When the town blacksmith committed murder,
somebody had to hang. Judge Roy Bean shooks his head, saying they couldn't afford to lose the only blacksmith, so let's hang some random Chinese railroad employee instead. They're a dime a dozen.
That's my recollection of something our U.S. History professor told us in college. It may not be true, but it sounds plausible. Awful tales from history come back to haunt me when I take up freewriting: all the old tales, true or false, embellished, or bare bones in need of fleshing out. Maybe some of the horror stories can fade into oblivion. I want to believe this:
No wonder that Roy Bean was called "The Hanging Judge" as his philosophy was "Hang 'em first, try 'em later." But although he frequently talked about hanging the sentenced, there is no record showing that he actually hanged anyone.
Hanging Judge Roy Bean in Langtry, Texas | Gypsy Road Trip
Long before we'd reached Day 1,000 of Daily Freewrites,
back when Day #500 was imminent, I had posted my own "which man will hang" story on Steemit. Now we're at Hive, and I'm told we can double post. Is this so? Can I call this a #ThrowbackThursday post? It was fun, and today, I've been revisiting old freewrites, thinking 
For the record, I had a co-worker who totally inspired the chainsmoking, womanizing, has-been (more like "never was"), sax-playing member of the municipal band. R.I.P. Mr B.
Sax Mather - Day 495: 5 Minute Freewrite: Wednesday - Prompt: saxophone
"We need another sax player"
said no bandleader anywhere.
James "Sax" Mather
was a skinny, dessicated, asthmatic old chain-smoker who somehow managed to find lung power for his sax. The municipal band didn't need more saxophones. More oboes or another piccolo, yes, and always, the need was great for good players who could read music and count time and keep their instruments in tune.
Doc Shandy shook his head at the old man whose white mustache was the size of a small dog. Not that Sax Mather would ever notice or comprehend that the head-shaking was for him. He was in his element. A ludicrously big spirit animated that shriveled up body. He looked dried up and ready to blow away in the next gust of wind.
I should be so lucky, Shandy thought every time a strong breeze set the sheet music a-flutter.
No bandleader would tolerate the guy, but Mather had been here longer than the band shelter in the city park had been here. He'd played in this band since Grandpa Shandy was a young trumpeter playing alongside young "lady's man" Mather.
Impossible as it was to look at the slow-moving, mouth-breather Mather teasing sound from his sax, it was still more preposterous that the old goat still considered himself a lady's man. He flirted with the confidence of a Don Juan and made "accidental" contact with the female musicians, fingertips touching over the sheet music, eye contact with boobs, that sort of thing. He was so old, nobody bothered to charge him with sexual harassment. And it was easy for the other sax players to drown out the sounds he managed to produce. As long as he gave up asking for solos, it was ok to allow him a place in Doc Shandy's "best in the history of the city" band.
The upright bass player, Pluck Mahoney, was getting on in years but in splendid physique. His big smile came easy and inspired all those worn-out cliches about lighting up a room.
When the cute little piccolo player went missing and Sax Mather was the last person to see her alive, nobody doubted he could have done her in. True, he was frail and walked like a snail, but old guys knew lots of ways to overcome a five-foot, one-hundred-pound brunette.
After the concert in the park on summer nights, band members often stopped at the nearest pub, which welcomed jazz improv, and players were rewarded with free drinks and a place to set out a tip jar. Surveillance cameras showed that Sax Mather walked Molly Kazan to her car, and she drove off, and he shuffled toward home a few blocks away.
She was missing for weeks. Without a trace.
When her body was found, coroners said her death looked recent. She'd been alive somewhere until the brutal end. Strangled. Fractured skull. Rope burns, lashings from whips.
A search and seizure of surveillance cameras from various Joe Citizens happened to catch the one lucky image: a big man in a hoodie wheeling his upright bass toward the city park. It was only a few seconds of footage among hours and hours of routine surveillance recordings.
Technology.
Sax Mather cried like a baby when Molly's body turned up in the wooded area of the park, loosely covered by leaves. He was too choked up to speak, but Pluck Mahoney swiped a tear from his eye and said kind words about Molly at the visitation.
Doc Shandy shook his head. He knew how this song would play out. Damn the luck. The sax player would have been no loss, but that bassist. Damn. He would be hard to replace.
He tried not to think about Molly. #Justice4Mollie posters still surrounded him. Yes, he needed a new piccolo player. No, he wasn't free of Sax Mather. It was so hard to concede this one:
