“W

ELCOME BACK CAPTAIN BARKER!” The banner in the squad room was scrawled in bold black and blue paint— to commemorate the colorful lump that still graced the side of Barker’s skull.

“So, will you be Mapleton City’s newest detective, Officer Stacey?”

Barker asked, trying to sound official.
“I’ll only promise to stay on a temporary basis. That federal job
seems like the offer of a lifetime.”
“She’s under your skin, isn’t she?” Barker chuckled. “I still can’t
believe you and she up and left so fast. You were there less than a
minute! Debbie and I were worried sick all evening.”
“Yeah...well....”
“Who kisses better—her or Sig?”
“I’m breaking him of the habit.”

MAYOR JENKINS, read the sign on the door. Several people had congregated inside the office.
“We sure did admire your husband, Mrs. Derickson,” the mayor began. “The council voted unanimously on an appointment for you to fill the council seat. Would you accept the part-time position?”
“I’ll need a day or two to think about it. I’m not sure how I’m going to support my family.”
“You could always run for mayor when I retire next year. You’d have my full support....Of course, it doesn’t pay much, either!” The kindly old gentleman gave her a wink.
“I’m honored. I’ll call you back after I talk to the kids.”
On her way home, Dianne pondered the weight of her responsibility. Deek’s life insurance would be enough for a short while, but with six children....
She missed him terribly, but couldn’t keep from smiling at the thought of his own crooked smile, his dumb jokes, the way his curly hair stuck up in all directions when he got out of bed in the morning. Pulling into the driveway, she leaned back in the seat, thinking good thoughts, savoring the memories of the man she loved.
A tap came at the window. “Mrs. Derickson....I have a certified letter for you. I need your signature.” The postal carrier passed his clipboard through the window, waited for her chicken-scratch signature, and went on his way.
It was a letter from her bank:

Dear Mrs. Derickson,

You will find a deposit in a new trust account in your name. At the current interest rate, you will earn approximately three thousand dollars ($3,000.00) per month. My instructions are to transfer those funds each month to your regular checking account. Separate accounts in the names of your children were set up to assure them a college education.

These funds were transferred from a numbered account in Switzerland. The benefactor would like to remain anonymous, but hopes you accept this gift with his best wishes.

Sincerely,
Bill Penrod
Branch President
Author’s Notes
The Inspiration Behind the Story

Several years ago a young man came to me looking for a job. I hired him, putting him to work at the dirtiest, most loathsome task imaginable. “Don” proved himself hard-working, dependable and, despite his lack of transportation, always punctual.

Several weeks passed, and a position came open in our sales office. Our newest employee was invited to apply for it. Having already shown such outstanding work, the choice was not at all hard: Don was moved to the sales floor.

With this job promotion Don was able to afford an apartment, and we allowed him the use of a company vehicle to travel to and from work until circumstances permitted him to purchase his own car.

Shortly after he moved into his basement apartment, Don, during breaks and at lunch hour, repeatedly was heard accusing his new upstairs landlord of spying on him, essentially snooping into his personal life. At first I attributed this persistent talk to him adjusting to his new home, but after the second week of his voicing such suspicions, I began to wonder if perhaps my new salesman himself wasn’t some sort of psychopath.

In desperation—and having had some experience in surveillance—I offered to inspect his apartment to see if there was any validity to his wild claims. My reasoning was simple: If the landlord proved to be spying, Don needed to move out immediately, both for his own good and so we could restore peace to the workplace. If not, I needed to decide how to terminate a deranged employee before he drove my entire office staff crazy.

My offer accepted, one day during lunch we drove over to the apartment. The landlord appeared to not be at home. After an extensive search of the walls, ceilings, flowerbeds and heater vents, I had found nothing. Don simply shrugged and asked if I thought he was nuts.

Early the following day as I pondered his termination, Don came into my office to tell me that just that morning his landlord had stood waiting at Don’s truck to ask who he had brought home for lunch the previous day. At hearing this a smile spread across my face. Could this be the simple case of an overly inquisitive, highly meddlesome– and perhaps lonely–fellow? I assured Don that the landlord’s own curiosity would in short order be his downfall. Glancing around my office to assess my creative assets, I handed Don an empty box and an old army coat, with the instruction to cover the box and carry it home, perhaps acting a bit suspicious.

When the nosy landlord called his edgy tenant that night and waited with baited breath for him to reveal the contents of the box he’d toted into the house, Don’s feelings of impotence and paranoia magically transformed to ones of strength and vindication. Don countered with a casual “Nothing” to the landlord’s question. And from that curt, modest reply was cultivated empowerment. Don then was able, over the following weeks, to use his own imagination and the available meager resources within his grasp to drive a snoopy landlord to his knees.

From my imagination came the ensuing storyline, a plot revolving around a complicated character full of obsessions and deceit—a mind so entangled in secrecy and sorrow that he became consumed by his own passions. I further sought to enrich the intricate narrative by weaving in a varied cast of main and supporting characters, all living in seeming ignorance—nevertheless in the shadow—of an extant tribe of people living in the far-away, fertile regions of Nigeria, a poverty-stricken people brutalized by a corrupt military regime in conspiracy with a powerful, greedy oil cartel.

Before long the story began to scream at my thoughts, loudly demanding to be put into words. Thus was born The Landlord.
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