7:08 AM. Waking up at home. Didn’t sleep well. Unsettled dreams. Surrounded by millions of entertainment reporters, asking me when Metallica was going out on tour next, and no matter how many of them I throttled and incapacitated, they just kept coming.
7:30 AM. Having breakfast. Pancakes, maple syrup, and tea with maple syrup added in. Good way to get the day started.
8:05 AM. Walking into the detachment. Constable Mackenzie briefs me in on events of the overnight shift. Nothing particularly amiss, just a couple of stranded hikers out in Last Chance Gulch, but search and rescue are in the process of getting them out. I have a court hearing today in Calgary to attend to, yet another in those pre-trial hearings for that murderous lunatic. Well, okay, there hasn’t been a conviction yet, so alleged murderous lunatic.
8:48 AM. In the midst of paperwork when Constable Hudson knocks at my door. She informs me that Ed down at the general store just had an Access Hollywood crew come in, asking for directions to here. She adds that Ed gave them the wrong directions, sending them in the vicinity of Tombstone Canyon. I’ll have to thank Ed later.
8:53 AM. Taking my leave of the detachment to get back on the road for Calgary. Hopefully by now those entertainment reporters are aimlessly circling around the parking lot for the Tombstone Canyon trail, wondering if they took a wrong turn somewhere, or better yet getting chased by bears.
9:42 AM. Have arrived at the courthouse and am greeting the lead Crown attorney in the case. He and I confer on what is supposed to be a routine hearing, but which will no doubt get upstaged by the unhinged rage of the defendant. Yes, I know, it seems she holds a grudge against me.
9:55 AM. In the courtroom, sitting in the public seating area, waiting. The Crown attorney is speaking with his opponent. The defense attorney shares a common problem with me. We both share names with famous people we don’t look like but get mistaken for. In her case, she’s gone through life with the name Joni Mitchell.
10:03 AM. The accused is brought into court. As usual, she’s in restraints, even though she’s past ninety. With good reason. She stands accused of being the world’s most prolific serial killer, and at pretty much every single one of these hearings since her arrest, she’s blown up. Mostly at me.
Former mystery writer and total deranged loon Jessica Fletcher is brought to sit beside her lawyer. She looks back, sees me, and glares. If looks could kill, I’d already be dead.
10:27 AM. The Crown and Joni Mitchell have been engaged in making motions to the judge in regards to the case. Fletcher has been busy staring at me with that daggers of hate expression. I’ve simply stared back, occasionally smirking. Yes, hate me all you want, lady, but I’m outside in the free and clear, and you’re in pre-trial custody. And you and I both know that in the end, when you’re convicted, you’re never getting out.
10:38 AM. The hearing is wrapping up. Fletcher is being removed by court officers. She lunges at me, screams, “I’m going to eat your heart, Ulrich! Your heart! You’re a dead man! I’ll have your head on a pike, you Mountie bastard!”
I say nothing, smile pleasantly, and wave as the officers get control of her and remove her from court.
11:01 AM. Stepping out of court, following the Crown attorney and Mitchell. Reporters start asking questions about the Fletcher case. One of them, with a particularly demented look in his eyes, yells more than the others do. “Lars! Joni! Max Holden, Entertainment Tonight! Shouldn’t your musical careers come first? I mean, what are musicians of your caliber doing in a Canadian courthouse anyway?”
Mitchell and I take one look at each other, then look back at Holden, and we deck him at the same time.
1:32 PM. Back to the detachment. Meeting Constables Hudson and Mowat as I step inside. They tell me that Max Holden called from the hospital in Calgary, asking if Joni Mitchell is going on tour with Metallica and turning heavy metal goddess at this point in her career. I sigh. First, we are not that Lars Ulrich and Joni Mitchell. Why do entertainment reporters find that so hard to understand? Second, we’re both a lot younger than the musicians those jackasses keep confusing us with. Third, clearly we didn’t hit Max Holden hard enough. Constables, remind me to put him on a coma for six weeks if he turns up here.
2:07 PM. In my office working on a write-up report for this morning’s court appearance. Constable Mowat knocks at my door and informs me there’s a call for help from Tombstone Canyon. It’s that crew from Access Hollywood, and they’re stranded.
I roll my eyes. Do we really have to help them?
2:29 PM. Arriving at the parking lot for Tombstone Canyon. A few cars for other hikers. Asking myself for the two hundred seventy fifth time in the last twenty minutes why I’ve come out here.
3:12 PM. Coordinating with search and rescue personnel who are extracting the three crew members out of the canyon, using climbing rope. A producer’s up on the top now. Reporter and cameraman yet to come. Remaining silent as I watch things, hoping the producer’s not as stupid as the reporter must be, but hey, they work in the entertainment reporting industry, which means generally speaking they’re going to be pretty dimwitted.
Another person is helped to the top by rescue personnel. From the deer caught in the headlights expression he’s got in his eyes, this must be the reporter. He looks around, as if in a daze, and sees me. Then he walks right towards me. “Lars! Lars, buddy! Andy Mackinnon, Access Hollywood! Great to finally meet you! Wow! I didn’t know you were into search and rescue as well as all that heavy metal drumming!”
I inform him that I am not that Lars Ulrich.
He stares and stares, not understanding. “Are you sure?”
3:38 PM. Watching as Andy Mackinnon, laid out on a stretcher and newly recovered for the second time today from Tombstone Canyon, is loaded onto an ambulance after I knocked him back into the canyon. He’s babbling to himself, something about seeing the elephant. I might have jolted whatever passes for his brain.
6:18 PM. At home on my own after my shift. Grilling a steak on the barbecue. Adding a bit of maple syrup for extra flavor. You can never go wrong with maple syrup, after all.
10:23 PM. A call from the Crown attorney in Calgary interrupts my evening reverie. He informs me that Fletcher has been spending the last ten hours screaming in her cell about me being a dead man, about feasting on my bone marrow, and going all scorched earth on me.
That’s nice. I’d like to see her try.