Around midday in York, PA,
On March 31st, a springtime day,
Sat John Schmeer with his friends so tight,
At Hooters, their clubhouse, their shared delight.
Retired eye doc, his future secure,
His buddies were wealthy, successful for sure.
They laughed and they joked in their chosen spot,
The “Orange Shorts Society”—a name they had brought.
But John had a burden he couldn’t disguise,
His ex-wife Monica, a thorn in his side.
Each week she demanded her alimony pay,
In envelopes of cash, the most tiresome way.
No checks, no transfers, no banking at all,
He had to drive weekly, obeying her call.
She scorned his traditions, thought Hooters was crude,
Their drifting apart had made bitterness brew’d.
While John and his friends were laughing away,
Police rushed to Monica’s home that day.
A 911 call, then silence fell,
Officers knocked but all wasn’t well.
Unlocked was the door, inside they found,
Monica lifeless, collapsed on the ground.
A phone by her side, a gunshot wound,
And cash-filled envelopes strewn around.
No signs of theft, though money was near,
It seemed someone came with a motive clear.
Detective Demagon scanned the scene,
Perplexed by the money, the crime too clean.
Of course, suspicion fell straight on John,
Her ex-husband, bitter, with motive strong.
He played the part of a grieving man,
But his sobs were dry, like a practiced plan.
“Where were you?” they asked, and he calmly said,
“With my friends at Hooters, breaking bread.”
The tapes confirmed what the friends had claimed,
John stayed all day—he could not be blamed.
Yet whispers of anger, alimony disputes,
Made detectives consider more resolute routes.
Could he have hired someone instead,
To silence Monica, leave her dead?
But the cash he withdrew aligned with her pay,
And the envelopes proved it was just that way.
The case grew cold, no leads to chase,
Till Demagon rewatched the Hooters tape.
And there, at last, the secret lay,
One friend was missing that fateful day.
Tim Jockabe, a member, was not in sight,
And that absence now shone a glaring light.
For John had spoken, time and again,
Of Monica’s house filled with cash to the brim.
Tim saw a chance, he went to her door,
But when she resisted, he shot, then fled sore.
Her money remained, untouched in despair,
But DNA placed Tim surely there.
Convicted of murder, his fate was set,
Death row awaits with lingering debt.
And John, though bitter, was never the hand,
It was greed in a friend that stained the land.
A cautionary tale of trust gone awry,
Where secrets at lunch led Monica to die.