Chapter 4: A Moffit

Many Cones, Based On True Crime

Chapter four introduces us to Albert Moffit. At first glance, Mr. Moffit is very vanilla. He is nondescript and lives a boring life. However, we learn that Albert Moffit is delusional and convinced that he has been chosen to become a crime boss. He crosses paths with Richard Sparne in a chance meeting at the high school. Albert Moffit convinces the young man of his delusion. Richard Sparne and a group of his friends decide to become the mercenaries of Mr. Moffit.
Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.
About a half hour before Jules Pranet was stiffing the rude waiter, Richard Sparne and his friends were leaving Albert Moffit’s home based sales agency. Moffit sold everything from credit card swipe machines to bulk sausage.

He lived, with his wife, in a quiet residential area on the east side of the city. Two-bedroom, red brick home on the corner of the street. Front door entrance in the center of the house, facing the street. Side walk leading to a porch with four concrete steps. Big oak tree in the center of the lawn and midsized tulips under the picture window. Lilac bushes on the sides of the house and a green hedge-rowed back yard. A side entrance led directly to Albert’s office.

He and his wife had no children and few friends. The recent influx of youthful visitors should have caused the neighborhood to gossip, but no tongues wagged.

Albert earned a median income and had his entire adult working life. His wife was never employed and for the last five or six years devoted her entire day and early evening to watching televangelists. She was a sucker for every pitch. Albert had suspended her check writing authority, but she still made telephone pledges. Their thirty-third wedding anniversary passed with neither of them remembering.

Albert was non-descript. His wife was frumpy. She had once been attractive, but Albert never thought about that anymore. Hadn’t for years. Mrs. Moffit should have noticed the increase in traffic to her husband’s office, and she probably did. Too many years of not caring prohibited her from commenting about all the kids coming to their home.

No police computers contained Albert Moffit’s name. He had never been in trouble, paid his bills on time, drove his car like an aged rectory housekeeper, and seldom drank more than one or two alcoholic beverages.

One day, about two months shy of his thirty-third wedding anniversary, God, or someone, or something, contacted Albert and told him he was the heir apparent to all of organized crime’s activities in his geographic locale. No five families, no commission, just him. Albert had always suspected that a traitorous ancestor, somewhere, had removed the vowels from the end of his name and this communiqué sated his suspicions.

He was primed to assume his rightful position. First, those under him, the people who enjoyed the illegal profits from his protection, had to be taught a lesson. No one was honoring his position. No one was paying tribute to him. That had to change. Once the awesome and vengeful power of his rule was recognized, everyone would cower at the mention of the name, Albert Moffit.

Richard Sparne and a number of Sparne’s acquaintances became Moffit’s terrible scepter.