Death of a Christmas Tradition

A friend, who is a wonderfully funny writer, posted this short story on his blog for Christmas. I'm giving you a taste of it, but for the rest, you'll have to go to his blog. The link will be at the bottom. 

Death of a Christmas Tradition 

I knew it wasn’t going to be a happy day when I walked into the mall. Weeping children passed, ushered away by parents with hollow expressions. A crowd pressed into the police tape, craning their necks, and trying to get a view of the Christmas horror at Santa’s Workshop.

I pushed through the crowd and flashed my badge as I ducked under the yellow tape. Elves in green hats huddled together, occasionally taking a peek toward the big man’s workshop. Wails and chatter filled the air. A particularly stout elf paced around with his hands on his head while babbling between his sobs. He sounded like a chipmunk on espresso, and I couldn’t make out a word he was saying. A police officer was kneeling down beside a fat man in a red suit. He wrote faster than a secretary in a board meeting.

The officer in blue looked up as I approached, and I said, “What do we have?”

“We’ve got a 187. Probably started as a 211, but might have been a 217. There are reports of a 653M before—”

“Stuff those lottery numbers back in your pocket,” I said while holding up a hand. “I didn’t take up accounting because I’m not good with numbers. I got the 187. Murder.”

“Correct.” The officer returned to his pen and pad.

Apparently, the guy’s head was full of numbers, but he was at a loss for words. “Can you provide a few more details?”

“He was murdered just as the mall opened.” The officer returned to writing in his pad.

I pulled my hand across my face to wipe away the frustration. “Maybe you could flip back a few pages in your notebook, and translate the numbers into English for me.”

The officer stood up and faced me. I finally saw his badge. Officer Valentine. His eyes examined the pages as he flipped. A few contorted expressions flicked across his mouth as he tried to decipher his own notes. “Okay. The guys name appears to be Chris Kringle, but the hobbits over there call him Santa.” The officer pointed to the elves with the eraser end of his pencil.

I nodded, wondering if he understood the implications of his words. And if he knew the difference between an elf and a hobbit.

The officer graciously continued. “I was the first one on the scene. If you don’t count the hobbits.” He thumbed toward the little men in green suits.

I couldn’t resist any longer. “You do know these are elves, and not hobbits, right?”

He shrugged and started again. “I was working security at the mall, and after hearing a commotion, I rushed over. The man in the red suit was laying just as you see him now.” The policeman reached over his shoulder and scratched his back, and then readjusted his shirt. “By the time I got here, the little green men were running in circles, screaming like school girls. Santa was laying beside a Yule log and the hobbits,” he stopped and gave me a patronizing grin. “The elves were howling Christmas carols and crying something awful. Looks like O Mr. Kringle had a Yuletide crinkle in his noggin.”

The officer’s callousness struck me. I’m glad I am a detective. We see enough crime to get jaded to the scenes we investigate, but the daily life of street cops took things to a new level. I had often heard police officers make cruel sounding jokes at crime scenes. It was a survival mechanism. Repel the pain and harsh realities of crime with a joke or two. But this man was too much. I hoped the weeping elves weren’t listening to his explanation.

I excused myself, and the officer adjusted his shirt and knelt by Santa again. When I stepped toward the elves, I could see water puddling on the floor as they sang a tearful rendition of Jolly Old Saint Nicholas. I walked up to the one who looked to be in charge.

“Hi. My name is Detective Anderson. Can I have a word with you?” The elf nodded and I led him away from the others. He sat down on a chair and I pulled out my notebook. “For the record, what is your name?”

“Bardakin.” Songs of lamentations drifted into our conversation, and Bardakin’s eyes began to well up with tears. His red nose indicated he had used many tissues. I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and offered it to the man, er, elf.

He looked at it with suspicion, so I said, “Just pulled it out of the wash, so it’s clean.” Bardakin smiled and took it.

“Don’t want to take a chance on getting a cold so close to Christmas.” Bardakin began to wail, “Oh, I forgot. There won’t be a Christmas!”

I patted his shoulder, and he filled the hanky with his large nose and blew. After the violent blast, he offered it back to me. “No thanks. I’m giving it to you.”

“Mr. Uh ….”

“Anderson. Detective Anderson.”

A thin smile appeared on the elf’s face. ”Detective Anderson, we are Christmas elves. We can’t take gifts, we can only give them. It’s one of our codes of honor.”

Bardakin held out the handkerchief again. It hung like a wet rag. I stared without moving and he raised his gray eyebrows as he pushed it toward me. I identified a dry corner on the cloth and took it with the tip of my index finger and thumb. The elf wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and I used the diversion to drop the used rag behind me into a nearby waste bin.

“Mr. Bardakin,” I said, “I know it’s hard for you, but I need to ask you a few questions.” The elf nodded. “Do you know if Santa had any enemies?”

“He’s Santa. Everyone loved him. Everyone but Peter.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah, Peter. The Easter bunny. Peter Cottontail. But I wouldn’t say he was an enemy,” Bardakin added.

TO READ THE REST, CLICK HERE: http://www.eddiesnipes.com/2011/12/deathof-a-christmas-tradition/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=deathof-a-christmas-tradition