Inman City Police Chief Mike Akins was arrested and jailed  for investigation of rape charges Tuesday night. Bond was set at $250,000.

He is being held in the McPherson County Jail.

No other details were available at 6:30 Wednesday morning.

Check back later today.

HUTCHINSON -- I don’t know whether to call them letters or unaffiliated comments, but whatever they are, I get ‘em now and then:

UnoWHO

Hutchinson

Dear Uno: Yeah, I know. It’s been Slim Pickens around here lately. You’ll be pleased to know I’m working on a story about light-skinned butterflies who can speak with a dialect if they want, but I’ve still got a couple of loose ends to tie up before I can put it in print. And I’m not sure what to say about Prairie Grass Preserves other than you might be able to get small jar of them for $3.95 at the Farmer’s Market -- those folks who hawk homemade jams, jellies and preserves are real proud of them

Dwight

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BMD

Hutchinson

Dear BMD: I don’t know … maybe the car was in her name and she gave herself permission to smash the rear window. Maybe because Tiger covered for her by saying she was just trying to help him (she’s clearly moved on from that . But you’re probably right … if the cops show up at your house and say they are investigating a crime, and the evidence is spilled all over your driveway … and you exercise your right not to talk with them about it … you might be asked to try on a pair of handcuffs and talk to the judge about it in the morning.

Dwight

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“Will someone in the media please explain to me why Tiger Woods’s wife wasn’t arrested for domestic violence? I know what would happen to me if I took a golf club to my wife’s car around here. I’d go to jail.”

“Hello! Hello! Hello! Is anybody down there? Visiting this sight has become like walking into a big manufacturing plant that has been abandoned. The ghosts of busy days are in my memory. I demand stories about butterflies and prairie grass preserves. Come on Dwight! Time to come back to work.”

By Al Martinez
IT happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck.

I was working swing shift on general assignment, writing the story of a boy who was dying of leukemia and whose greatest wish was for fresh peaches.

It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas.

We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep.

I remember it was about 11 o'clock at night and pouring rain outside when I began putting the piece together for the next day's editions.

Deadline was an hour away, but an hour is a lifetime when you're young and fast and never get tired.

Then the telephone rang.

HUTCHINSON -- (Editor's Note: One of the great metro columnists of our time was Al Martinez, formerly of the Los Angeles Times. What follows is my choice as his best column ever. It's appropriate for Christmas, and I hope you enjoy it. Dwight)

Christmas Story