The Mysterious Masonic Ring

Kittie explained their British acquaintance’s interest in Dickerson as having to do with his unique ring, thought to be the key to the Templar Treasure, one of mankind’s most coveted treasures. At last Dickerson began to believe Kittie and cursed Frank nervously about drawing attention to the ring.

“May I see both of your identifications please?” the Park Policeman requested, a bit of an edge still in his voice. “Of course, officer.” I answered, in the whitest voice I could muster.

While Kittie and I fished out our IDs, The officers asked, “Do either of you have any outstanding wants or warrants out on you?”

“No officer.” Kittie responded.
“Not to my knowledge.” I said.
“Not to your knowledge?” he repeated back incredulously. “What is that supposed to mean, not to your knowledge? You either have one or you don’t.”

“Well, officer,” I began, “seeing as you were called here on a marijuana complaint, and there is obviously no pot being smoked anywhere around here, who know what you’re gonna find when you call my ID in. Now, I mean no disrespect here, sir, but this whole encounter doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, so bear with me if I seem a little agitated and I quantify my answers like that. I just don’t know what’s going on here.”

The officer just rolled his eyes and sighed, “Just give me the IDs, and we’ll see where this goes Mr. . . . Dickerson is it?” “Yes, sir.” I responded.

The officer took our IDs and stepped off to the side to call them in. The whole situation was sending warning signals to my brain. I’m surprised the officer and Kittie weren’t seeing red flags in my eyes. First of all, there was the fact that there was no reason, whatsoever, that the Park Police should have gotten any complaint about us smoking pot. Next, there was only one officer in the squad car sent out to investigate the complaint. I’ve never, after a decade of homelessness and more harassing run-ins with the Park Police, ever seen a Park Police cruiser with only one officer in it. Finally, it was strange that once the lone officer arrived on the scene—especially after finding more than one suspect involved in what was being complained about—did not immediately call for back-up. In the past, I had complained vocally about why it takes as many as ten officers to check a pair of IDs. Either I found one Park Officer who had some kind of courage, or there was something fishy going on here.

A poke in my ribs broke my reverie, “This is weird Bill,” Kittie all but whispered to me, “Park usually doesn’t act like this.”

“I picked up on that too, babe.” I responded in the lovest talking voice I could muster, “Ok, chill, he’s coming back.”

The officer walked back to us, and handed us our respective IDs. “Well, Mr. Dickerson, your record is so squeaky-clean; our record-keepers were hard-pressed to find any evidence of your existence except for a couple of traffic tickets.”

“As for you miss,” he continued, “your rap sheet is so long that someone joked about going to the Government Printing Office to pick up a bound copy of it.”

I choked back a chuckle at that remark, and asked, “So where do we go from here officer?”
“Well, I see no evidence of marijuana here,” he responded, “but strangely enough, in light of the lady’s shall we say ‘copious’, record, I’ve been ordered to issue you a written warning.”

He handed me an envelope instead of the expected ticket. As he pulled his hand away, I noticed the glint of a gold ring on his right ring finger, and a flash of the now familiar compass and square. He nodded slightly as he saw the look of recognition in my eye, and made his way back to his squad car.
“On the square, indeed.” I mumbled to myself as he drove off.

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