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Boggs preferred the isolation of Far Cry Road, and everyone was pretty happy with the fact that he didn’t come into town all that often. He wasn’t easy to talk to and even harder to look at. There’s no record of how he smelled because people are too polite around here, but judging by the crime scene photos—not too good. And I mean even before he floated in rainwater for a few days sporting a JFK haircut circa November 11, 1963.

Randall Boggs was a rough customer, and he met a hard end. Though his body would not be discovered until June 15 by Dale Childress and Larry Jamison—one of whom is real good at walking onto other people’s property—the autopsy showed that he likely died on June 12. How he died was something of a matter of contention. He definitely didn’t have his brain anymore—that was partially stuck on the wall, partially floating around with empty chip bags and old raccoon shit—but Boggs had been severely beaten before his death. Although the killing bullet was delivered execution-style, Boggs likely would have died anyway from internal injuries delivered by his tormentor.

But why was he beaten? What did this old man out in the middle of nowhere have that someone would kill for?

Although Boggs’s murder remains unsolved, it’s been long assumed that his use of recreational drugs is what led him facedown to a bad end. But both heroin and cocaine were left behind, sitting innocuously on the coffee table as the water rose around it. Which means that whatever the intruders were after, it wasn’t drugs.

So again—what did the old man have?

One thing Boggs definitely had was diarrhea of the mouth. It was always running, and anyone that saw him coming crossed to the other side of the street to avoid yet another alcohol-fueled tale of a family treasure, one that he kept hidden and secret, biding his time while it doubled and tripled in worth.

Randall Boggs was good for three things—reminding you that personal hygiene is important, long stories about hidden wealth, and periodic reminders that he’s not white trash. He couldn’t be, because there was an Indian princess in his family.

Here’s the part where I call your grandma a ho.

Another thing Boggs definitely had was an itch in his pants. Our AARP listeners already know this, but the beautiful Fairlawn Hotel provided services far beyond a pillow for your head in the 1970s. It ran more along the lines of a sheath for your sword, and did a brisk business. And no, I’m not claiming that your grandma specifically worked there, but somebody had to, that’s all I’m saying.

Regardless, my mom did work at the Fairlawn—and before anybody says, Well, of course she did, let me clarify—Madison Jamison worked at the Fairlawn Hotel in the 1990s at the front desk. But that didn’t stop Randall Boggs from trying to give her a taste of history one evening, when he asked if she’d come upstairs with him and offer up the turn-down service along with a blow job—for a penny.

Mom wasn’t into it for a few reasons, but she did get a good look at that penny, and recently described it to myself and my cohost, Lydia Chass. A quick search revealed that the coin in question was likely an 1864 Indian Princess copper nickel, and by Boggs’s standards, definitely worth its weight in gold. He walked out of the Fairlawn Hotel with it after throwing the front desk bell at my mom in a fit of rage, and that coin was never seen again.

Neither was Randall Boggs.

Not with his brain inside his skull, anyway.

Whoever murdered Randall Boggs worked him over for a prolonged period of time, presumably to get him to give up the storied family treasure. Furniture was slashed, and though the Boggs’s residence was always in disarray, photos of the crime scene suggest that someone was looking for something—and was determined to find it.

If the police are still interested in finding out who murdered Randall Boggs on June 12, 1994, I suggest they go looking for someone in possession of an 1864 Indian Princess copper nickel. Or . . . it could be just somebody he managed to get a blow job out of for a penny.

Either way, I’d keep my mouth shut, if I were you.

Thirty-Seven

“Blue waffle?” I ask as Bristal climbs into my car after school. “Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, man, you’re the one after a higher education,” she says. “I’m just filling in those lower cracks, too. You’re going to be a well-rounded individual. A real Renaissance woman.”

“Speaking of that higher education . . .” I take a deep breath and open my app, flashing my phone at Bristal to show her that both Columbia and Harvard have accepted me.

“Well, slap my ass and call me toned,” Bristal says. “You’re bound for the Ivy Leagues.” Her smile is broad and honest, true happiness for me radiating.

“Oh no, wait,” she suddenly says, putting her hands up in the air. “Don’t start on how choosing between first-rate colleges is going to be such a difficult task. Talk about first world problems.”

“I won’t,” I tell her, and it’s true enough—she doesn’t need to know that the real problem is going to be paying for it.

“Amazing job on that ep, by the way,” I tell her. “And I don’t just mean that it might have played in a role in my acceptance. My phone has been blowing up with tips.”

My in-box is full as well. Just this morning I’ve received thirty-five emails from people claiming they know something about Randall Boggs. Five of them say they know someone who has an 1864 copper nickel and want to meet with me to divulge names.

“Mine, too,” Bristal says, raising her screen to show me 146 unread text messages. “So far I’ve got three death threats and one job offer as a topless Uber driver.”

“Topless Uber driver?” I ask, turning out of the school parking lot. “The podcast is all audio. They don’t even know what you look like.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it had anything to do with the podcast. It was like literally just a random guy texting me asking if I’d pick him up and not wear a shirt while I did it.”

“How is this your life?” I ask.

“An ex,” she says blithely, pulling out her vape pen. “I broke up with him and he posted my number on some site. So now I’ve got plenty of job opportunities, if becoming famous for calling people’s grandmas hookers doesn’t work out.”