People Watching: The End of the Story

**Just a quick note from me: The beginning of this story mentions two names, Jeffrey and Randy. The victim is Randy not Jeffrey. I wrote this unaware that there actually was a person in town named Jeffrey who died mysteriously. This is a story of fiction and I have no information concerning that case. So, please, don't come knocking on my door with questions. Read the end of the story first. Thank you and enjoy.**

I grabbed my cellphone from my purse and pushed the back button to unlock the keys. The screen lit up, showing a picture of my dog, Ralph. I was high on endorphins and giggled with glee, hitting 911. You know how you get so used to things working that you assume it? Well, I held that phone to my ear, waiting for the sound of ringing but heard nothing. I looked at the screen, Ralph's mocking doggy smile as the phone announced, "Looking for Service". I scream in frustration, slapping the offensive piece of technology against the seat. Where are those freaking people you see hovering around the cellphone user in the commercials when you need em? Huh?

So I go through the typical trying-to-find-a-signal dance. Hanging the phone out the window, to the left and then to the right. Nothing. So I get out of the car, walking here and there, holding the phone high, praying the single word prayer, "Signal!" Nothing. I was cursed! The hills may have eyes but they certainly don't have signal!

Giving up the dance, I scream a descriptive word or two, seriously considering throwing the phone. I think that I yearned to release myself of the dependence but good sense prevailed. It was at that moment that I heard the girl's car coming back to the highway. Turning, I realize that my signal dance had taken me a fair distance from my car. Bootless, I start for safety, hitting every sharp piece of gravel that the road could dish out. The approaching car was getting closer and if I didn't move quicker, the girls would be able to see me. So I leaped forward, sprinted with my arms swinging and hit my cellphone against my leg. The thing flew out of my hand as my stomach dropped at the sound it made as it skipped across the asphalt. I looked towards the dirt road, seeing the cloud of dust their car was making. I had mere seconds to spare. With the agility of an athlete, I ran to my phone, managed to scoop it up, launch it into the air and catch it before reaching the car. If I hadn't been so anxious to get out of sight, I think I would have celebrated the miracle my body had performed. Instead, I jerked open the car door, jumped inside, bent over and shut the door just as the girl's car appeared. Breathing heavier than could be possible without fainting, I emptied the contents of my purse on the floor and grabbed a pen and slip of paper. I listened to the car turn onto the highway and start driving away. I was quick enough to jot down the license plate, vowing to impress the local law enforcement with my brilliance. Yeah, baby! I am Grace under fire. Eat your heart out, Angie Dickenson!

I drove back to the edge of town and stopped to phone the police. I reported to the dispatcher that there had been a murder and I knew where the body was buried as well as who done it. I think that the dispatcher thought it was a hoax or that I was a pervert because I was still high and breathing heavy. However, when I repeated it three times, she asked for an address to send a police car. I gave the mile marker closest to the dirt road, another indication of my keen observation and promised to be waiting for them there. I took a few minutes to send a text message to multiple friends announcing my heroic efforts to solve a crime, including the location of the grave. I guess I should have thought more clearly before hitting the 'SEND' button. But you know what they say, hindsight is 20/20.

Returning to the mile marker, I sat patiently. The sun was just beginning to set so the light was waning. I turned and looked down the highway to town and noticed headlights. The highway was higher so I could see a distance away. There was a long line of headlights. I remember thinking, 'That's strange. Are they sending every cop on the force?" It took a few minutes for the law enforcement vehicles to arrive followed by a few reporter vans and several cars filled with the recipients of my text message. The adrenaline was coursing through my veins as I yelled at the first cop car to follow me. I drove to the dirt road, turned and went all the way to the dry creek bed. I got out and waved to follow me, which they did, except for the few cops who stayed to hold off the reporters and interested friends. I pointed out the fresh grave and repeated everything I had overheard the girls say. I was high in a Murder She Wrote sort of way. This was my moment. The defining moment, where I was no longer just a struggling writer of fiction, but a hero to be praised. I was the one person who could finger the murderer and my friends were here to witness my glory. This was great and I was prime for the fame that would follow. Yes, I would be famous!

The police followed procedure and soon the gravesite was taped off; the crowd was pushed back to a safe distance and the shovels were put to work. In a short time, the grave was dug up and several cops bent over the hole. There was a hush in the air and even the normal night creatures respected the moment. Everyone seemed to be leaning forward with anticipation and I yearned to hear confirmation. Instead, my bubble was burst in the most horrendous way possible, by laughter. I came down off my high-horse to face the back-slapping, hand-clapping, laughter of those policemen walking away from the grave.

Mortified by their lack of compassion, I cried, "Why are you laughing? Someone has been murdered and you laugh?"

One officer, wiping the gleeful tears from his eyes, took my arm and lead me to the grave. "Here's your victim, lady!"

I looked into the gaping hole to discover who Randy really was. "A dog? Randy's a dog!"