Detective Ahmadovich sighed and settled back into his well worn brown leather chair. Outside his little glass-enclosed office, among the sea of desks in the small precinct in central Frankfurt, the fury of the day’s truly historic events swirled in a storm of feverish activity. Ahmadovich’s young brow was irretrievably broken. He ran fingers through his thick black hair. Nothing of this was making any sense, and now, more than 7 hours later it had taken a serious turn for the absurd.
It was a horrible attack, despite the weather. The Press described it as a massacre, the attack, not the weather. Something of all this left both police and survivors thoroughly perplexed. It was that curious expression that made them ubiquitous among the grim-faced first responders and throngs of reporters as they were led from the scene, the survivors not the reporters.
To many investigators and much of the media the case seemed simple enough. Certainly, they’d all concluded, the carnage was the result of reaction to those blasphemous and decidedly provocative cartoons. The editors of the weekly rag, “Frankfurter mit Mustard” had crafted a career of such provocation. Terror groups and so-called lone wolves had levied the obligatory threats, but self-respecting cartoonists were also vocal about the shoddiness and amateurish nature of the cartoons. The International League cartoonists Francais, or ILK French, headquartered in Euro-Disney, had protested vociferously enough to force a rapproachment between Germany and France not seen since the Lager versus Pilsner impasse of the early Nineties.
Lauren LaBlanc was one of those survivors. She’d been closest to the terrorists when they stormed into the conference room of “Frankfurter mit Mustard” during their weakly Frustuck, or breakfast meeting; the cartoonists, that is, not the terrorists.
Lovely and young, with long straight blond hair and piercing blue eyes, Lauren sat in an uncomfortable chair beside Ahamdovich’s desk lamenting how a coworker’s blood stains clashed with the pattern of her skirt. After hours sitting in the police station those stains would definitely set in, she told herself, and would definitely leave a stain. But it was the words she spoke next, seeming to bubble up from her soul that drew the most curious look from Ahmadovich.
“Allahahu Babar,” she said almost mechanically, as if not realizing the words had come from her.
The detective seized upon it instantly. “You mean, Allahahu Ahkbar, God is great, isn’t that right?”
“No. No!” she repeated, as if shaken from a trance, meeting his eyes instantly, “I’m certain. Allahahu Babar,” Ahmadovich sighed. After all she’d been through, the trauma of the attack, the ruin of her skirt…his heart went out to her. So pretty, so innocent and so vulnerable, all of which he figured would make her so much easier to shag. He wouldn’t of course. His wife had a very strict policy.
He could keep her. She’d done nothing wrong. Well, those shoes were all wrong for the outfit and the hair reminded him of Chrissie from that American sitcom, “Three’s Company,” but none of that was illegal. Besides, it was a pleasure to watch her walk away. In fact, he called her back several times just to watch her leave again and again.
“Allahahu Babar,” he said aloud.
At first it made no sense, but then all at once it struck him like a bolt. Slamming a hand on his cluttered desk, Ahmadovich rushed across the squad room and stormed breathlessly into the commander’s office. The commander was a tall slender Algerian, with white hair and West African features. Ahmadovich startled him so that he spilled a cup of tepid coffee into his lap; his own not the detectives. It wasn’t as unpleasant as he might have imagined.
“Chief,” the detective exclaimed breathless with excitement. “We’re going after the wrong group. We’ve got to go to Disneyland!”
“Are you insane, man?” replied the commander. “Although I would love to go with you sometime, and I’ve secretly wished all these years that you might ask, this is hardly the time!”
“No,” replied Ahmadovich, “And we’ll discuss that last remark later, but the witnesses all describe the terrorists saying exactly the same thing: Allahahu Babar!”
“No, they weren’t who we think. I accuse The International League cartoonists Francais, or ILicK French! God is Babar!” Ahmadovich, leaned on the desk close to the commander. Histoire de Babar, le petit elephant.”
The commander was incredulous. “You mean the story of a young elephant you following the death of his mother by a hunter escapes to the city after being chased by the hunter, returns to the jungle when the king dies from eating bad mushrooms and Babar, with his white man’s civilization and education is appointed king, marries his cousin then teaches their children valuable lessons about everything except incest? That loveable children’s story?”
“It’s the French! It was always those damned French cartoonists, snooty and elitist, striking a blow for competent and good cartoonists everywhere.”
The commander considered the words carefully. He could see the diplomatic clashes, the protests, the closing of embassies, the European Union imperiled, perhaps even war. He looked up at the young detective and shook his head,; his own not the detectives.
“We’re closing the file on this. Continue the investigation for the usual suspects. This is bigger than us, bigger than poorly drawn cartoons which are way more important now than they were before the attack, where they might simply have been forgotten like the drawings by my 9 year old nephew on the wall of my flat with permanent marker. Permanent! Now bring me another cup of coffee, just a bit warmer than room temperature”
The young detective straightened, thoroughly disillusioned. He nodded dutifully and knew this was just the beginning. Let artists and cartoonists have a little freedom and they’ll take over the whole world with their elitists points of view and their outrageous takes on comedy, politics and life. No, Ahmadovich knew, this wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com
The Illinois Policy Institute (IPI) is a conservative think tank with offices in Chicago and Springfield, Illinois, and member of the State Policy Network. IPI is a member of the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC) as of 2011. IPI is also a member of ALEC’s Health and Human Services Task Force and Education Task Force. Senior Budget and Tax Policy Analyst, Amanda Griffin-Johnson, presented model legislation (the “State Employee Health Savings Account Act”) to the HHS task force at ALEC’s 2011 annual meeting. Collin Hitt, Director of Education Policy, is a private sector member of the Education Task Force representing IPI. He sponsored the “Local Government Transparency Act” at the ALEC 2011 States and Nation Policy Summit. In its 2006 annual report the Cato Institute states that it made a grant of $50,000 to the Illinois Policy Institute. The Cato Institute is a libertarian think tank founded by Charles G. Koch and funded by the Koch brothers.