Where Do All The 'Fees' Go?

By Tom Morrow

   WHERE OH WHERE -- Unless you live in a cave, sooner or later you're going to encounter your city or county "permit" department. Whether you'll want to install a new water heater, replace the roof, build an addition to your home, or re-do your driveway or sidewalk, more than likely you're going to have to get a permit to do so.

   Understandably, cities and counties should have the duty of making sure things are done, built, replaced properly and safely. The question is: why is a fee necessary? Chances are, if you ask the question you'll be told, "Well, that's the way we've always done it," or, "It's to pay for our expenses."

   More than likely you'll be told those 'expenses' pay for the time the inspector takes to come out and inspect. Okay, then if the taxpayer is already paying that inspector's or engineer's salary, where does the 'fee' go? We pay taxes to pay for city and county government services employees' paychecks. I'd like to know to what coffer those permit fees go? If the inspector or engineer is already paid by his or her department, who gets the money we pay for the so-called permit fee?  Hmmmmm.

   BEST THING NOW -- The best thing the GOP and the radical Tea Party wing could do right now concerning the so-called ObamaCare is to shut up! Sit back and watch everything crumble. It'll be the best campaigning tool for the mid-term election. If ObamaCare succeeds, so be it -- it's the law of the land and nothing can be done until the occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. changes. Get over it.

   HOLIDAY GIFTS -- A friend of mine suggested that instead of going through the trouble of talking (writing) about how my books would make great holiday gifts, he said I should boil it down to just three words: "Buy My Books."
 
   Enough said. Go to: www.tomorrowsnovels.com


Here's the next chapter of my novella, 'Dark Angel.' Give me some feedback to tell me if you like the story so far. Any suggestion:  quotetaker@msn.com

Chapter

3

       For a few weeks Merle Sanbourne had scanned through the San Diego daily newspaper looking for specific-types of news stories. His search was short-lived. On Page 7 in the North County news section Sanbourne found what he was looking for. It was a story about six-inches long with a headline reading: “Accused child molester released after nine months.”

       Sanbourne also had heard about a North San Diego County man arrested by County Sheriff deputies two months ago for suspected child molestation. Deputies and the District Attorney’s office thought they had a solid case. The suspect was seen near an elementary school; an eight-year-old girl was found near a lake just outside of Hidden Valley. Traumatized by what was concluded to be molestation, the little girl was able to give a description of the man’s pick-up truck and a vague description of him.

       Police said the girl was scared and could say little more than what the man’s truck looked like and that he was a “white man.”

       The man was released for lack of evidence and identification.

       Sanbourne knew all too well how the girl’s parents must feel. He had gone through this unspeakable experience with his own daughter. Little Amy Sanbourne was only six when she was abducted from the family front yard. Her body was found two days later in a field between San Martinez and Middleburg.

       Sanbourne vowed to himself to see that justice was meted to perpetrators who would prey upon those who were helpless – mainly children.

       No one has ever been arrested for his daughter’s violation and death, but Sanbourne figured one of those suspects being arrested and tried must be the culprit whom he sought – worse yet, the bastard was still out there, free to commit more heinous crimes against little ones.

       Last year, following a television interview, Sanbourne was walking to his car when an unknown woman in her thirties or early forties came up and handed him an envelope. She said nothing, but gave a slight smile then walked away before he could ask her name.

       After getting into his car, Sanbourne opened the envelope, finding a type-written letter.

       “I know your pain and there’s a partial remedy. There is someone who shares our nightmare of losing a child to a molestation. Where the law fails, our friend will dispense the necessary justice.”

       A code was printed below the message. The directions to the code read: “Whenever you find or read about a molestation convict or suspect, if a story appears in a newspaper, mail the information to the following: Box Holder, PO Box 22226, Holtville, California.”

       There was a second page stapled to the letter. It went on to explain that if a news article was found describing a suspect or convict, that information could be passed on to someone who would take action. The needed code for relaying the information would be: “The month, day, newspaper in which the article was printed, the page number, and the column it could be found.”

       The code would appear thusly: 4-11-B-14-2. (April11, Blade, Page 14, Column 2).

       “Our mutual friend will find and read the story and take the appropriate action, if any is needed.”

       It ended with a large print: “DESTROY THIS LETTER ONCE YOU’VE MEMORIZED THE CODE.” It  was signed: The Angel of Justice.”

       It had been a year since receiving the letter from the woman. Sanbourne hadn’t paid much attention to the report of a suspected child molester, who had been murdered a year ago in Oceanside. He figured it was a distraught parent or angry neighbor, but this morning’s front-page of  the Blade reported a shooting last night in Mission Valley. The killing hit home when he read the story. The victim was the very man Sanbourne had fingered when he sent a note to the post office box in Holtville a month ago.

       The man, who had been convicted of child molestation, had received only 9 months in prison even though the nine-year-old boy hasn’t spoken a word since that day he was grabbed off the street while riding his bicycle. The Union-Tribune article had been found on Page 2 of the North County section stating the suspect received an early release “for good behavior,” and a recommendation from a prison psychiatrist that he had “made outstanding progress” in his therapy.

       Sanbourne had carefully typed the coded message, as the anonymous letter had directed: “5-27-U-3-1.” Nothing more. He wore rubber surgical gloves while preparing the message, placed it in a small envelope, put a first-class postage stamp on it, and waited until midnight to drop it into the letter box at the San Juan Pablo post office.

       Sanbourne didn’t know what would happen next. Since he had posted the note last month, the article on Page 1 of that morning’s paper gave Sanbourne a cold chill. Was he responsible for this man’s death? Could it be that easy to wipe out the life of another? If it be true, it was a terrible power. Would whoever did the deed of justice use discretion? Would he carefully weigh the situation and decide for himself whether or not the suspect/victim deserved to die?

       All of these questions raced through Sanbourne’s mind. He thought about all of them for less than a minute. He shrugged his shoulders, muttering to himself, “I hope the son-of-a-bitch rots in hell.”

       Sanbourne re-read the morning article. Police speculate the victim was shot with a high-powered rifle from “some distance.” He wondered about what sort of man would take on such a task. A military-trained sniper? It would have to be someone who could be cold, calculating and with a steady aim. He must be driven. Had he lost a child? Surely that must be the case. Sanbourne, himself, couldn’t accomplish such a feat despite his loss. Still, he had no problem in pointing out news reports that may end up with the culprit meeting his just reward.

       One molester shot sniper-style was worth noting; two within a year is more than a coincidence. Any more would certainly raise suspicion of a serial killer.

Would there be a third and fourth hit? If there is a third, surely the cops will begin putting two and two together. Maybe Sanbourne shouldn’t look quite so closely at his newspapers. The knowledge that he was responsible and wielded this tremendous power could also be a burden. Sanbourne doubted, though, he’d lose any sleep.

    He poured himself a cup of coffee, smiled, then went back to the breakfast bar to finish reading his newspaper.

       “What are you smiling about?” his wife asked as she walked into the kitchen.

       “There is a God!” Sanbourne replied, pointing to the news report on Page 1. “There, indeed, is justice in this world.”

       His wife said nothing as she stared expressionless out the kitchen window, slowly sipping her coffee.