Tag Archives: murder

Jewell, Iowa

Jewell, Iowa. Photo credit: Rowen Hansen. Wikipedia.

How do I start this post without indulging my self-righteousness?

Probably impossible. I’m a pretty self-righteous guy when it comes down to it.

Let’s try this – I’m sure there are lots of principled leftists out there who are not reveling in the murder of Brian Thompson, CEO of United Health Group.

But there sure seem to be a lot of them – and loud ones – playing Madame DeFarge right now. Reinforcing my unjust, unChristian prejudice that says that if you scratch a leftist, you’ll find Robespierre.

I know nothing of Brian Thompson’s personal life, beyond what Wikipedia tells me. He may have been a man I would not have liked. He may have been a man I despised.

He did not deserve to be murdered.

But that point is an obvious one, and not really the object of this post.

I was taken aback when I discovered Brian Thompson’s point of origin.

He was born in Ames, Iowa, but he grew up in Jewell Junction, better known to those familiar with it as just Jewell. He attended South Hamilton High School and the University of Iowa.

Distant bells rang in my long-term memory. I know Jewell, Iowa.

I had two roommates during my first year of college. One of them came from Jewell. I visited his home. Sang in a choir concert in his church. He used to talk about good old South Hamilton High.

But my connections go further than that. That part of Iowa is, in a sense, a homeland for me.

I’ve written here before (long ago; there’s no reason you should remember) about a collateral ancestor of mine. His name was Wier Weeks and he was a pioneer in the Norwegian immigrant community around Lisbon, Illinois. Lisbon became one of the centers where Norwegian newcomers settled in the mid-19th Century.

Eventually, the land filled up with Norwegians. (People doubtless sickened and died from the sheer social dullness.) So they got together, held a meeting or something, and decided to create a satellite colony. They sent out spies to find a likely place, and settled on an area in central Iowa. This area comprises such towns as Story City, Radcliffe, and Jewell. And it was there that my father’s parents’ families came in the 1880s. My grandfather Walker was born near Radcliffe, my grandmother near Story City. Both families moved north to Kenyon, Minnesota in the early 20th Century.

If you’re wondering what lesson I mean to draw – I guess it’s this. People from small towns in the center of Iowa are not the elite. They are not Mayflower descendants. They’re not even strictly WASPS, being (to a large degree) Scandinavian rather than Anglo-Saxon.

Thompson’s alleged murderer, on the other hand, was born to an affluent family in Maryland, and attended the exclusive Gilman School in Baltimore.

In other words, this was an act of “revolutionary” violence visited upon a member of the middle class (one who got above his station) by a member of the elite.

Which is, it seems to me, emblematic of revolution in the modern world.

Scandinavian crime

Scandinavian mystery novels are all the rage these days. I’ve reviewed a few here, though in general they’re not my cup of aquavit. But there’s a big murder case under way in Denmark right now. It doesn’t seem to be much of a mystery, though. But full points for bizarreness.

A Swedish journalist named Kim Wall, 30 years old (and quite attractive judging by her photograph), boarded a small private submarine in Copenhagen on August 10. She was there to interview its Danish inventor, Peter Madsen. Only the two of them were aboard. The submarine was reported missing the following day, and a search began. The sub was spotted returning to port the same morning, but it sank suddenly. Madsen was rescued by a private boat. He claimed Wall had been fine when he’d put her ashore the evening before.

Police raised the sub, and investigators began to examine it (they found blood). Madsen then changed his story, saying there’d been some kind of accident, and he’d “buried her at sea.”

(The old “buried at sea” defense. Works every time.)

On August 14, investigators announced that the sub had been sunk deliberately. On the 21st, a headless, limbless torso, weighed down with metal, was discovered in the area where the sinking had occurred. Police say it was “deliberately mutilated.” It has been identified by DNA analysis as Wall’s.

Innocent until proven guilty and all that, but this one looks open and shut. Not a novel’s worth of work for dour Danish detectives. Too bad sentencing is so light in Scandinavia.

Not neutral

Over the weekend, one person I don’t approve of killed a lot of other people I don’t approve of.

That doesn’t make me happy.

The reasons for my disapproval of the groups are beside the point at a time like this. People are grieving. Real human beings have lost their lives, or been crippled or maimed for life. To talk doctrine just now would be un-Christlike.

But I’m angry nonetheless. I’m angry because further lives have been lost to the worthless, statist institution of the Gun Free Zone.

Orlando isn’t a case of equal and opposite evils. The moment any person takes it upon himself to murder defenseless people, he automatically becomes the Greater Evil. Decent people will all side against him. I hope.

Some of my Facebook friends have been posting graphics supporting a group called “Pink Pistols.” Its purpose, I gather, is to encourage members of the homosexual community to take responsibility for their own safety through arming themselves.

That’s one “gay” initiative I can support wholeheartedly.

I take it as a given that one of the threats this group was originally organized to counter was the threat of people like me. Conservative Christians. Well, you know what? If some conservative “Christian” actually decides he’s got special license from God to murder people because he disapproves of their sins, he deserves the pink bullet he’ll get for it. Let him explain to Jesus how he justifies flouting the greatest commandment for the sake of a lesser commandment.

Meanwhile, may God have mercy.

Flash fiction: “The Slaying Song Tonight”

(Phil and Loren Eaton have turned their skilled hands to flash fiction over the years. I never had a suitable idea before. But here’s one. Copyright 2015 by Lars Walker.)

The killer whistled a Christmas carol as he rinsed the blood from the knife. The stuff ran thick and dark at first, but grew thinner and clearer until the stream of water out of the faucet ran pure. The knife wouldn’t stand up to forensic analysis, he knew, but only the victims’ blood was there. And in any case, he himself was above suspicion. Still, he liked to leave things as clean and orderly as possible. It was a personal quirk.

The remote location of this house had been perfect for his purposes. The couple had screamed long and loud – they had known who he was and why he was killing them, and he had not let them die quickly. But he was methodical about his work. Now only the child remained, but that was a routine job.

He climbed the stairs and entered the room where the child lay sprawled on a bed. Her eyes went wide when she saw him. “You!” she cried. “It’s you!”

He unbuckled the straps that secured her to the bed frame. Tenderly he lifted her in his arms. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s all right. I’ll take you to your parents; then I’ll have to get to work. Lots to do tonight.”

The child wept great sobs and buried her head in his shoulder. He didn’t try to quiet her. It was good for her to cry. She would have to cry a great deal, and would need to talk to someone. But she would not die. Tonight this child would not die.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Everything will be fine. But you need to promise me one thing.”

“Wh-what?” she asked, through her sobs.

“Never tell anyone who rescued you. The children must never know of this – only the ones I rescue, like you. For most children, this is the happiest night of the year. For you it will never be the same. I understand that. You’ll have to help me carry my burden, to save the night for the little ones.”

“I will,” said the girl, holding tight to his red coat. “Does that make me one of Santa’s helpers?”