The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

8
The Judges
Jenean McBrearty
The judge’s name is Arnold Shinholter. He sits on the Avon
Park 10th Circuit Court bench and once considered himself
the cock o’ the walk of the court house. He deserved to die.
I didn’t kill him, of course, because I refused to give his family
the satisfaction of “closure” by sending me to prison—or
worse—to some nut house where uniformed uninformed
people would treat me like a specimen and show me pity.
I investigated over my alternatives. Some would say brooded
over them, but I don’t think that’s a fair characterization
because I was unemotional about my plans. Except for the
rage. I read about assassinations, murders, and tortures.
I consulted those who dabbled in the black arts as well as
those who hired themselves out for dirty work—morticians,
grave-diggers, embalmers, crematory workers, and dead
animal removers. Finally, I settled on ex-Nazi guards, the
crème-de-la-crème, as it were, of human disposal experts.
All I had to do was find one still alive and willing to help me.
I had to convince my anti-Semite vengeance agent that
Shinholter was a Jew, of course, but Shinholter sounds like
a Jewish name. From what I could tell from his residency—
he lives in Florida—and from the picture on his web-page,
it seems likely. Thin, black-haired, a long nose, mild-mannered,
but haughty. He could pass. He believes himself to be
upper class, and this made his treatment of me all the more
shameful. Upper class people were supposed to be kind to