Lust and Murder in Smalltown X
Chapter 5

Copyright© 2004 by MysteryWriter

The two men didn't gloat, they just moved on to a table in the rear. The writer took a seat with his back to the wall. He had chosen the table in the corner because it had two chairs against the wall. Yes, men like them really did try to keep their backs to the wall.

"So writer, why do you think we have a serial killer?" Sabine didn't believe in small talk.

The writer gave it some thought before he began. "Right now it is a hunch and the statistics are right."

"Hunches don't mean shit. What statistics?"

"Look my hunches do mean something. But the numbers are the real kicker. In the five county area that your little paper reports on, there were twenty whodunit homicides in the last five years. Yes, I am including some that were supposed to have been solved."

"How come you are doing that?" Sabine asked angrily.

"Because in this county you had a public defender, who thought everybody was guilty. He was a drunk, who didn't want to be bothered. He got them all to plead to save their lives. With him as a lawyer, I don't blame them for pleading it out. In the other counties there were more unsolved cases. The kicker is, you have more missing persons than any other area in the state. I can't get the cases, but I can get the crime statistics from the FBI reports."

"Come on writer. Those numbers don't mean a thing and you know it. If you are going to have an average somebody has to be higher and somebody has to be lower."

"Sabine, you are here because in your gut you know something is wrong." The writer watched the expression on Sabine's face. It never changed.

"If I get you the files, how long will it take for you to decide this is bullshit?"

"You help me with an open mind and we can prove it in under three days," the writer replied. "Well, if not prove it then convince you at least."

"I will see what I can do. I will keep an open mind, but remember I investigated some of those cases you will be showing me."

"I know, that is why I came to you. None of us like to be beaten. I expect you will be more than happy to take a second look at them."

"What makes you think it is a serial killer, really?" Sabine asked.

"You have way too many dump jobs here. Most killings are family and friends in passion. Dump jobs are thought out a little bit anyway. Probably the average is that one in twenty-five is a dumper, if that many. Almost all the unsolved cases in this area were dumps. It makes for a pattern. The reason you didn't see it was that most of yours in this county got prosecuted. You knew a weak case would get you a conviction, Perry you see. I don't think you even realized it in your conscious mind. The other counties didn't even try to pin the murder on a boyfriend or ex-husband."

"You are trying to say I tanked them?" Sabine should have been angry but he wasn't.

"The only one that was yours was the Soloman woman. The others were before you were the detective for the county. Some of the earlier ones went down the same. Look all that is behind you, if we can find the common thread, then we can work this out."

"I am sure you are wrong, writer. There will be no thread, because they are not linked."

"That will be okay with me. Even a failure is a book." The writer smiled.

"Very well writer, I will see you tomorrow at the office in Taylortown. What time can you get your ass moving?"

"I can be there by ten a.m. for sure." The writer smiled at Sabine.

The writer raised his beer glass to Sabine who returned the gesture with his coke. "Since I have finished my business here, I am going home to have a real drink. Writer, I will see you in the morning." Sabine finished the coke with a grimace, then stood to leave.

The writer noticed that Sabine was tall and thin. He was in good shape for a drunk. He must not have been at it long, the writer thought.

Sabine walked from the bar. He stopped only long enough to put a dollar on the bar. He was quickly followed out by Sammie. Since she did not return, the writer wondered if she had more success with Sabine or just gave up to go home.

Eddie came to the table to pick up Sabine's glass. She spoke quietly to the writer. "You better leave. Martin is looking for trouble, for some reason he has it in his mind to fight you."

"Thanks for the warning Eddie, but once you start to run, it gets easier all the time. Pretty soon you are running from yourself." The writer didn't know what it meant, but he decided to put it in the book. With the warning the writer decided against moving back to the bar. The bar seat left his back exposed, and the writer didn't have a lot of faith in Martin's sense of fair play.

Nothing happened by the time the writer tired of looking at the still full beer glass. He decided that he was ready to leave. He had given Martin plenty of time to jump, if he was truly froggie. The writer did not intend to stay in the bar all night just to prove his courage. He didn't need to prove anything. He stood to walk out. He carried the glass just to save Eddie a few steps.

"Hey Writer, I see your bodyguard has left you."

"Damn Martin, I thought I was his bodyguard." The writer tried to make it to the bar then out without trouble. He saw Martin begin to stand. The decision right or wrong was made in a split second.

He changed his momentum toward Martin. Before Martin was totally on balance, the writer backhanded him as some men would a woman. The difference was that the writer held the heavy draft beer mug in his hand. Martin went down like a tree. A year before the writer would have put cuffs on him then called an ambulance. Since he no longer had the whole police department watching his back, the Writer went about punishing Martin.

First he kicked the downed man in the ribs a couple of times. Then he landed one well placed hiking shoe to the face. He finally placed a medium velocity shot to his testicles. It was a fairly cowardly thing to do, but he did hope it would give Martin pause before he tried to take him again.

"Should I call him an ambulance?" Eddie asked with an admiring smile.

"Hell no let me," the writer said seriously. "Martin, you are a fucking ambulance." Martin moaned.

"Guess, he don't have no sense of humor," Eddie said with a grin.

"Guess not, who is responsible for the asshole?" the writer asked.

"His brother I guess," Eddie replied. Most of the other customers had left at the first sign of trouble. "Well call him. I will wait till he gets here. You don't need the hassle."

"Well I ain't worried but I would love the company." Eddie grinned as she moved the phone to the bar. She also slipped the tiny phone book from the shelf. She dialed a number then waited.

"Mary, this is Eddie down at the bar. Your brother-in-law is down here and he is hurt. I need to talk to his brother." Eddie waited a long time before she spoke again. "Eddie, this is Eddie down at the bar. Martin is here and he is hurt." She listened a while then said. "You want me to send him to the hospital for a check up or not. I am not his brother you are." She had snapped the last at the phone."

"Fair enough," she slammed down the phone. "Writer, you better leave. The cops are going to come along with the ambulance."

"Nope, worst thing I could do is run. Just gonna have a club soda while I wait."

Eddie took it on herself to call Louis Sabine before the ambulance.

By the time the Taylor County Ambulance arrived Martin was awake and moaning. He didn't look good at all. When he heard the ambulance pull in, the writer stepped to the rear. He decided to have a word with Martin.

"You had a nasty fall Martin. If I hear anything else, I will be all over you. You do understand me right?"

"I took a fall, cause I don't want you in jail when I get straight. When I am back to normal, I am gonna kill you." His voice ended in a moan.

"Your choice friend." The writer would have kicked him again but the paramedics were coming through the door. "He is back here," he shouted. "You need to hurry. He don't look good."

"What happened?" the young female paramedic asked.

"Got me, we just found him in the parking lot like this. He drove up then fell out of the car." It was a poor lie, but hell when Martin told his story it wouldn't matter what the writer had said. They were asking the writer just to see if there was a medical emergency. He had been careful not to do anything lethal to him.

"Okay, Jonathan let's get him to the Hospital. He looks like he is in a lot of pain." She turned her attention to Martin. "Sorry Martin, I can't give you anything for the pain, but we wont be but a couple of minutes."

' "If you can't give me anything, you are useless?" Martin managed to mumble.

"Be nice Martin, you never know what might happen," The writer said it before he realized that he had done it.

The Young woman and the older man rolled him onto the Gurney. They stopped while Jonathan opened the door.

"Writer, Sabine talked to the deputies." Eddie said it way too loud.

"You the writer asking all the question?" The young woman asked.

"Not now Lucy, we need to get this 'gentleman' to the ER," Jonathan informed her.

"Writer, you tell Sabine he owes me a couple of dozen night crawlers for looking the other way." The deputy turned to the door then turned back. "What did you hit that prick with?"

The writer gave it some thought before he answered. "A punk should not threaten a man while he is trying to stand up. He is way off balance and likely to get bitch slapped with a beer mug. Course I ain't sayin' that is what happened."

"He looked a lot worse than a beer mug bitch slap, though that could cause a lot of problems." the deputy said.

"Sorry, I never said that is what happened to him. He drove up, then collapsed in the parking lot. We brought him inside."

"That your story?" The deputy asked.

"It is and I am sticking to it." The writer replied with a grin of his own.

"How about you Eddie?" He asked turning his attention to Eddie.

"I was out back washing glasses. I have no idea what happened." She smiled at the deputy with her, 'ex-con dyke, ' look.

"Well, I ain't no kin to the prick, so more power to you." The deputy said that as he walked toward the door.

"Don't thank me writer," she must have read his mind. "I don't stick my neck out for nobody, but I also ain't no snitch."

"Well anything I can do to repay you let me know." He said it as he turned to the door. He had about all the excitement he could stand for one night."

"Don't worry there is, and I will gladly tell you. How about hanging loose a couple of minutes. You can take me to breakfast. That is your charge for me staying out of it, even if it will cost me a regular customer."

"I will gladly buy you breakfast for the company. You will not loose the prick as a customer. He will be back, if for no other reason than to prove he isn't afraid. And just for the record, all you did was say you were washing glasses. Hell Martin can't dispute that, he was busy test driving your carpet."

She immediately walked to look at the carpet where Martin had laid. "Well Writer at least you didn't get blood on the carpet.

"Come on lock the door, your talk about breakfast made me hungry."

"Good, the Pancake House in Taylortown has a breakfast bar."

Eddie wouldn't ride with the Writer, and he wouldn't ride with her. So he ended up following her to Taylortown. It was a good thing since he couldn't have found the restaurant.

"So Writer, tell me why you kicked Martin while he was down," Eddie demanded.

"Simple. If a man wants to fight me for no reason today, what is to stop him tomorrow. Martin is younger and probably healthier. I don't want to ever fight him again. This time was more than enough for me."

"Hell, this is likely to make him want your ass even more," Eddie informed him.

"It might, but then I don't know how to take a dive. If I have to fight, I plan to win. He at least knows that now."

"Well, if I were you, I would sleep with one eye open for a while. Martin ain't never been beat. He especially ain't never been worked over."

"Damn, I do hate to take a man's cherry like that. That sure is good french toast, you want some more?" The writer asked it as he stood to return to the breakfast bar.

"Sure bring me some writer, I am throwing caution to the wind. No telling what all I might do tonight."

The smile she gave him made the writer finally wonder what the hell was going on. He was not good looking. Hell, he had a pot belly. It was not a giant thing but it was definitely visible to all the women.

He had Ranger Jane using him shamelessly, Doris trying to get him to use her, Sammie making hints and now Eddie, the town's biggest Dyke, making come on noises. Something was not write in Small Town X.

The writer returned with the French Toast before Eddie had too much time to think. He caught her looking at the waitress in the same way she had looked at him. He was relieved, when the waitress smiled at her coyly.

"So Eddie, who is your friend?" The Writer grinned across at her.

"Lucille, she and I are old friends. I come here often after I close." They looked as Lucille twitched her ass for them. "Writer, you can find you way home can't you?"

Not only could he find his way home, he did. He slipped into the tent at three a.m. As he drifted off to sleep, Eddie's final words rang in his ear.

"Writer, watch yourself. Martin is going to come after you. He might want to see you in Saint Mark's. You do know that is the name of the public cemetery?"

"I am surprised that you could have a public cemetery with a religious name?" It was a question and she knew it.

"Small Town X has been spared the glare of the zealots so far. Writer, the point is Martin might just decide to firebomb your tent."

"Well, I think I got a couple of days. Martin is going to be feeling pretty bad for a while." The writer smiled at her even though he didn't feel all that confident. It didn't take much strength to toss a Jim Beam bottle filled with gasoline a few feet.

He drifted off to sleep trying to figure exactly how much time he had before Martin would be up to the task. He decided, he had better finish his research quickly, or else move his tent. He hadn't decided what to do when he slipped into oblivion.

The writer was awakened the next morning by a female voice he did not recognize. When he looked out the tent flap, he had the .380 pop gun in his hand. It was hidden behind his leg, since he didn't want to frighten anyone.

"Hi Writer," the young woman said. She noticed his look of bewilderment. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

"You look familiar but I can't place you." The writer said it honestly since he had no idea how to hide his ignorance while he probed her.

"I saw you last night. I am Lucy, the paramedic." She smiled at his sudden understanding. His face was like that light bulb cartoon. He suddenly lit up.

"Sure Lucy, you look different in real clothes," He didn't mean it as an insult.

She wasn't offended because she hated the polyester uniform herself. It made her slightly large hips look even larger. "I suppose I do at that," she answered.

"So what brings you to the park?" He asked it knowing she was going to tell him.

"First of all, I have a warning for you." She gauged his reaction. He didn't bat an eye. "The man we took to the hospital last night mumbled over and over that he was going to get you. If that was you who did it? you gave him quite a beating."

"Well, how long before he will be up to visiting me?" The writer asked it hoping he could get a better idea of his 'safe' time.

"Depends on what he has in mind. He can pull a trigger now. He isn't up to going ten rounds with you though."

"Hell, I'm not up to going ten rounds with him. Hold on a second," The writer demanded as he returned to his tent. Inside he slipped into a clean cutoff sleeved sweatshirt. He had fallen in love with the look after seeing a character in a movie wear one.

"Come on," he said upon his return. "Unless you have somewhere to go, I will buy you breakfast."

"Why?" Lucy asked suspiciously. She had no intention, of getting involved with a man twice her age.

"Call it payment for the warning, call it payment for the interview I am about to conduct over breakfast, or call it ego." He smiled at her while he spoke lightening the words.

"Ego?" Lucy asked.

"Sure it will be good for my image to be seen with a woman so young and beautiful. Especially this early in the morning, when we both look like we missed a lot of sleep last night."

Lucy had to grin. It couldn't hurt her image either, she thought. The Writer was a handsome enough old man, God knows he would be safe to be around, she thought. He was old enough to be her father and could take care of her as well as himself.

"I pick the restaurant," she declared.

"Absolutely, I wouldn't have it any other way. We do take my car, I will bring you back."

"I would rather drive my own car," she replied.

"Ah, but that will spoil the illusion," he replied.

"Writer, I have no idea why I am going along with this. It can't do my reputation any good at all."

"Then don't," it was a simple statement that put the decision squarely on her shoulders. She wasn't sure how she felt about it. On one hand it gave her an out, on the other it put her in the position of asking him to take her to breakfast. She had backed herself into a corner.

"Oh hell, breakfast is the most important meal of the day." It was all she said as she walked to his convertible. She sat in the car as he lowered the top. She stewed about the position in which she found herself.

"So how about it?" he asked as he started the tiny engine.

"How about what?" she asked defensively. She was surprised by the shortness of her answer.

"How about the directions to the restaurant." The Writer had not taken offense at her tone.

"How about the Pancake House in Taylortown. Can you get to Taylortown without my help?" she asked.

"Sure, and I even know where the pancake house is." He didn't explain that he had been to the restaurant only hours before. "So how long you been a paramedic?" he asked without taking his eyes off the road.

"Three years, since I was twenty-one." She smiled, thinking to herself that Jonathan still thought of her as a rookie after all that time.

"So, what interesting stories do you have to tell me?" The Writer wasn't going to press her just yet. He would get around to it soon enough."

"None, but I bet you can tell me some. I hear you have been asking questions all over town." Lucy didn't mind turning the tables on him.

"I have," the writer admitted. He weighed the advantages of waiting till they arrived at the restaurant before asking, but decided to just bite the bullet and get on with it. "What do you know about the woman the deputies killed a couple days ago?"

"Why would I know anything?" she asked cautiously.

"They tell me you were the one who talked to her just before the cops shot her."

"I can't tell you about that," she replied. She looked over to see him still gazing at the road. "However, I could answer specific questions maybe."

The writer felt her smile, more than saw it. "So did you know her brother is doing time for killing his first wife?"

"No, but so what?" she asked.

"Somebody dumped his ex in the lake, the same as Maggie Evans. He swore he was innocent. Maybe he was?" The writer was trying to see if she had any interest in it.

Well, I don't think that had anything to do with Joyce Jenkin's murder."

"Woah, what murder?" the Writer asked.

The woman who died. She told me they were going to kill her to keep her quiet, and they did." Lucy wondered, why she had told the writer that. She hadn't even let herself think it before that moment.

"The paper said she was delusional?" It was a question and they both knew it.

"Really, now who would know better than me? She was rational when I talked to her. She wasn't seeing little green men, and the neighbor's dog wasn't talking to her."

"So you are telling me the cops shot a rational woman to keep her quiet. Quiet about what?" The writer didn't believe it for a moment.

"She wouldn't tell me. She said it would be dangerous for me to know."

"Could it have been about her brother?" He asked it getting a little into it in spite of himself.

"I don't know Writer." It suddenly dawned on Lucy that she had gone to see the writer to tell him just that. All her high ideals were bullshit, she wanted someone to avenge Joyce.

All during the breakfast the Writer asked questions, Lucy answered them as best she could. Since she didn't live in X, and spent as little time as possible there, she knew almost nothing of the place. His questions centered mostly on events which happened when she was a teenager in Summerville several miles away.

Lucy discovered a few things about the writer that she found interesting. He was intelligent without being intellectual. His mind seemed to work twenty ways at once. He kept her off balance by jumping from one line of questions to another. He went back and forth between three different incidents at once. She became fascinated watching his mind race.

Lucy expected that some of it, at least, was due to the amount of caffeine in his body. He drank cup, after cup of coffee. She was surprised that his speech stayed level, she would have expected it to race.

"Well Lucy honey, I guess I am going to have to consider you window dressing. You seem to be too young to know what is going on around here."

"Window dressing indeed, I am at least as bright as you writer. Hell, I am probably smarter, even more important people are more likely to talk to me." How the hell had that happened, she wondered. She had just cut herself into his research. She had agreed to help him without being asked.

"That might all be true, but you still have to admit you are prettier than me or Sabine." He smiled a disarming smile at her.

"Wait a minute, I am prettier, yes, but how the hell did I get roped into helping you? More important, what is in it for me?" Lucy was all smiles.

"Whatever question brought you to my tent is likely to get answered along the way. You have a natural curiosity that compels you to go along." The writer gave her a fatherly smile.

"My ass," Lucy replied.

"I wish." The writer replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Lucy tried to be serious but broke into a giggle. "Does anyone ever say no to you writer?"

"Yes." His answer was completed with a sad little look which Lucy found compelling. She wanted to take him in her arms, while whispering to him that it was okay. Lucy caught herself before she said anything else. She knew that she was about to spend her vacation playing detective. It was stupid as hell, but she couldn't wait to get started.

"I have a ten o'clock appointment with Louis Sabine. If you want, I can take you home after, or anytime you decide you have had enough."

"I will go to your meeting but I am not going to promise anything more," Lucy said, but she knew she was hooked. She just didn't want to admit it.

"On the meeting you kind of have no choice. You are riding with me, and I have to go to the meeting. So finish you breakfast and let's get on with it." Yes he was trying to hurry her along. Sabine wouldn't wait. A man with a hangover isn't especially patient.

Even though Taylortown was small, the drive still took a few minutes. The pancake house was on the highway, while the sheriff's office was downtown.

The Writer parked the tiny yellow convertible in the dirt lot beside the building. He didn't make a move to open Lucy's door, because she was already out of the car by the time he managed to drag his old, fat ass out of the low slung automobile

"Come on old man," Lucy said it with a smile. Lucy would never have called anyone else old man. She had always been sensitive to the feelings of other people. Not even she understood that it was a defensive mechanism. It was her way of separating herself from the writer. It might have worked, if he had taken offense.

"Not a problem honey," he said as he stood beside the car. In a lower voice he added, "Might as well give them something to talk about." He motioned to the park bench filled with old men. They seemed to be basking in the sunlight. With the words out of his mouth, and her understanding of their significance, she shouldn't have been surprised when he pulled her to him for a quick kiss. Nothing sexual just a kiss designed to get the town talking.

"Damn it writer, I work for the county. Someone might well have seen that."

"So what?" He actually didn't see the problem.

She was sure someone in the county office building across the street, would have seen her get out of a convertible, then be kissed by a man old enough to be her father. She suddenly grinned from ear to ear. "You know what, I need the reputation. They all see me as a goody two shoes."

She leaned into the writer and pulled him down for a longer kiss. She certainly never intended for it to become passionate, but the tongue thing did it without her knowing who started it. When the kiss ended she was breathing hard. Her face was flushed she knew. She just wasn't sure why.

"If you can spare the time?" The voice resonated from the rear door of the sheriff's office.

The writer looked up to see Louis Sabine standing on the granite steps. "Yes mother Sabine, we are on our way." He tried to put his arm around Lucy. She shrugged it off. The writer shook hands with Sabine even though it was forced.

"What's with the girl?" Sabine asked not even trying to prevent Lucy from hearing the answer.

"Lucy, this is the famous Louis Sabine." The writer said it in good humor. "Louis this is Lucy, the EMT. She is going to help us wade through the files."

"Is there some reason we need Lucy?" Sabine asked.

"Oh let me see, a third party to referee?" The writer was still trying to maintain a friendly working relationship with Sabine.

"Look Writer, showing you police files will get us both hung. Do we really need to bring her into it?" Sabine was getting close to becoming argumentative just for it's own sake.

"Why you insufferable prick," Lucy said. "I keep more secrets than you ever dreamed. I know where most of the bodies are buried in this town."

Lucy was getting self righteous, the writer knew he had to do something quick. "Come on kiddies lets just do this thing without bloodshed. Sabine, Lucy can give us a different perspective on these homicides."

"If we want medical, we need to see a doc." Louis wasn't going to let it go.

"I had a young woman's perspective in mind Louis. The paramedic thing can't hurt."

"Writer, if you get me hung by my balls, I am going to kick the shit out of you." Sabine had the last word only because the writer gave him a knowing grin. The grin did not sit well with Sabine.

Sabine led the others to a room in the basement of the police station. The room had several folding tables. On the first table sat a unimposing computer. The age of the computer was not evident in any of its markings. They all expected the computer to be old and slow.

The all stood looking. "Well Sabine, it is your computer," the writer finally suggested. He had instinctively understood that the computer link was the most Sabine could accomplish. The paper records would be archived somewhere not to be disturbed by anyone other than investigators working the case.

"Writer, you have to be kidding. I can do this but it is going to take hours just to get one record. Surely you can work this thing?"

"Sabine, I can't even type a damn letter on one of those in less than a week." The writer first turned his gaze onto Lucy. Then Sabine stared into her eyes.

"Oh hell," Lucy said. "How can anybody work without being able to use a computer? Is this thing networked or what?" Both men stared at her, neither had any idea what she had just said.

Lucy turned the computer on, then began punching keys. Sabine and the Writer looked on as her fingers flew over the keys. The Writer couldn't help the grin he turned on Sabine. Sabine just watched Lucy work at the computer.

When Lucy used Sabine's old password, she found her way into the network, then into the police files. After that it was a piece of cake. She even managed to spread the investigation into the whole Ohio valley, since the three states were hooked into a regional cooperation data base.

The list of unsolved homicides grew four-fold. The task looked impossible until the writer brought out a package. The package was small since it contained only one cd. The cd was homemade with hand lettering on the top. The magic marker block print read, compare-logic-slam.

"See if you can get this on that thing. Here are the directions, they might help." From the same box he produced a set of typed directions. Lucy read them quickly before placing the cd into the computer.

 
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