Bingo

By Daegal

Small town Ohio. A boy with a dog’s name. A series of family murders. The chief of police with blood on his hands, and the redemption of three souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Castle Carrington Publishing
• Release date: Jan 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781990096983

Book preview

Chapter 1

Thursday, 6:00 am, Feb 11th, 1993

Towns like Cresent were nothing towns where nothing happened in spades. Go back 25 years, and you would never believe these broken business fronts and dilapidated houses shared the same street names. There was no big tragedy that took it. People decided they had enough of small-town life and smaller mindsets. The school, K through twelve in one building, looked more like a run-down YMCA, and the kids that came out of that hole were, at best, able to spell their last names, one of whom is now the town manager. The only hail Mary was the yard.

Covering a two-block square, disfigured smokestacks, like fragile claws, loomed over the northwest corner of town. Their grip on this place was tighter than it appeared. When it first opened in 1960, it was a hub for manufacturing automobile parts. Purchased in 1977 by a North Carolina firm, it became a recycling plant. Belly up in 1986, it found life again in 1993 with a company from California turning it into a sheet metal pressing plant.

It was 6 am when Brian Bennings exited his apartment and crossed the street to the Police Department. The sky sang a gray tone, and the temperature made his breathing shallow. Gripping his jacket close to his chest, the key ring in his left hand jangled, competing against the sky, dying briefly to allow sanctuary in the heated hallway of the precinct. He relaxed his grip and pocketed the keys while shuffling his feet on the doormat.

Morning, Brian.

Kendra looked up from the monitor, coffee cup in one hand and a half-smile. She was the only employee who stayed after the big offer from the yard last year. Even the deputy left without as much as a blink. She refused every advance. He always felt it was part guilt and part pity that kept her shackles tight.

Morning, Kendra, he straightened his back, putting on an authoritative face. Anything this morning?

She looked back down chuckling as she pecked away, probably a Facebook post, doubtfully worked-related. Turning toward his office door, she stopped pecking,

Had a call about Mr. Strathers an hour ago.

Bingo?

She looked up with heavy eyes, mocking fatigue.

Yes, Bingo, sagging the corners of her mouth down. The exaggeration of Bell’s palsy almost made him laugh, but he knew better.

I’ll head over in a few minutes.

Bennings turned to face his office, paused, and then entered. Her pecking continued as he closed the door behind himself. Dim lighting, by choice, illuminated a small section of his cluttered desk. The small space heater, forever on roast, made him lethargic, reminding him of how old he and this job were getting. He could take a one-hour nap and then head over to the Strathers and have a talk with Bingo and Mellissa. Pulling the chair out, it curved around his hips as he lowered his weight, a light creak coming from underneath. That sound had increased monthly in the last year. Staring at the desk of ruin, the bright pink sticky note from the high school principal poked out, mocking.

Bingo was seen in the woods yesterday afternoon again, Brian. Please do something. The teachers and parents are getting concerned.

Snatching the sticky note and shoving it into his jacket pocket, he swung his feet up onto the desk and leaned back, the seat screeching in protest. Resting his hands, folded on his chest, he closed his eyes and took a nap.

Chapter2

Wednesday, 5:00 pm, Feb 10th, 1993

This is how the bad things happen father, Bingo mumbled, looking over to no one on his left as he torqued the wrench.

The car hood loomed over his head, held up by a cracked two-by-four. He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, his face contorted. The top lip raised slightly, his nostrils flaring, all while making a small grunting noise, then shuddering.

Tick.

As a child, people always looked away, his mother pushing him along.

Never mind them, Bingo.

He couldn’t remember when these ticks started, but they began to grow as he did. They had reached their peak by high school and tapered off, only to return under stressful moments. Arching his back, which seemed to be an ever-growing activity these days, he stared down at the engine block.

Seriously, he muttered.

No one to the left doesn’t answer. This car had been a summer hobby that turned into a winter necessity, his new foreman not listening to excuses. Not having proper transportation to work was not his problem. Complaining about walking in the harsh weather was also ignored.

Get your ass to work, was the only advice Bingo received.

He didn’t hate the name. Oh ya, it was his real name, and his mother was serious when choosing it.

At five years old, he could remember saying, Wasn’t that a dog’s name, Momma?

She would pat his head and tell him to go and play. Both of those reactions were also bestowed on his beagle, Joe. Sitting in the yard, he would often wonder how it came to be that Joe had his name. His father had shown up one day after work at the yard, Joe bouncing from the front seat.

Welcome Joe, Bingo!

See, it even sounds weird, right? He never considered that Joe might have been previously named, and so, he blamed his parents for the cruel joke.

His hands were too greasy to be productive, so he set the wrench down, a red rag was yanked from his back pocket. He wiped his hands, staring into the cold metal block, wondering how many more days walking to work would be an issue. It was cold out, and February in northeast Ohio was a bitch. Was there anyone who believed otherwise? Do Eskimos live in northeast Ohio? Is that a racist thing to think?

Tick.

Bingo tossed the rag onto the top of the block and took a deep breath, his lungs immediately expelling it. Little black dots filled his vision field, and he bent over to catch his breath. Waking up face down one day was a real fear, and he shuddered as he looked at the cold grass.

The roof of his house began to darken, the orange behind it, dancing on rooftops, sinking. Above that line, dark blue into black.

Fuck! to no one on his left.

He is guessing it is five-thirty, closer to six. Not hungry but programmed to eat when it came to mind, he walked to the garage door. stripping out of these clothes was his first chore. His mother made the foreman look like Mother Theresa.

Get them dirty clothes out of my house Bingo.

She would never really yell. Always a matter-of-fact tone, and that was enough. In truth, it was his house, taking over the payments seven years ago when her social security wasn’t enough. He would never say that out loud.

Never. It would crush her. It would devastate him to see that disappointment in her eyes. The disrespect would be unforgivable. Stepping out of his boots, he leaned against the garage wall. The coat hanger on the wall hung crooked, overwhelmed by jackets and objects that he wasn’t sure belonged to anyone who still lived in the house. One of them was Joe’s collar. It was on his calendar to clean the garage last summer, but he had hesitated, knowing he would need to throw it away. He missed his name. His eyes felt wet as he looked away, hanging his jacket among the mess.

The door to the kitchen leading off the garage was open a crack. Was that meatloaf? Tossing the overalls on the cement floor, Bingo stepped into the room, the warmth. Yes, that was meatloaf.

You take the dirty clothes off, Bingo?

He sauntered to the counter, leaning hard, his belly stretching over the top.

Meatloaf? he asks, ignoring the question.

The table is set for two. Joe’s dish sits dusty in the corner, and his dad’s plate stopped being set the day after he was gone from this earth. He can’t make sense of that.

I’ll wash up.

He walks around the counter and passes the table, two plates, two cups, no napkins, and two forks. No spoons? Whatever. The light flickered in the tiny room, and the faint smell of urine filled his nose. Looking down into the toilet, the hue told the source, and he reached over, flushed, and shut the lid.

Why can’t you do this simple thing, Mother? to no one on the left.

Tick.

His reflection was static. Staring, his eyes never blinking. There had to be a way to catch your eyes blinking, right? Why did he look so fake? Plastic. Pale. Without losing eye contact, he turned on the faucet and rinsed his hands. Pumping the hand soap. Full eye contact.

I am catching you blink.

The soap dispenser coughed in his hands. Looking down, returning to his reflection,

Shit.

Tick.

This time, you got me.

Who you talking to, Bingo? her voice a vice.

Nobody, Mother. he turns his head, not losing eye contact.

He shuts off the light. The reflection staring back at him, the smile wicked, the eyes black orbs. Drying his hands on his pants, he leaves the room, too freaked out by his twin. His meal is on his plate. Meatloaf, peas, a slice of bread, and a glass of milk that he was damn sure was out of date. Her plate was empty.

Not eating, Mother?

He stood listening.

My stomach, Bingo. It just isn’t well.

He knows not to push the question.

He eats, rushing, not caring that the food is lukewarm. Placing the empty plate in the sink, he swallows the last bit of sour milk—it was going bad—and walks past the living room, his mother in his peripheral vision.

Good night, Mother.

Tick.

Goodnight, Love.

The lighting in his bedroom was dim, clothes folded in his corner basket, perfect squares. A dresser was in the far-right corner, more clothes piled on top. Mother took great care of him. She deserves to say this is her home.

He thought his bed was similar to a military bunk. He was never in the military, but he watched enough TV to know an example. The sheets were tight. The covers were tight, the pillows fluffed and lined on the top of the headboard.

Walking over to the dresser for a pair of pajamas,