Off To The Woods
To whoever this may concern,
Life is short. And if I had continued lingering on my unsatisfactory, perpetual workdays and the weekends, which passed me by like a meteor, far in the night skies, quick and barely perceivable, I'm afraid I might transform into some lost spirit post my death, haunting old houses and creepy, dark woods. And I don't plan on being a nuisance after my death, which would only contribute to my mumbling paternal grandfather's distasteful prediction that I would be a massive waste of time and effort, given a chance. Also, I would be eternally grateful if you could hold back your irritable impulses to retrieve and establish me back into my mundane, tiresome, unimaginative life that I used to charter. Because if my calculations are not altered by any unexpected factors I forgot to consider, I will return on my own accord in around a year. Until then, I would be finally leading a life that I love and should have lived in this mortal, transient experience of being yet another human on this little blue planet, potentially insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe and everything in it. Thank you for reading and your patience-- see you in a year, hopefully not.
Hanging by a thread,
Hope Tulow
To Another Day
Sunday morn, skies that mourned,
wrinkled blankets, undone laundry,
notes that piled, lectures paused,
plates and bowls, last night meals.
Seasons changes, fall and rains,
falling apart, piece by piece.
Save me, please, screamed to the skies,
begged and hurt, lone in a crowd.
Deep inside, something changed,
life felt different, so did I.
What once was, what now is,
what would be, all blurred in one.
Barely human, days all same,
can't be machine, feelings clawed.
Bewitched in a maze, no way out,
dark that stayed, lights that frayed.
Would I leave, this game of hurt,
or would I stay, forever and frail?
Shall I try, when all things fail,
or just let go, as fate may plead?
But I will wake, to another day,
for dawn may break, and the sun may rise,
birds may sing, and the rains may pour,
nights may fall, and the cold may creep.
I will wake to another day.
We Were Friends
In September 2022, I received a call from Craig, and he asked me to check on his son as he hadn't heard from him over the last several days. Craig's in the hospital at this point.
I go across the hall and knock on his door. It's after nine-thirty and know he's home but he doesn't answer the door. I knocked louder and called out his name. "Doug! Doug! It's Bill. "
No response.
This time I pound on his door and in doing so, the door actually opened. All the lights were on, the television on, and water was flowing over the bathtub. My first thought is he fell asleep and forgot he did that. I could see him half-curled in a fetal position, on his couch, and for a moment, I thought he was just passed out drunk. Beer and Vodka were his mainstays.
As I stepped closer, I noticed two things right away. His feet and hands. They were purple. It was a moot point, but I still went up to him and shook him but got no response. When I went to check his pulse, I let go quickly because with no doubt, by the feel and texture of his skin (cold and stiff), he was dead.
Thing was, Craig was still on the line. It was an awkward thing to have to tell him, over the phone, him in the hospital, that his son at the age of 53 was dead. But tell him I did.
Because we both have the same landlord, I called Myles to let him know, then I called 911. Within two hours (yes, two hours) after police did their initial investigation, they then called the county morgue to have Doug's body removed and that took a good hour after they arrived before they did so. And just like in the movies, they put him in a body bag and zipped it closed.
They said to make certain that this was a as they put it "simple suicide", an autopsy would be performed. All this time, Craig was still on the line and could hear everything going on.
I handed the phone to one of the "morgue guys" saying this was Doug's father, the man asked Craig for his permission, then handed me back the phone.
With them taking Doug's body downstairs, I said to Craig I was sorry this happened the way it did. He said, "Nothing that boy does, surprises me anymore." Then he said goodbye and hung up.
Three weeks later in that same hospital, Craig died in his sleep. He was 72.
(I want to clarify that there was a great deal of activity going on with police coming and going. Paramedics assessing the situation, then the people from the county morgue I didn't describe but this did happen.)
My wish then is as it is now, that they both found the peace that had eluded them in life.
Part One - Evil Times 3 - Chapter Six
St. Peter’s – 2:36 p.m.
“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”
“I remember your voice. Please, tell me you didn’t kill, again?”
“But, Father, I did. I know you have called the police before. I’m much smarter this time. I didn’t track any evidence into your precious box.”
Bishop Ekerson wanted to say booth but remained silent.
“I’m not staying long, but you know something. I love that word, but. I can go on and on with a single, but. But it’s the assholes who think they know everything; the BIG BUTTS who try to get away thinking they will never get caught. This is why I do all this.
“I’m going to put an end to their self-centered pitiful existence. I may even be caught one day. But there’s that word again, but. But my being caught remains to be seen. Right now, no one is doing a particularly decent job trying to catch me.
“There are others on my list of assholes I must take down; but that’s my secret, Father.
“Now, are you going to forgive my fucking sins, or what?”
“My son, all those who have been saved or wish to be saved by Jesus Christ, and the Holy Father, can be forgiven their sins, but….”
“See! SEE! There’s that all too important fucking word again!”
“Either for-fucking-give-me, or just shut the fuck up with your religious bantering. I don’t have all day to play games with you.”
The confessional booth’s door opened, and then banged closed leaving the sound to faintly echo throughout the church.
“See you in church, padre.”
In mere seconds, Bishop Ekerson was beside himself, breathing in the quiet. And very scared.
Medical Examiner’s Lobby – 2:56 p.m.
“Thanks, Stan. So how are things going for you these days?”
“Same-o, same-o, Baker. Some days are better than most. Other days just suck. I still find myself missing the thrill of a good bust or a righteous shoot, but I keep up with what’s going down on the streets with my scanner. Of course, the best news is over at Benny’s Pub, so it’s not all bad.
“I hope that report helps you to nail that son-of-a-biscuit eater soon. Creeps like him make me sick. And yeah, I peeked, Baker. Couldn’t help myself.”
She smiled at Stan.
“Don’t worry about peeking. Just keep what you saw to yourself. We’ll get this guy, trust me, Stan.
“You take care of you, okay? Be good. Be safe.”
“You too, Baker. You, too.”
Such a sad, lonely look he carries, she thought.
St. Peter’s – 3:05 p.m.
“So, Father Ekerson, were you able to get a better look at him this time?” asked Ed.
“From what I could see, he appears to be in his early to mid-thirties, his hair looked dark, and stockier than I first believed. I still couldn’t get a good look at his face or eyes. Once inside the booth, the lighting is minimal, and designed that way for a reason.”
Somehow, Ed knew he was back to square one except for one statement.
See you in church, Padre.
Baker’s Townhouse – 7:30 p.m.
Both she and Stevie, barely walked into her living room when her cell phone rang again.
“Get that out for me, will you, Stevie. My bladder is about to explode!”
Stevie reached for the phone as she dashed off, and he held it to his ear and said, “Baker’s professional Answering Service. How may I help you?”
Laughter on the other end.
“Pretty good, Stevie. Where’s Baker?”
Stevie knew it was Ed.
“She’s in the bathroom. She should be out shortly.”
“Heard tell you had a fun day.”
“It was pretty cool. I picked up over two-hundred seashells, and I think a couple of them might even be fossilized. I won’t know that until summer is over and I’m back at home with my dad.”
“Wow, fossilized, might be worth a few bucks if they are.”
“Maybe. Anyway, here comes mom. Bye.”
Baker grabbed the phone as Stevie walked past her and whispered, “Ed.” What’s up, Ed? What are we looking at?”
“If you have no objections, I’d like to run all this by you at your place. I’ve made copies of all my notes from the murder scene, plus our perp show up again at church. Ekerson was able to give me a better Ident on the guy, but it’s still sketchy. He was extremely rattled.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Promise not to laugh or get pissed off?”
“That doesn’t leave many options.”
“I’m parked next to your rig.”
She laughed.
Still There – 8:20 p.m.
“These are the autopsy reports of former General Arnold Kilpatrick, and Mrs. Ethel Mattingly.
“Both throats slit, both with a double incision in the shape of an X. Kilpatrick had his ears removed with a message printed backward reading: Hear no evil.
“For the record, Mrs. Mattingly had lung cancer and Kilpatrick had a bad kidney. Beyond that, both showed elevated endorphin levels in the blood. Time of death for Kilpatrick based on a rectal thermometer on scene: 9:30 p.m., with a plus or minus ten minutes.
Mattingly, roughly 9:50 p.m. Both had trauma to the scalp, rendering each unconscious.
“The weapon used appears to be a large blade, looks to be two inches wide from its most narrow point, and five inches wide at the hilt. Estimated length is fourteen inches. It was first thought to be a Chef’s carving knife. After searching online, it is now believed to be a replica of a Bowie knife.
“No skin or hair follicles were found under any of the victim’s nails. This indicates no struggle took place. Both were checked for full, or partial prints, and although a partial was found, it isn’t enough to run it through fingerprint analysis. There is currently some DNA testing being done to determine who Kilpatrick may have had sexual relations with prior to his death.
“All the handwritten notes have also been sent to Albany to be run over by handwriting experts.
“Finally, the blood first found at the church was Kilpatrick’s blood. Right now, we have absolutely zero on the perp. So, what do you think, Ed?”
“Your idea to stake out the church might pay off if in fact he really shows, for one. Depending on what the two black and whites find out about Gulatta and Olster; seems like one, or both were well, doing the wild thing with the general.” Ed let his voice trail off to convey his meaning.
“No to worry, Ed,” explained Stevie. “I know what sex is. Dad says sex is healthy as long as you have protection and are aware of your surroundings and environment. Mom has told me a million times, if you love a girl, you’ll wait until marriage, since love is all about respecting the one, you’ll be with.”
Baker looked at Stevie and thought, too bad your father didn’t hold onto to those ideals, but he and Donnie are happy together, and Stevie’s head hasn’t been corrupted. Mark has always been a great father. Just not a great husband.
“Any way, it’s my night to cook, Ed. How do you like your hamburger?”
“No, that’s fine. No bother. I can pick something up on my way home.”
“Too late. I already started. Just tell me how you like it cooked. Are we talking medium, medium-rare, or dead?”
All three busted out laughing.
Then Baker’s phone rang.
“Baker here.”
“This is Carl. Just to let you know, Albany faxed me back the report I sent. Seems like the general was fond of Miss Olster.”
“Thanks, Carl. I have Ed here, I’ll let him know. If nothing else major happens, I’ll see you Monday. Goodnight.”
She closed her phone and told Ed what Carl told her.
“Seems your suspicion of the general’s sexual activities are pretty spot on and….” The phone rang again.
“Baker, here.”
“Lieutenant Baker?”
“Yes.”
“This is Officer Phil Mallory. I’m one of two units dispatched out by Detective Manning. I’m at the Olster residence.”
“And?”
She rolled her eyes at Ed just a bit. She could sense that Mallory was still fresh out of the Academy.
“I’ve called it in, but Detective Manning said I was to call you or him if something didn’t go right about the interview. Three other units are pulling up now.
“Miss or Mrs. Olster is dead.”
She passed on what Mallory told her to Ed. She took a last bite of her burger, stood up and went to her bedroom, and opened a dresser drawer and snatched up her Snap-on holster with her police special to her belt, grabbed her badge, stuck that in her jacket pocket and walked back out to the kitchen.
She looked at Stevie.
“I know, mom. I won’t wait up.”
She looked at Ed.
Ed looked at Stevie. “Burger was great, thanks.”
“You ready, Detective Manning.”
Both headed for their respective cars.
Neither one was smiling.
Bonded
I normally never PRACTICE
My DESPAIR to be DEMOCRATIC.
I DISTANCE myself so that
My GENE is my only status.
My ASSOCIATION with CONSTRAINT
Does not QUALIFY me to PROVOKE.
Some things I put into a PARAGRAPH,
Can also cut my throat.
A simple EQUATION will BAN me,
PAT me for PROSECUTION.
A simple TUMBLE will SQUASH the
SACRIFICE I use as a delusion.
I PREDICT an accident
with a simple Pole and CABLE.
In all Hope to survive it,
I'll be INCAPABLE but stable.
Part One - Evil Times 3 - Chapter Five
May 16th - Saturday Afternoon – 1:05 p.m.
“Thanks, mom. Today was great!”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I see by how the bag looks, you collected quite a few shells.”
“Today was the best. I found some really cool ones, and some with neat color patterns and….”
Her cell phone rang.
She looked at Stevie.
“Go on mom, answer it. We know what it means.”
She pulled her cell phone from the bottom of her beach bag that held the towels, blanket, and lotion.
“This is Baker, and it better be good.”
“Trust me, Baker, you’ll love this.”
“Hello, Ed. I can tell from the sound of your voice, I won’t. What have you got?”
“Another body, the same way, except this one has all the body parts intact.”
“How long have you been on the scene?”
“Close to sixty. First impressions; he’s been dead according to initial study, three to four hours.
“I’ll fill you in when you get back from the lake. By then I should have more information.
“You and Stevie have a good time?”
She looked over at Stevie, his head bent over the open bag of seashells, and she smiled.
“Yeah, we did. Look, we were just on our way home as it is. We should be back in thirty. Check the victim to see if he was part of the congregation from St. Peter’s."
“Can do, will do. I emailed you the address. Call me when you’re on your way here.”
Baker hung up no sooner than her cell phone rang again.
She sighed. Stevie looked at her and grinned.
“Baker.”
“J.B., Carl here.”
She’d known Carl for several years, and she stopped trying forever ago to get him to quit calling her by her initials. It just wasn’t happening. At least he had the presence of mind not to do it with anyone around.
And no one in the force called her, Janice, or Jan.
“What’s the good word, Carl?”
“I found four different matches. A partial on one; but too smeared to get in Ident, and it appears to have been enclosed in surgical gloves. One set belonged to the vic. The other two sets belong to a Mrs. Josephine Gulatta, and the last one, Marianne Olster. I have their addresses and phone numbers for you.”
“Great, Carl. Stevie and I are on our way home from the lake. I’ll stop by and pick up the report. Just leave it at the front desk for me. Stan is still working there on weekends, right?”
Stan is the weekend guard. A retired cop. Time on his hands and all that rubbish.
“He is. I’ll let him know you’ll be stopping by.”
“Thanks, Carl.”
“Oh, before I forget, the Mattingly murder. One set of prints; hers.”
They disconnected from each other, and she was about to put the key in the ignition when her phone rang again.
“When it rains, it pours, mom.”
“But not in my car. This is so frustrating. This was, supposed to be our day.”
“It still is mom. No sense in getting frustrated. Besides, it’s who you are and what you do. That’s why I’m proud of you.”
She reached out and gave Stevie a quick hug and a smile.
“Grand Central. Baker here.”
“This is Macklin again. I just received the prelim autopsy report on the two vic's from the other night. Seems the general was a busy boy before he went to heaven; or hell, after you hear this.
“The other one; nothing unusual about the cause of death other than the eyes missing. No signs of forced sex or semen stains anywhere in or around the vaginal cavity.”
“All right. So, what have you got on the general?”
“Seems as if he was into passive role-playing. Somewhat of a closet sexual deviant. Upon examination, tears and lacerations were found on his back legs, and buttocks, as well as around and inside the anus and sphincter muscle. No traces of any semen though. I’m thinking more of a penis substitution such as a dildo, or some sort of plastic phallic object was used, and I should know by who in the next few hours.
“I ran a swab over his genitals, and there were traces of dried seminal fluid, both his and his partner. Last night I sent the swab to Albany where they will do a DNA test and hope to have a confirmed report back shortly. You have to love the invention of DNA analysis.”
“The minute you find out, call me, Carl.”
While driving home, all Baker knew at this point is that someone out there was having a field day and wasn’t in a hurry to call it quits anytime soon.
Marianne’s Apartment – 1:17 p.m.
The doorbell rang twice.
Looking through the security eyehole of her front door, she smiled when she saw who it was and opened the door.
“Ben!” she exclaimed. “What a wonderful surprise. I wasn’t expecting you until Monday. Have you missed your mommy?”
He walked in abruptly, turned, and made sure the door was closed. He locked it and put the dead bolt in position.
He quickly spun around, striking out his right fist, connecting flush with Marianne’s mouth. Blood splattered across her lips as four teeth were torn away from her gums. Two others were barely holding on as she teetered backward three steps, and fell over her stepstool to the floor, the back of her head bouncing hard.
A dazed but horrified look came over her. Tears slid down her cheeks from the intense pain, and a look of shock held her from moving off the floor. Her hands, desperately trying to keep the other two teeth from being forever useless.
“Ben, why did you him me?”
“Shut the fuck up, bitch! You didn’t think I didn’t know all the other silly little games you play with other people besides me. Didn’t I tell you, no one else but me! You gave me your word. You lied! Like your playmate, the general; you are going to die.”
Marianne found the energy to crawl toward the kitchen table where her cell phone waited quietly.
He kicked her in the back of the head.
“You will never make it. But I’ve set it up where you can keep doing the general when you meet him in hell. I’m sending you to meet him right now!”
From under his plastic coat, and with hands covered by surgical gloves, he removed a Bowie knife and expertly and efficiently sliced her throat as Marianne looked up at him with a pleading, sobbing cry. “Fir gib me.”
Blood erupted in the air.
He reached down and tore away her dress until it lay limply around her waist and deftly made the crisscrossing X, across her pale white skin.
Then he walked to the table, grabbed her cell phone, but not before he opened her mouth, and sliced her tongue off and placed it next to her left hand, with another message written backward.
LIVE ON KAEPS.
Placing the cell phone in her right hand, he used one of her lifeless fingers to press 911.
Then he hurriedly left her apartment. No one would see him. He always made sure of that, except for the old woman. But who she thought she saw, and who he really is, are two entirely different stories.
Part One - Evil Times 3 - Chapter Four
“Alrighty, guys, listen up. I just left the captain’s office, and he’s authorized some overtime for twelve men. It's rougly three hours, but I told the captain, four hours.”
“Way to go, Baker! Now if you can fix it so we can all sleep in and still get paid ….” Campbell’s voice trailed off.
Others in the room laughed or chuckled.
“Stow it, Campbell. And you’re welcome, all the same.
“Everyone here knows about the double-homicide that just went down. I have a hunch the killer may rear his ugly little head this Sunday. The two victims were members of the church, and he may be attending church services.
“I’m looking for twelve people to sit in any one of the pews, armed but concealed, take notes, watch for any signals from Bishop Ekerson. Look for anyone there that may look out of the ordinary. He is about Father Ekerson’s height, 5’8”, and likely to be sitting alone. Perps like him almost never have a family.”
“Question Baker?”
“Answer, Ed.”
“How do we take him down if we don’t know what he looks like? And how do we take him down inside a packed church?”
“Second answer, first. Each one of you will be wired for sound to communicate with one another. If he is our guy, we have the manpower already there to apprehend him with the least amount of resistance. I doubt if the perp will be armed in church. He is more than likely believing he’s in the clear.
“First answer, second. That, Ed, is the luck of the draw. If he is there, he’ll give himself away. And if not this Sunday, maybe not for a month of Sunday’s, but eventually they always do.
“If any of you have any reasonable suspicion about any male in church, you can detain him at least for questioning, and his background will be investigated. Even trivial details play a crucial role. A two-day growth of hair on his face. Hair not combed right. Eyes bloodshot. Clothes not appropriate for church, such as blue jeans instead of trousers. Be observant.”
Rodgers, an eighteen-year veteran spoke from the back of the room.
“If he isn’t there, then what?”
“Simple. You get filled with the scripture, go home, and enjoy the rest of your Sunday, and I’ll see you back here Monday morning.”
At Baker’s Townhouse – 9:56 p.m.
“You are just too good for me, Stevie. I need to practice this game more often, so it seems.”
“It’s okay, mom. I sucked at it when I first started to learn the game, too.”
They smiled at each other.
“Well, my little crime-solver you; time for bed. After breakfast in the morning, we’ll take a ride over to Standing Room Lake, like I promised. You might be able to add to your shell collection.”
“Cool deal. Love you, mom. Goodnight.”
Stevie stood up, hugged her briefly and she kissed him on the cheek, and then went to his room.
She shut down her computer and television for the night, placing Mortal Kombat 6 back into its CD case, then headed for the shower, and then bed.
In her bedroom, she stripped down to the buff, shower water running, and stopped to look at herself in her full-length mirror on the bathroom door.
She saw a thirty-six-year-old woman, short brown hair, and brown eyes, with a few lines around each one. Her complexion was still smooth, and not paying attention to the two scars; she still had a decent looking body in excellent condition. At 5’6”, and 135, she looked five years younger.
Just last month, she took first place in the Judo Championship via six police leagues. She beat three women and five men.
Since the divorce, it had been nothing but work, and more work. She drowned herself in her job to take her mind off a fourteen-year-old marriage that went to hell in eleven, and never talked about for three.
Some things you never see coming. When you do; too late.
At least there is Stevie. He brings a light into her life that was turned off during the divorce. With Stevie nearby, he understands her.
Work or no work, she loves him.
Unconditionally.
Part One - Evil Times 3 - Chapter Three
The Twenty-Second Precinct
Saturday - May 15th - 6:07 a.m.
“Twenty-Second Precinct, Sargent McDaley, speaking.”
“Yes, this is Bishop Ekerson, at St. Peters church on Melrose and Tasker.”
“I know where it is, Father. My family and I are always there every Sunday. What can I do for you?’
“Bless you. I need to speak with someone about an important matter. Something that will cause me to break tradition. I spoke with a killer last night.”
McDaley went quiet for a moment.
“You spoke with a killer, Father? How? When?”
“He came to the church last night, and confessed to me he killed two people, that’s how.”
“Hold the line, Father. I’ll patch you into the lead investigator that is handling the case.”
“Thank you,” but by then, Bishop Ekerson was already on hold.
The line rang four times before he heard a woman’s voice.
“This is Baker. I understand you may have some information for me.” McDaley had briefed her on the call.
“Yes, I do. Last night inside one of the confessional booths here at St. Peters, shortly after ten, a man told me, confessed to me he had murdered two people, and was asking for forgiveness and absolution, which I could not give. I tried to explain his best course of action was prayer, and to turn himself in. He became angry, and said a few vile things, and left.”
“Bishop Ekerson, I will be there in ten minutes. Has there been anyone in the confession box since last night?”
“I would appreciate it if you would say confessional booth, not box; but no, no one other than myself. That’s why I called.”
“Please tell me you haven’t touched anything inside the booth. I’m going to have our forensic unit meet me there along with another detective.”
“I’ve not touched a thing except for the door’s handles. At first, I wasn’t going to call at all, thinking the man may have been playing a sick joke with me, but then I heard on the morning news about two untimely deaths. But it was also what I saw inside the confessional booth that made me break my vow of silence.
“Bloody footprints.”
“Don’t touch anything else. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Right after the Call
Baker and Stevie were about to go to breakfast before her conversation with Father Ekerson.
“I’m sorry, Stevie. Tell you what; we can do breakfast tomorrow morning, and tonight we can order pizza.”
“That’s cool mom. I’m good with it.” Then Stevie thought for a second.
“I figured it out, mom. The catholic butler did it, see? Case closed.”
She smiled, tousling his hair.
“I wish it were that simple, Stevie.”
“It will be mom. You always get the bad guy.”
“Your dad used to say the same thing.”
“I know. But I don’t think he buys into the whole cops and robbers thing like I do. I know it can be dangerous, even dull at times, you told me that. But you also told me that with patience comes an arrest, and with reason, a conviction.”
“My, my, aren’t we ever on top of things.”
“Just practicing is all.”
“Oh? Practicing for what?”
“To be a bad-butt lawyer!”
They both laughed.
Baker wondered just how much patience she would have.
St. Peter’s – 7:17 a.m.
Bloody footprints from the front doors all the way to and from the small confessional booth made for an easy trail. Size 10 work boots, guesstimated at the scene to perhaps have heavily inlaid rigid soles. Once Baker found this out, she started talking with Bishop Ekerson to establish a timeline.
“You said on the phone he was here somewhere around ten pm last night.”
“It was closer to 10:30. He was here perhaps ten or fifteen minutes before he bolted out of here.”
“Is the church usually open at such late hours? And are you always here during those hours?”
“The church never closes. That would be saying God’s heart is closed to all of his children. And yes, for the most part, I am always here. There is a small, one-bedroom unit, one floor below the church. There are steps that lead down to it from the Rectory Office, if you would care to see it.”
“No, that isn’t necessary, Father. Did you get a good look at him? Hair or eye color? What was he wearing? Is he white, black, or Hispanic?”
“He was definitely white, that much was certain. As to the rest, there wasn’t adequate light for me to give any description, other than to say he appeared short as his eyes met mine through the screen, so I am assuming he is about my height. Terribly sorry.”
“What size shoe do you wear?”
“Size nine.”
“Here’s my card, Father. If you think of anything else, please feel free to call me day or night. The sooner we can get this guy, the safer it will be for a lot of people.”
“I do hope what you say is true. I have over a thousand parishioners of the church’s congregation, and this has me truly worried.”
“In what way?”
“The two who were killed last night were part of the congregation.”
“Really, now? I’ll tell you what, Father Ekerson. I will have a dozen men here Sunday for service, in their Sunday go-to-meeting clothes of course. If you think you may be able to recognize the man who was here last night, in your Sunday service, you can let us know.”
“I would think that to be almost an impossibility. What makes you believe he would possibly come back here?”
“I’m of the belief this is where it all started. He comes to church, gets acquainted with a few people, gets to know them, and for some reason, kills them. It’s sort of like a movie; the bad guy always returns to the scene of the crime.”
“I can try, but I cannot promise anything, Lieutenant. After all there is truly little I know about this person.”
“He spoke with you, correct? Perhaps he might share a few words with you after the service and you could recollect his voice.”
She shook hands with Father Ekerson and walked over to the scene where the portable lab unit was in place and the infra-red scanner was already analyzing the blood spectrums in the booth as well as on the floor leading from there to the front doors of the church.
His blood, or his victim’s? Probably the victim’s. As a precaution, she made a note to contact the two hospitals for anyone coming in with any serious injuries, either from a gunshot or knife wound. Doubtful, but she had to cover all the bases.
At least they now knew they were after a Caucasian male, with one hell of a violent temper.
She made another note to have all construction sites checked as well. All size 10 boots with bodies attached were to be brought in and questioned, and have their boots analyzed.
Stop
Will the bruises go away when the pain decides to stop?
Will the rhythm come back in the center of my heart.
Will it be called love when you raise your hand to swing?
Will it be a song that I've heard of a gospel hymn that they sing?
Abuse is not an excuse for trying to take control.
Abuse is a trapped monster in the middle of their soul.
A monster that never had a chance to come to terms.
A monster that expresses weakness as it learns.