line.

Chapter 3

What is crooked cannot be made straight, The Holy Bible; Ecclesiastes – Chapter 1; Verse 15

Y ou’re talking exorcisms, right? he asked.

He had lost most of his hair after retirement but some wayward, stringy, dirt-brown strands persisted around his flappy ears. He was short and had the physique of a long-used and worn out bowling ball with no definite lines of demarcation visible along his torso. His face was bent-in and ruddy, and his eyes retained that squiggly look that one gets from years of squinting in the dark in small rooms and tight enclosures at electrodes and kill switches. In short, he was the spitting image of what one in our previous profession would call a screwdriver. He was a tech guy, plain and simple, and had installed more wiretaps and assorted bugs and pen registers on unsuspecting miscreants and wise guys than Cleopatra had eunuch attendants kissing her sandals. He had been retired from the FBI a little longer than I had; nonetheless, in excess of twenty-five years in law enforcement had worn away the facade of beating around the bush. So he asked me again in a gravelly voice that was the result of swallowing too much bad gin and not enough olives.

Exorcisms, right? he persisted as he downed the remnants of a gin and tonic, mostly gin and not too much tonic.

No, Scotty, exorcisms are performed by priests. I’m not a priest.

But you did attend the seminary once, right? St. Aloysius, wasn’t it? he said with a boyish smile on his face and a half-ass twinkle in his eyes.

Scotty and I had attended the same Catholic grammar school in Chicago together and were the best of friends but had separated upon graduation. I had entered the seminary and he chose to play football at a well-known Catholic high school in the area. A knee injury his junior year had ended his football career, while discovering puberty and the hormonal rush that followed, not to mention the subtleties and intricate beauty of the opposite sex, had ended my supposed vocation to the priesthood. Through some innate commonality that can only be explained by the stars being properly aligned in the heavens or simple dumb luck, as they say, years later we found ourselves assigned to the same FBI office as Special Agents; he in the capacity of a technical agent, myself working undercover in various drug investigations and profiling sociopathic lowlifes. Now we were presently seated across from each other in a corner booth, in a rundown and dimly lit cop bar on the northside of Chicago and I was trying to get some insight into how I should approach my new job. I always valued second opinions.

Back to square one, Scotty, I said. I’ll be interviewing priests, friars and other clergy who have strayed from the priesthood and have been, as you say, exorcised in a manner of speaking from the church; nonetheless, they have to be accounted for and I am the person that will be doing the accounting. The Archdiocese calls my role case manager and they refer to the disaffected clergy as clients.

He rolled his eyes at me while he mouthed the word clients in apparent disgust and then he called for the waitress and ordered another drink. He was on his third. I was nursing my first.

You can’t change them bastards, he said. You know that.

I did know that but it wasn’t change I was seeking, it was accountability.

Well, I may need your expertise, I said.

How so? he asked, as he speared three olives with a little plastic red parasol and then sucked them down his throat like a sword swallower at the circus.

Social media, e-mails, chat rooms, downloaded and encrypted files, we are in the tech age, you know, and you were a tech agent.

Computer shit, huh? So you still think they’re doing it? he asked.

Does a leopard change its spots? Aren’t you the one who told me there’s no such thing as rehabilitation in these types of cases?

He squinted at me in his peculiar way, took a stiff hit from his drink and then cleared his throat like a pirate before he spoke.

You know, once when I was in Boy Scouts I was hiking along a trail and I picked up a long, crooked stick to use as a walking stick. I tried to straighten it out but it only snapped in half. Some things you just can’t fix, Kent. Is that what you’re getting at?

Sociopaths don’t change, Scotty, especially serial sexual offenders. Once you like chocolate cake you can’t unlike it. You may not eat it again but the urge is still there.

You’re referring to their fantasies, I take it. But how are you going to crack that nut?

Hard questions, I said. Uncomfortable questions.

Better take some holy water with you.

Chapter 4

The First Priest

For a dream comes with much business, and a fool’s voice with many words. The Holy Bible; Ecclesiastes – Chapter 5; Verse 3

I looked at the list that I had been given by my immediate supervisor, a rather tall and a stiff-necked woman with an anorexic build, who neither smiled nor changed the expression on her face as she spoke. Her name was Miss Stites, at least that was the name on the placard on her desk, which simply appeared as a graveyard of paper and assorted paperclips, and replete with yellow sticky pads with notations scribbled on them. She rigidly introduced herself simply as Lois.

Please, review the list, Mr. Kent. It’s your choice where you decide to begin, she said.

The number of so-called clients was beyond what I had imagined it to be. I had to start somewhere, so I chose a client who was living and working on the northside and not far from the bar where Scotty and I had recently met. His name was Jonathan Price, formerly Father Jonathan Price and from a parish located on the southside. He had been, as the Archdiocese termed it, reassigned. Though still technically a priest, he was not allowed to practice the holy rites, nor was he allowed to associate with parishioners. He simply was incarcerated in the shortcomings of his own making and working a menial job at a local grocery store, bagging groceries and sweeping up and, hopefully, working his way out of the Abyss and back into the clergy. What exactly his way out of the Abyss into which he had floundered was only conjecture but I did know, as the case manager of his account, that I had to ensure that he was making strides to right the ship of his poor choices that had effectuated his unfortunate demise. So I tucked my notes into my briefcase and placed the hard copy of the file back into the wall safe in my small office, which was located in the back of a two-story, brick rectory managed by the Archdiocese near Hyde Park on the southside. Closing the door behind me, I then proceeded to my first assignment, but for some odd reason I wondered to myself if I should bring some holy water with me. Scotty’s words from the other night danced across my memory like drunken leprechauns, reminding me that the police subculture that was indelibly ingrained in both of us was subtlety at work.

It was late afternoon and on a wintry day when the sun would typically set about 4:00 p.m. He would be leaving the grocery store and heading home in a matter of minutes. I positioned my vehicle in such a way that I could observe him leave. From the file I had made a copy of his photograph, which I held in my hand and perused occasionally just to stay focused, and from the intermittent, dull-yellow light of a lonesome street lamp I spied the target. This was to be an unannounced visit, as the Archdiocese called it, so I would simply follow him home and then, hopefully, the hard questions would commence.

I imagined that, at some point, I would inquire about his dreams. Whether that subject would be broached on my first visit was certainly questionable. So I decided on a game plan that would focus on initially establishing rapport and then, with any luck, get to the breaking point where his fantasies would be exposed sometime in the future.

I let him enter his residence and waited for a light to be turned on, after which I gave him a few minutes before I knocked on his door. He lived on the first floor of a dilapidated, clapboarded two-flat built shortly after the cow kicked over the lantern and that was begging either for demolition or for a kind word. It was sequestered in a mixed-use, lower middle-class neighborhood between a liquor store and a laundromat.

The ramshackle wooden steps creaked as I approached the mailbox, just to ensure that I had the right address, and then the door opened slightly, a thick chain lock holding it in place as he peeked through the narrow slit of an opening from a dimly lit entranceway.

Yes, he said in a voice that was somewhat tentative. Who is there?

Father Price, Jonathan Price? I asked, opting for his former title and, hopefully, gaining an advantage.

Are you from the Archdiocese? he asked. They are the only ones who know that I live here.

I’m your case manager, I said. I’d like a few moments of your time.

The door slowly shut and I could hear the metal of the chain lock making a clinking noise that sounded like old coins being dropped into a tin cup. Then the door slowly opened and he stood at the threshold with his arms folded, a blank expression on his face.

I hope this won’t take long, he said, moving aside and motioning me to enter. I just got home from work and I am rather tired.

His voice was decidedly effeminate, as was his gait, and he walked with an air of confidence that I assumed was part of his arsenal of deceit that he had used in grooming his juvenile victims, of which there were more than a few according to his file. He casually seated himself on a dirt-brown couch that had seen better days and then crossed his legs as only yoga enthusiasts could do. He motioned to a chair, which was just as ugly and worn out as the one in which he sat. It was directly opposite of him and I took my appointed place.

This is one of those unannounced visits, I assume, he said again, lightly tapping his slender fingers on his knee.

He was left-handed. I could tell that from his tapping and the way he fiddled with the creases in his trousers with his long and bony fingers. I could also tell that he was paranoid and compulsive by the looks of his fingernails, what was left of them. Describing them as bitten down to the bone would be diplomatic. He was a degenerate chain smoker signaled by the bile-yellowish tint to the skin between his fingers on his left hand, not to mention several ashes-filled ashtrays littered throughout the room. I let him tap for a while before I started, wondering where it would lead and if an opening would present itself. Then suddenly he stopped tapping and began looking me up and down as if he were considering buying a new shirt, something pink and soft, and having the feeling of chamois, I imagined.

So what do you want to know? he asked, uncrossing his legs.

What I wanted to know was what his fantasies were, what he dreams about at night when he’s alone and what the key is that unlocks his third persona that only he knows but the timing wasn’t right for that line of inquiry. So I opted for a mellower line of questioning.

Do you have a hobby? I asked in a plaintive kind of way, opening my briefcase just to look professional.

He looked me up and down again. His eyes were blood-red as if he had been drinking all night or crying facedown into a crushed velvet pillow. He squinted sporadically, a sallow and unholy grimace manifesting itself on his face, and then he sullenly leaned back in his chair but he didn’t answer my question.

You came all the way here to ask me about my hobbies? he asked. How absolutely mundane. Let me ask you a few questions, if I may.

Ah, an opening. Fire away and let’s see if the buckshot hits the target.

Of course, you should know with whom you are talking, I said rather politely.

Tell me about yourself. You haven’t even told me your name. I assume you are some type of social worker or do-gooder, or something to that effect, and hired by the Archdiocese to save my soul.

A do-gooder or something to that effect? Not quite. How about 26 years as a Special Agent with the FBI interrogating sociopaths like you on a daily basis, mixed in with several more years of interviewing police officers accused of misconduct. Taking names and kicking ass was more like it. But social worker? Well, nah, wrong ballgame, partner. As far as saving your soul, well, that’s up to you.

Well, I do have a Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice. By the way, you can call me Mr. Kent, I said evenly.

But you are here to evaluate me, aren’t you, Mr. Kent? Don’t you need a background in sociology or psychology so you can ask me all of those uncomfortable questions and show me a plethora of those nondescript sexual drawings designed to make a person blush?

The last time I blushed was at my high school prom but he didn’t know that, so why not amuse him?

I thought I’d save the hard questions for somewhere down the road. How about if we just talk about your hobbies? What do you do to occupy your time when you’re not working at the grocery store?

You call that working? That’s penance. Mind if I? he said flatly with a smug grin on his face as he removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and began to light up. This is what I do. Gonna’ report this to the Archdiocese?

No. Let’s just keep that little secret between the two of us, shall we? What I really want to know is what you do to cope, to get through the day, I said.

He took a stiff hit from the cancer stick, sucked in the bad air like a pro, held it in for a few seconds as his lips wiggled and then he let the foul fumes out, more or less exhaling in my direction.

Bullshit, Kent, he said. "You want to know about my fantasies and what sordid and lewd