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was definitely Amelia Earhart’s body. It
was wearing a vintage leather flying helmet, one hand held the keys to a 1932
Lockheed Electra, and tags on the body said “If Found Return To Current U.S.
Government” and “This End Up”, which for some reason was on both ends.
    This didn’t look
good for me. I would have to answer a lot of tough, searching questions about
this one. This wasn’t just any body. This body was important. This body’s face
was on postage stamps. Of course, it wasn’t all bad. Thanks to the publicity I
would be getting for my monstrous crime, I’d probably get some new clients out
of this. People who wanted me to find their pilots, for example. But I still
didn’t like the looks of it.
    The police chief
decided it was time to make his move. There was no point in delaying my arrest
any longer. I would never be more guilty-looking than this. No one ever would.
If he couldn’t get a conviction against me now, with the mountains of evidence
he already had, plus this spectacular new Earhart thing, he wasn’t the chief of
police he thought he was.
    Ed and Fred were
in the crowd of onlookers as I was resisting arrest. When I spotted them I
called out: “Hey, if you still want to help me why don’t you kill some of these
cops?”
    One of the cops
frowned. “That’s enough of that now.”

CHAPTER SIX
     
    I’ve never had
much luck in courtrooms. I’m always guilty, is one problem. The deck is pretty
stacked against us guilty guys right from the start. It’s like they don’t want
to give us a fair trial. Everyone else has an even shot of beating the rap, but
not us, oh no. We get railroaded. And all because we are guilty, and everybody
can prove it. I saw there was an extra large amount of evidence against me this
time – even I said “Jesus!” when I saw it all - so I wasn’t very confident going
into this one.
    The lawyer the
court assigned to represent me in this case didn’t inspire much confidence
either. Henry Loser, his name was. Talk about a bad omen! I asked him if it was
pronounced “Loo-zay” or something French like that, but he said no, it was
“Loser”. He said it was an Old English name, from back in the days when they
gave you a surname based on what you did. I asked him if he wanted to discuss
the case with me, maybe get my side of it, but he just said “What’s the point?”
and I said “You got that right”. We didn’t talk much after that.
    My trial was a
bit of a three ring circus right from the start. Not only was I there, (I heard
some jurors mutter “Here comes trouble” when I arrived), but the courtroom was
filled to capacity with conspiracy buffs, fans of unsolved crimes, aviation
experts, and other assorted nuts. Some of the more enthusiastic spectators came
to the trial dressed up to look like Amelia Earhart. A few were dressed up to
look like me. Adding an ominous note to the proceedings was a small group of
grim looking men in unfashionable black suits watching the trial from the rear
of the courtroom and occasionally talking in low voices into 1979 vintage cell
phones. I didn’t like the look of them. Of course, I didn’t like any of this.
    When it was time
for the trial to begin, the judge cleared his throat and addressed me: “So, Mr.
Burly, according to the statement you gave the police, a couple of…” He looked
at a transcript of my statement. “…little pricks named Ed and Fred put the body
of Amelia Earhart in your car?”
    “That is correct,
Your Honor,” I replied. “Fred Cramer and Ed Brannigan. B-r-a-double n…”
    “And you had
nothing to do with it?”
    “Nothing at all,
Your Honor. I am completely innocent.”
    I felt unseen
fingers pull the sides of my mouth out into a huge uncomfortable smile. The
judge seemed to back up a little in his chair, then stared at me for a moment
before resuming.
    “And where are
these…” He looked at the transcript again. “…little pricks? Why aren’t they in
the