By on November 29, 2016

Investigating a crime of the worst kind.

JACKSON HOLE, WY – I received a call from Hog Island Trailer No. 35 about a possible 537, a.k.a.: a crime involving swine. I pulled up with the team in our Hummer. There were five of us, three men, each a body builder, and the two women were trim with healthy bosoms (as is required for crime scene investigators). Stacy, the victim, was dressed in a ratty pink robe moaning and rocking her baby. She seemed in a bit of a trance, dazed by the crime that had been perpetrated on her.

“I cooked a whole package of bacon,” she said. “I went to my bedroom to change into my afternoon slippers and grabbed Luke for his daily allotment of pork. When I returned the bacon was gone.”

We pulled out our flashlights and began to scrutinize not only the stove, but the pantry and counter top as well. My flashlight didn’t seem as bright as usual. That’s when I noticed the kitchen light was on. I immediately turned it off and the flashlight beam shown much brighter. I had our grease splatter expert examine the stove.

“There’s been bacon cooked here,” she said, confirming the victim’s story.

Our chemical analyst expert then moved in and smelled the grease. “This is no normal bacon,” he said. We all exchanged forceful yet concerned glances. He licked the frying pan, smacked his lips and declared, “I would say Oklahoma raised Tamworth, a 10-month-old male, 11 months at most, fattened on soybean and cured with apple and pepper. We’re talking at least 6 bucks a pound, 10 if you buy it at Whole Grocer.”

What is someone in Hog Island doing with that kind of bacon? They eat Oscar Mayer bacon, or at best Hormel. And they aren’t even allowed in Whole Grocer because they pick out the sausage in the scrambled egg bin at the breakfast bar. This mystery had many layers.

I told Linda to check out the garbage can. She was a ballistics expert but I like the way she looks bent over. She dressed in biohazard gear then dug around and pulled out an empty box of Cheerios.

“My god!” I said. “It looks like we’re dealing with a cereal killer.”

There was something missing. Then it hit me. “What is it that you need to cook bacon?” I asked. “Come on people! Think! We have bacon, a frying pan, and a heat source; what’s missing? They were silent a minute, then one yelled, “A fork to turn the bacon!”

“Exactly,” I said. “Check the sink.”

There was no fork. Just then I glanced out the window. A man was sitting out on the neighboring trailer deck, their eyes glazed over, a fork lying beside him on the ground.

“Grab him!” I yelled.

We surrounded him and after we presented the facts, he confessed. I had to walk away to keep from strangling him. What kind of degenerate would steal bacon and not even leave a burnt crumb for the CSI team? We drove away while the background music built to a crescendo. PJH

About Clyde Thornhill

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