CHAPTER 2: Memories of Springfield

Brian had just finished his junior year at Parkview, and all was well in his world. He had been sports editor for his high school paper, which, among other perks such as covering key football and basketball games, had allowed him to write his own column: Brown’s Bag. In his senior year, he would be Editor-In-Chief. He had finished a spring soccer league, and the Vikings’ team looked like it would be good in the fall. “We might even beat Kickapoo this year,” he told me after he arrived in early June for his summer visit in St. Charles.

For years, I’d been meeting his mother in Rolla when he and his younger brother Justin came to stay. They’d usually stay with me and Marcia and the girls over the Christmas holiday and then for two months over the summer break. This year was different. It was 1992, and Brian was turning seventeen. He had a car now and did not want to spend the whole summer with his dad. Brian was my oldest, and he was growing up. The plan was for him to stay for a couple of weeks and then return to his job at Ryan’s Steakhouse. It would be years later before I’d know he’d already left Ryan’s. That was just an excuse to return early. I was working a lot, my second marriage was strained, and Brian didn’t want to be away from his friends for too long. I couldn’t blame him.

For me, that summer was uneventful. For Brian, it was much different. He was coming of age. He was becoming a young man, and there was no turning back. Life was funny like that. It only goes in one direction.

What I didn’t know at the time and would learn much later was that there was a big case developing then in the boys’ hometown of Springfield. Three women had gone missing without a trace in the middle of the night from a house in a well-heeled part of town. Brian would tell me later, “Back then, everyone knew someone who had a theory or connection to the girls. The way I heard it was that this busser knew the server, and she was sure she’d waited on the mom and the two girls. Suzie – Sherrill’s daughter – was drunk. This busser said he really doesn’t remember, though. Everyone, he said, is drunk at George’s, and that’s pretty much true. Especially if we’re talking about it being after one a.m.”

According to Brian, the server had an interesting story all her own, but he said it’s hard to know how much he heard was reliable.

“Look, memories are funny things. They are not to be trusted, especially if they are old. They change with time, particularly if you’re not an active participant in what’s going on. If someone tells you a story, you can imagine it and play it out in your mind, but the details aren’t as fixed as if they happen to you personally – which is still flawed. The more you think about what you were told, the more you internalize the story and can make subtle changes to it without realizing it. I was told about this server almost 30 years ago, and I can’t remember her name, but for simplicity’s sake, we’ll say she’s Jane. Same with the busser – I’ll call him Ben. And in my mind, right or wrong, they were possible keys to this whole case.”

Brian said Jane was a young, single mother in her early twenties. She fell in love with her high school sweetheart, married two months out of high school and divorced 15 months later. Her husband deserted her three months into her pregnancy. Jane was an attractive woman, tall, blond, with blue eyes, thin, with a bubbly smile and an outgoing personality. On the outside, she looked like someone that had the world in her hands. But, during the lonely hours of the night, Ben had seen a different side to her.

She was not as sure of herself as others thought. Her life was a struggle. The money she made from serving barely paid the bills. Her mother helped her in any way she could, but she had her own challenges. Jane’s dad passed away three years earlier, and her mother’s health had deteriorated since then. Unable to work and living on Social Security, her mother moved in with her six months earlier. Jane found herself taking care of her mother as well as her three-year-old daughter. There wasn’t time to date. College was a fantasy now. Her friends had gone on to other places. She had never felt more alone at the time all this happened. In the middle of the night, when no one was around, and the weight of her loneliness was too much to bare, Ben could see the sadness in her eyes, and he could hear the shakiness of her voice as she fought back her tears.

She took the night shift six months earlier so she could be home to care for her daughter and mother during the days. At night, both were asleep and less likely to need her. Besides, her mother was not completely immobile. She was capable of taking care of her daughter’s basic needs, particularly after bedtime.

George’s Steakhouse was a 24-hour restaurant known by most locals of Springfield. They served breakfast all night, large portions, plenty of grease, and strong, black coffee, perfect for late-night partiers and early-morning risers. It was a popular hangout for students and long-time residents alike.

That night, Saturday, June 6, was particularly busy during the first half of Ben’s shift. Kickapoo High School had their graduation ceremonies earlier that day. Graduation parties meant a lot of people were out late into the night, celebrating and drinking. George’s had a staff of three cooks and four servers until around 2 a.m., when things slowed down.

“It’s been reported that ‘Jane’ had seen Sherrill and the girls between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m., but if you look at the timeline and assume Sherrill wanted to sober her daughter up after she came home, they would have been at George’s around 2:30 a.m.,” Brian said. “What stuck with her were the three strange men who just came in before the missing women arrived.”

Jane had a bad feeling. There was something off about them. Something that wasn’t good. They looked rough, hardened, and scary, and they were relatively quiet. Most people who come into George’s that late have been drinking. And if you don’t like them, she said, it’s because they’re obnoxious.

“But these dudes gave me the chills. There was a coldness about them,” Jane said later during an interview.

Ben never saw the guys. He thought he remembered hearing them, but he was in the back cleaning up. He remembered Jane’s description of them later.

“They were dirty, nasty. They made rude, sexual comments to me. One of them grabbed my leg and started rubbing it up and down with his hand. I moved away, but they just stared at me. I thought they were going to do something to me,” she said. “That’s when the three women walked in. I was never so happy to see some customers. They pretty much left me alone after that. But I could see them looking at those women. It wasn’t a glance, more like a stare. I don’t think the women noticed those guys looking at them. They took a seat on the other side of the restaurant.”

Jane had recognized Sherrill, and they were friendly. They ordered some breakfast but didn’t stay long – maybe thirty minutes or so. Jane assumed she wanted to get some coffee in Suzie. The men had left about ten minutes before the women.

“Strange thing was that while I was cleaning off the table, I saw the three women outside. They were talking to the men, the same creepy guys that I thought had just left.”

Neither Jane nor Ben thought much about it at the time. Over the coming weeks, however, things would change. That was when news of the three women that disappeared from a middle-class home in Springfield spread all over town and beyond.

Eventually, Jane would see that the three women were missing and recall that night. Then she talked about it all with Ben after she’d spoken to investigators. Soon, those same investigators would come in to talk to Ben and ask him about the early morning hours of June 7.

“There wasn’t much I could say, though. Yeah, I was working that night, but I didn’t actually see the men. Or the three women. At least, I didn’t remember seeing any of them. I was busy in the back catching up on dirty dishes.”

The interview was short, and that was all Ben heard from the police. He couldn’t corroborate her story. He later would see news reports that referenced a server from George’s without using her name as being a possible witness. He always wished he would have paid more attention to everything that night, but what can you do? Even important days often look like all the others.

The buzz that was all over town would eventually die down. Brian would go to Southwest Missouri State in the fall of 1993, drop out and then return a decade later to get that degree in journalism he was pursuing. Life moved on as it always does.

“It still bugs me,” Brian said. “I left for a couple of weeks, and Springfield was different. It didn’t feel like a safe place anymore. Friends were unnerved. I was unnerved. Nearly twenty-eight years have passed, and the police don’t appear to be any closer to solving it. It bothers me. I want to understand what happened.”

My son and I have had numerous discussions about the Springfield Three over the years. Like most people in the area and region, we had seen the television shows when they aired stories about the Springfield Three. We’ve read the People Magazine story and checked out various blogs and websites dedicated to the case.

They all have good information, some more than others. I find the facts and recollections can vary quite a bit. Facts are blurred. Memories change and fade. Truth and fiction become blurred over time.

Brian became hooked on the story. And, I must admit, so did I. When he came to me and said that he wanted to investigate the Springfield Three himself, I cautioned him. “There’s a reason it’s never been solved,” I told him. “The FBI has resources, manpower and technology you don’t, and they’ve been involved since the very beginning. If they haven’t found the women or arrested a single suspect by now, there just isn’t enough evidence to do so.”

“But, Dad,” he said, “someone has got to know what happened to those women. Maybe the police have their minds made up, and they’re wrong.”

I knew then there was no stopping him. He had always been stubborn. It reminded me of the Lake Honor case I couldn’t let go of. I guess, in that regard, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I told him I knew a guy he should talk to.

“He’s a colorful character,” I said. “Booger is a straight shooter who will drive you mad and take you down every dark alley and dead-end road of a case.”

“I’d like to interview him,” Brian said.

That was mid-April 2020. We were under a worldwide pandemic. COVID-19 was running rampid. Businesses were closed, stay at home orders were in effect in Missouri. Social distancing had become a necessity. Brian was working for me, helping run our small family marketing business in St. Louis, and there wasn’t much we could do.

“The timing is pretty bad right now,” I said. “Most places are closed. It’s been a lot of years since I even spoke to Booger. He might be out of the business now, maybe even dead for all I know. You know he’s several years older than I a.m. Besides, he might not even want to talk to you. Like I said, he’s an unusual character.”

“Dad, you’ve always been a glass-half-empty type, and I’m more of a glass-half-full person. Maybe I got that from Mom.”

There was nothing left to do but try to find Booger and wish Brian luck.

I figured that I was going to get the last laugh anyway. Booger McClain was going to be an interview that Brian would never forget.

“Why don’t you phone him?” I suggested after a Google search found he had an office in Springfield still. “You can schedule a time and place to meet.”

“Good idea, Pops,” he said.

Brian always called me “Pops” when he felt he had gotten the best of me. He was feeling cocky. He was a former business reporter, and interviewing difficult sources was in his wheelhouse, I guess. I hated the term “Pops,” and he knew it.

Brian called Booger, hopeful he could do some initial interviews over the phone or online.

“Good idea, son,” I told him, trying to hold back my grin. I knew Booger wasn’t the Zoom or Skype type. “Booger and I grew up in an age before computers, before cell phones, a time of typewriters and taking notes by hand. Booger hadn’t changed, and neither had I. You just can’t teach old dogs new tricks. He’ll be lucky to get five minutes of Booger’s time on the phone, I thought. Soon, Brian will figure out he’s going to have to go to Springfield.

He called, but there was no answer. An answering machine recording picked up. A loud, deep voice said, “Spit it out or keep it in your mouth. I don’t give a damn. If you leave your name and number, I’ll delete it when I get back.”

“What kind of message is that?” Brian said. “Who is this guy?”

I just smiled. “Good luck, son.”

I knew it would be at least a month before we’d get business back, so I gave him my blessing and told him to put his reporter’s hat on. “Do what you can with all this, and just tell me all about it,” I said.

I laughed, of course, when I learned Booger deleted what I’m sure was a carefully crafted interview request by answering machine.

Brian was stubborn, though. It’s not such a bad quality to have. His stubbornness had helped my son be independent. He refused to ask for help, so he eventually figured almost anything out without help. The stubbornness forced him to learn things on his own. That could be an admirable quality. I’m sure he would have eventually gotten the interview on his own. A few hours later, I handed him a piece of paper. On it was written an address and directions and a time, 9 a.m. the next day.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You have an appointment with Booger McClain at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning,” I said, knowing he could stay with family there or get a hotel. “The address is where you’ll find his office. It is an abandoned warehouse on the north side of Springfield. You should probably pack and leave right away. Also, you should plan to stay for a few days at least. Knowing Booger, the interview is likely to last for a few days.”

I smiled, and added, “I hope you like coffee.” He just looked at me. We both knew that I had bested him this time.

He left for Springfield soon after. He called me from a Motel 6 on the north side of Springfield at about 10 p.m. that night.

“I’m here, Pops,” he said.

“Good,” I replied. “How was the drive?”

“Long and uneventful. Hardly anyone’s on the roads except truckers.”

“Did you eat something?” I asked.

“McDonald’s,” he replied. “Most places aren’t open, just fast food restaurants, really. I stopped by George’s on my way into town. The parking lot was empty. The lights were off. I guess they’re closed down.”

“Did you check out Joe’s Diner?” I asked, “That’s where Booger and I met over forty years ago.”

“I hate to tell you this, Dad, but Joe’s doesn’t exist anymore. There’s a strip center where it used to be.”

“Did you say there’s a strip club there now?”

“Umm, no,” he said, unamused.

“Brian, good luck with the Booger interview tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

Brian left his motel room early the next morning, drove to Division Street and followed it across the railroad tracks toward downtown. On both sides of the road were warehouses and offices, most boarded up and abandoned. He hoped to locate the building that housed Booger’s office and then maybe grab a donut and some coffee at Casey’s Convenience Store.

But finding Booger’s office proved more challenging than he thought it would be. It was off an alleyway, apparently with no sign out front.

“I think I found it. It just looks like a warehouse,” he said, not having seen the address, but he noticed Booger’s candy-apple red ‘69 Chevy Corvette Convertible. The license plate said, “BOOG.”

It was a plain, brick property that appeared to be three levels, but the first floor was lower. It had no elevator, only stairs and Booger’s office was on the third floor.

A hand-written sign on the outside of a rear door read: “Booger McClain, Private Investigator, Suite 301.”

Above the door was a camera, a surveillance device recording every movement.

“The place looked completely abandoned,” Brian would say later. “It was dark inside, no artificial lighting, only light from outside beaming through the boarded up and broken windows.”

It was three flights up, and the old wooden stairs had seen better times. On each floor, another camera was attached high on the wall, pointed downward to record any movement on the stairs.

He turned the knob on the door. It was locked. He knocked. A buzzer sounded, and the door unlocked. He walked in.

Inside, an elderly lady with gray hair, thinly built, and a kind smile greeted him with a hug, which alarmed Brian, who was wearing a mask and being very careful about germs. “Hello, you must be Brian,” she said, unaware he was bothered. “My name is Rose. Mr. McClain is expecting you. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No thanks, Rose,” he replied, stepping back.

“Ok, well, please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. McClain know you are here,” before motioning him across the room and immediately sitting back at her desk.

“She didn’t go anywhere to get him or use the phone or anything. She sat down and went back to work. I didn’t know what to think,” Brian said.

The room was sparse. There were two wooden folding chairs against a gray wall with peeling paint. No decorations except for family pictures behind Rose’s desk. Brian said he was glad at least he’d be able to keep some distance from these two without being rude about it, assuming wrongly the empty desk and oversized leather recliner were Booger’s. He thought maybe the guy was in the bathroom. Next to Rose was a glass vase containing fresh flowers – you guessed it, red roses. He noticed a half-full coffee mug sat on the desk that read, “World’s Best Aunt.”

Also, on the other side of the room was a table with a coffee maker and pot containing what Brian said was a very strong pot of coffee. On a small shelf next to the table were an assortment of coffee mugs and what he called “a jug of Folger’s coffee.”

While Brian waited, Rose kept busy typing on a typewriter at her desk.

“Dad, she really had a typewriter. I couldn’t believe it. Who is still using typewriters?”

After about five minutes, Rose left, as if by instinct, then came back after a minute, smiled at Brian and said, “Mr. McClain will see you now.”

“Booger had his own office, just as big and even more empty and dark than Rose’s,” he said. “I was smacked in the face by the smell of coffee and cigar smoke when I walked in.”

Behind a large oak desk sat Booger McClain, a large, intimidating figure with a bald head and dark, bulging eyes. He looked old, tired, and worn. His face was full, wrinkled. His eyebrows were bushy and gray. Behind him on a table sat a large, white Stetson hat. As he stood to shake hands, Brian noticed his thick, large hands, hairy, hardened. He wore a dress shirt, green, button down, long sleeves. The top two buttons were undone, a hairy chest showing through. He was wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. He wore jeans, worn and faded. He had cowboy boots on, freshly shined. The tips of the boots narrowed into a “V” shape, which made Brian wonder how his toes fit in them.

“They’re rattlesnake skin,” Booger replied when he saw Brian looking at his boots. “I got them in Enid, Oklahoma, a few years back at their annual rattlesnake round-up.”

“What?” Brian asked.

“Annual rattlesnake round-up,” Booger repeated as if he should have known. “Every spring, about the time the snakes are ready to come out of hibernation, hundreds of people show up to search under rocks and in holes for rattlesnakes. Afterwards, they have a big barbeque. You ever eaten barbequed Rattlesnake, son?”

“Umm, no. That doesn’t sound great.”

“You should take that fruity scarf off your face, son. If I’m sick, it won’t save you,” he said, continuing on without hesitation: “You don’t know what you’re missing. It tastes a lot like chicken, fresh, juicy, tender, and smoked just right. You’ll never forget the taste.”

Brian reluctantly took off his mask, knowing he’d probably be there a while.

“So, how’d you get the boots?”

“The roundup is like a state fair. Food, drinks, games for the kids and all kinds of craft and local art booths. One of the vendors was selling genuine rattlesnake boots. They wanted $300 for these. I got ‘em for $150.”

“Nice,” Brian replied, beginning to fidget with his notebook full of questions.

“So, you’re Alan’s son, huh? I suppose I won’t hold it against you. I figure you look a lot like your dad when he was younger. That’s too bad,” he added with a smile. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?” he asked.

“No, not much.”

“Sure you did, son. Don’t lie to me. I don’t want it to be easy to find this place. Fact is, I don’t want just anyone walking in on me. I’ve made a few people uncomfortable over the years. I’d rather them not show up here unexpected.”

He looked Brian over. “Rose, grab this boy a cup of coffee,” he shouted

“No, that’s OK. I’m good.”

“Nonsense, you’ll hurt Rose’s feelings if you don’t have a cup. She’s been making it for me for about 50 years now. Once you get used to her brew, you’ll never want anything else. Isn’t that right, Rose?” he shouted.

“I guess so, old man,” she shouted back. “If the first cup doesn’t kill ‘em, they always come back for more.”

“OK, I take mine with fresh cream and two raw sugars,” Brian replied.

He could hear Rose laughing from the other room. Booger just stared at him.

A few seconds later, Rose entered Booger’s office with two mugs of coffee. One mug was black with the words “Old Man” written on it. She sat that one down in front of Booger.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Booger replied.

“Call me sweetie one more time. That cup of coffee is going to wind up in your lap,” she said.

Then she sat a yellow mug down in front of Brian with the word, “Newbie” written on it.

“Here you go, sweetie. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll be in the other room,” she said with a sweet grin before walking away and shutting the door behind her.

“She’s something,” Booger replied when she was gone. “I’ve known that woman for a lot of years. She’s a smartass with a heart of gold. Just don’t get on her bad side. Three ex-husbands, and they haven’t been seen since. I’m just kidding you, son,” Booger said with a pause. “I think it was just two ex-husbands.

“She sure as hell makes a good cup of coffee, though. Take a sip,” Booger said, raising his cup.

Brian took a drink and gagged. He said to me later, “Dad, it was the worst coffee ever. I couldn’t hide that I hated it. I really don’t even mind Folgers. I don’t know what was going on there. It was like extra concentrated and burned.”

“Son, keep it down,” Booger said. “Rose thinks that she makes the best coffee in town.”

“There’s no cream or sugar in it, and I guess it made me gag,” Brian replied, still coughing.

“Rose serves nothing but black coffee, son. She says artificial flavorings destroy the integrity of her brew.”

“It’s okay. I am fine,” Brian said, still recovering. “You know, my dad mentioned a server named Rose that worked at Joe’s Diner back in the ‘70s, where he first interviewed you. I don’t suppose….”

“Yes, she’s the same woman,” Booger replied. “A lot older, a bit more temperamental, but that’s her. She worked at Joe’s until it burned down in ‘81 or ‘82, I believe. Then she went to work at George’s Steakhouse.”

“Interesting. I used to go there a lot.”

“Well, I’m surprised you didn’t know her then. She worked the morning shift.”

“I always went late at night.”

“Well, I guess you wouldn’t have known her then. Rose had quite a following, mainly truckers, ex-cons and dirty old men, but they all loved her. When Joe’s burned down, her customers all followed her over to George’s. She worked weekday mornings. I used to come in there almost every morning around 6 a.m. The day just didn’t seem right unless it started off with a cup of her swamp coffee and her smart-ass personality.”

“How’d she come to work for you?” I asked.

“She’s only been working for me for a few weeks. All restaurants and most other businesses were ordered to shut down because of the corona stuff, and business was drying up before then. Rose needed money, and I had gotten used to her coffee, so I asked her to come to work for me for a time.”

“Now, drink your coffee, son. She’ll be back in here with a refill shortly, and I don’t want you to hurt her feelings. Besides, you’ll learn to like that coffee before the day is out. This case you’re interested in has more corners to round than any highway in the hills. We’re going to be here a while.”

Booger McClain stood from his chair in his office. He was tall, about 6’4”. He was stout with a good size beer belly that rolled over his leather belt and oversized belt buckle. He wasn’t fat. Other than his belly, Booger was solid, big-boned, and muscular. He was an intimidating figure.

“Follow me,” he said.

Brian followed him to another room. The door was locked. He pulled out a key from his pants pocket and unlocked the door. He flipped on a light. Inside, all four walls were covered with a combination of whiteboards and cork board, 16 boards, eight of each. The whiteboards were completely filled with notes. Almost every space on the corkboards was filled with yellow Post-It notes with strings going from one note to another to tie different events together.

“Geez, I’ve never seen anything like this, Booger. What is this room?”

“It’s my war room, son. It’s where I solve cases. Everything written or posted on these boards is information about the Springfield Three. The answer to solving their disappearance is somewhere on this board.”

“OK, but can you give me the condensed version of the case, you know, just tell me what happened to the women and who did it?” Brian asked.

“Damn, son. You’re just like your Dad. Always wanting to cut to the chase. I thought you wanted to be an investigative reporter.”

“Yeah, well, that’s more my Dad’s idea than mine.”

“Well, hell, son, make your Dad happy and read all these notes. The answers are in there. I promise you. When you get done reading them, we’ll talk again.”

“There’s thousands of notes in here. It will take me all night.”

“Yeah, I figure you’re right. I’ll have Rose make you a cot and bring in a pot of coffee. When you get too tired to read anymore, just lay down and take a nap. Although if you drink that pot of coffee Rose is going to make for you, I doubt you’ll need to sleep for a day or two anyway.”

“Wait, Booger. Are you serious? You’re just going to leave me in here until I read all of these notes?”

“Yeah, that’s right. On one wall are the facts of the case, everything we know that occurred the night of June 6, 1992, and the morning of June 7. On another wall are all the known clues of the case, and on the third wall are the known suspects. Strings tied from one event to another tie the two events together. In some cases, there are groups of events that are tied together. You’ll understand better once you get started.”

“What if I get hungry or need to use the bathroom?” Brian asked.

“The door on the opposite side of the room is a bathroom. Inside a cabinet, there are some cookies and dried prunes. That should hold you over until morning.”

“Great, thanks, Booger. I’m sure the combination of Rose’s coffee and those dried prunes will keep me regular.”

“They always have for me,” Booger responded.

“One last thing, son. I need to lock the door with you inside. I can’t take the chance of any of these notes leaving here. I trust you understand.”

“Sure, what happens in case of a fire or emergency?”

“Well, there is a window.”

“Thanks. What about my clothes?”

“They look OK to me.”

“No, I mean my clothes are at the Motel 6. I thought that I would be spending the night there.”

“Well, son, unless you want to sleep in your clothes, you better make a quick drive over there and pick them up. While you’re there, you may as well check out. There’s no sense in wasting your money. You can bunk down here until you’re ready to leave.”

“Here? Where?”

“The floor. Rose will make you a cot.”

“Thanks, Booger, but I think that I’d feel more comfortable in a motel room, you know, with a bed and a shower and some real food.”

“No, you’re staying here. Now man up, Nancy and go get your stuff. But hurry, I lock this place down in another hour.”

Brian thought about objecting, but from the look on Booger’s face, he wasn’t in the mood for any sort of protest. Thirty minutes later, Brian packed his suitcase, checked out of the Motel 6 and was on his way back to the warehouse.

It was early evening, dinner time. The streets of Springfield were nearly empty. That struck Brian as odd. Normally this time of day, people would be coming home from work, going out to dinner, shopping. The streets would be busy. But the pandemic had changed everything. Businesses and restaurants were closed. People were staying home. It was quiet and peaceful.

A few minutes later, Brian pulled into a parking space in the parking lot of Booger’s warehouse. He grabbed his suitcase from the trunk, locked his car and headed into the warehouse from the side entrance.

Booger looked amused when Brian walked into the office. “What’s that you’re carrying, Nancy?”

“It’s my suitcase. What about it?”

“It’s red, cherry red.”

“So?”

“Well, I just don’t see many men with bright red suitcases,” Booger replied with a grin.

“Well, if you have to know, my wife picked it out. It was on sale. She got it when we went on vacation a few years ago. Besides, nobody cares what color a suitcase is.”

“If you say so, son.” Booger’s grin left. “OK, son. It is time for you to get down to work. I need to lock you in the war room. But Rose will be here for a while, so if you need anything, just holler.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going home to get my beauty sleep. But I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Sleep tight, Cinderella.”

With that, Booger left the room. Rose entered a few minutes later with a cot, a pillow and blanket and a pot of coffee that she plugged into a wall socket on a warming plate.

“Here, these should make you comfortable for the night,” she said. “I’ll be here for a couple of more hours. If you need anything, just yell.”

“Can I ask you something, Rose?” Brian asked.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Is Booger crazy?”

“Of course he is,” she said with a smile as she left the room.