The Swan Creek Monster

Chris Garland sat in his hospital bed eating dinner while watching a TV show about outlandish alien conspiracy theories. Thursdays meant spaghetti night at Hope Heights Medical Center. Poorly drained pasta met institution-grade sauce, making a watery mess on his plate.

It required all but one of his napkins to sop up the soupy sauce. A slice of absorbent garlic bread saved him from calling the last napkin into service. Frustrated by straining out the last segments of broken noodles, he moved on to dessert. He held a plastic spoon poised over the small plastic cup of butterscotch pudding.

“Mr. Garland? The police are here to see you. Should I send them in?” Vera Smith said.

Chris sighed, jammed the spoon into the pudding, and put it down on the overbed table. He looked up at his nurse standing in the doorway. “Of course they show up during dessert. Go ahead, send them in. Thanks, Vera.”

Officers John Breylon and Paula Stritzel filed into the room, notepads in hand. Breylon eyed Chris’ elevated leg and made a note below ‘Rm 417.’ Nurse Smith left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Good evening, Mr. Garland. We’re sorry to hear about the vicious attack you experienced. We’re here to take your report and ask you a few questions,” Stritzel said.

Chris picked up the pudding. “Is it alright if I eat while we do this?”

“Of course, Mr. Garland. We didn’t know it was dinner time until we got here.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Let’s start with a description of the suspect,” Stritzel said.

“That won’t be too hard. I know the guy.”

“Hold on. You know him?” Breylon said.

“I don’t know him know him, but I know of him. I’ve jogged after work in Swan Creek Park for seven years and we’ve crossed paths on the trails quite often. The last two times I saw him, he gave me a bad vibe. I thought he was harmless until now.”

“So, what does this guy look like?” Stritzel said, her pen and tiny spiral notebook at the ready.

“He has dark, shaggy hair and an unkempt beard.”

“White? Black? Hispanic?” Stritzel said.

“Caucasian,” Chris said, then ate a spoonful of pudding.

Stritzel glared at Chris, then wrote ‘white’ on her notepad. “Age?”

“Somewhere in his forties. It’s hard to be sure with that scraggly beard and hair.”

“How about his build?”

Chris scraped together the last spoonful of pudding. “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s six feet tall and weighs somewhere between one ninety and two hundred.”

“Any other details? Any scars or tattoos?” Stritzel said.

“Nothing visual, but he has strong body odor that’s noticeable from a distance. I only ever see him in dark clothing. That may be the only set of clothes he owns. Oh. And he carries a stout three-foot walking stick. Lately, he’s been walking with an old blue heeler trailing behind him. The dog is a bit feeble, so they’re perfect for each other.”

“You said you jog in the park often,” Breylon said, “have you seen what this man drives, assuming he drives there?”

“I’ve seen them get in and out of a camper van the last few times I’ve been there. I assume he lives in the van. It’s always parked in the lot near the mountain bike trails.”

Breylon flipped his notebook to a blank page and wrote down ‘camper van’ and ‘lives there.’ He put a question mark and an exclamation point after ‘lives there’. “What’s the van look like?”

“It’s an older Chevy, painted maroon with a three foot wide gray or silver band around it.”

“By older, you’re talking how old?” Breylon said.

Chris picked up the garlic bread, it’s soft interior stained with the diluted sauce. “Late eighties or early nineties.”

“Do you happen to have a plate number?” Breylon said.

“I asked the paramedics to drive up to the parking lot and write it down. You’ll have to get it from them. I might be able to come up with it, but I don’t know how accurate it would be.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Breylon said, “I’ll track it down.”

“So, tell us what happened,” Stritzel said.

Chris swallowed a second bite of bread. “Sure. I saw the guy on the trail. I gave him a warning as I approached and a wide berth as I passed. Then he hit me from behind with the walking stick. The strike knocked me to the ground. I can tell you he’s right handed because he connected with the outside of my right ankle and he was right behind me.”

“Of all the times you’ve seen him, why would he attack you this time?” Stritzel said.

“I don’t know. He said something before he walked away, but I was in too much pain to make sense of it. All I can come up with is he’s an angry person who was very angry with me for some reason. I saw him give the dog a violent kick before I passed them. It’s clear he has mental issues. His dog is cool though.”

“Did he hurt the dog?” Breylon said.

“I don’t know if he hurt it, but what I do know is he fractured my ankle. He left me having to wear this boot and walk around on crutches for I don’t know how long. He also left me with my very own set of X-rays and a fat medical bill.”

“How did he fracture your ankle with a cane?” Stritzel said.

“It’s not a wimpy cane. It’s a very stout three foot piece of wood with a bulge on the top for resting your hand. The vision of an old timer cane with a curl on top is not the right one.”

“Old timer or not, we’ll get this guy off the streets. Or trails, if you will. We’ve already got several things we can charge him with and I have no doubt we’ll be adding more after we look into that van of his,” Breylon said.

“I don’t want to press charges, but I do want him to get help.”

“Are you sure? You sustained a significant injury. What about loss of income? Will you be able to work?” Stritzel said.

“I work at a desk. I’ll take a couple of vacation days and get right back to it. I don’t see the point of taking things any further. Let’s say the court awards me some money. Do you think I’ll get one dime from a guy whose home address is the Swan Creek Park upper parking lot? I doubt my attorneys would accept a 1988 Chevrolet camper van filled with dog hair and body odor as payment.”

“If you don’t press charges and he refuses to accept help, he’ll most likely end up back at the park,” Breylon said.

“I’ll still go hiking there after my ankle heals. I’ll run around him through the brush and be ready for a fight if he tries anything. And I’ll never turn my back on him again.”

“I’d hit him with pepper spray if he gets too close,” Stritzel said.

“If I ever do see him again, I hope the dog isn’t still with him. Somebody needs to rescue that poor thing. A man like that shouldn’t be allowed to own a dog.”

“We’ll have somebody from animal welfare come with us when we pay the van a visit,” Breylon said.

“If there’s nothing else, Mr. Garland, we’ll let you get back to dinner. I’ll enter your report when we get back to the station,” Stritzel said.

Breylon handed Chris two of his cards and a pen. “Please write down your address and phone number for the report and in case we need to contact you.”

Chris wrote his contact information on one card and handed it and the pen back to Breylon. “They said I can go home tonight, so that’s where you’ll find me for a few days.”

“Thank you Mr. Garland. Give either of us a call if you think of anything else we should know,” Breylon said.

Stritzel gave Chris one of her cards. “Thank you, Mr. Garland. I hope your recovery goes well.”

Breylon opened the door and stopped in the doorway. “Am I leaving this open?”

“Closed, please. Goodnight officers.”

Nurse Smith came in moments later and opened the door until the magnetic holder caught it. “Are you finished with dinner?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She threw the empty pudding bowl away then grabbed the plate off the table. Piled high with sauce-soaked napkins, it resembled a surgical tray out of one of the operating rooms. “Somebody sure cleaned his plate.”

Chris shot upright and reached toward the plate. “Wait. I forgot something.”

She stopped and swung the plate toward Chris.

He snatched the surgical sponge-looking garlic bread from the plate and set it onto the lone surviving napkin. “Thank you.”

***

Lonnie Elliot had gotten off work early enough to go for a hike on Swan Creek Trail. The sporadic nature of his construction job had given him plenty of time for leisure activities. He often hiked a majority of the 2.38 mile trail, doubling back at the community garden near the north parking lot.

The sun was still high at six in the evening this time of year, but the shade from the park’s tall evergreens made it look and feel like eight o’clock. Lonnie had hiked to the community garden and stopped to take a breather. He took a lap around the garden before turning back.

A small forest, thick with firs and western hemlocks, cloaked the mountain bike trails to Lonnie’s right. His grandfather’s old walking stick proved itself useful as he trudged up a steep switchback. He reached level ground and continued around a copse of firs, beginning the last leg of his hike.

In the middle of a left-hand curve, he passed the end of the trail connecting Swan Creek Trail and Canyon Rim Trail. It cut between the firs and the bike trails. Lonnie followed the curve and walked toward the parking lot.

The snap of twigs and the skittering of cones compelled Lonnie to stop and turn around. An Australian Cattle Dog rambled from the dark corridor of the connecting trail and skidded to a stop at Lonnie’s feet. The cattle dog sat, its wagging tail sweeping the trail clean of fir needles in an area the size and shape of a child’s snow angel wing.

Lonnie knelt to read the dog’s tag. “What’s your name fella?”

The dog wore neither tag nor collar. Lonnie stood and looked around for somebody chasing after their dog. He waited for the owners themselves to pop out of the connecting trail.

A woman wearing a headlamp walked by. “What a cute dog you’ve got there.”

“Thanks, but he’s not mine.” Lonnie petted the dog’s head. “Are you, big guy?”

He stood to look for the owner again. The dog jumped onto Lonnie’s thighs with his front paws, craving more attention.

“You’re a friendly one, aren’t you? Let’s go look for your owner in the parking lot.”

The last sixty yards of Swan Creek Trail is an easy stroll back to the parking lot. Lonnie walked to his camper van with the dog at his heels. “This is me. She’s not the prettiest thing, but she’s all I could afford.”

A handful of cars remained in the lot. The owner of one of these vehicles could also be the owner of the dog. Lonnie thought it a good idea to wait and see if the dog’s owner returned.

He unlocked and swung open the van’s side doors and sat on the step they revealed. The curious dog stood with its front paws on the step and looked into the van.

“Whadaya think? Not too shabby, is she? She gets me to work every day and holds all my tools. I can make a hot lunch on the stove during winter and keep cold drinks in the refrigerator in summer. She even has a bed where I can snooze during lunch.”

He put his hand on the dog’s back. “Look at me carrying on a human conversation with you. I’m glad nobody’s walking by right now. They’d think I’d gone crazy. And I’m still doing it. Shut up, Lonnie. Great. Now I’m talking to myself.”

The dog struggled up the step and into the van, where he sniffed everything as if verifying Lonnie’s claims. He found a package of jerky on the bed and tumbled out of the van with it. He landed on the concrete with a piteous yelp then shook the fall off and picked up the jerky. He spun in front of Lonnie a few times then sat holding the jerky as far out as his neck could stretch.

Lonnie opened the bag and fished a piece out. The dog whimpered its disappointment when Lonnie put the jerky into his mouth and bit down.

“Give me a minute.” He said through clenched teeth and teriyaki jerky.

He pulled on the piece until it broke in half. “Here’s your reward for the spin trick and for being such a good boy.”

A trio of couples walked by, heading for their cars. They were in the middle of a lighthearted debate about the merits of corn versus flour tortillas. Lonnie knew which camp he was in. The dog ignored them, keeping his eyes on the jerky.

“Excuse me folks,” Lonnie said. “Anybody looking for a dog?”

“No, thank you,” one woman said.

“No, I’m not selling him, I’m look—”

“I’m sorry, I’m allergic,” the same woman said.

They kept moving and said their goodbyes before dispersing to separate vehicles. They left, leaving Lonnie and the dog alone in the lot.

The dog stood and lunged for the jerky when Lonnie held it out to him. They made quick work of the savory snack. The dog finished before Lonnie and spun again, hoping for another reward.

Lonnie disregarded his pleading barks and resealed the package. “Nice try, guy. That’s all you get.”

The dog laid on the pavement, resting his chin on his outstretched front legs like a sad sphinx.

Lonnie glanced at his watch then scanned the empty parking lot. “Well, I guess I should take you home for the night.”

The dog stepped back a few feet when Lonnie stood.

“You coming?”

The dog turned and ambled toward the mountain bike trails.

Lonnie tossed the jerky onto the bed and closed the van doors. “Guess not.”

*** End of Part 1 ***

Copyright ~ Terrence Campbell ~ 2022