Jorge Cruz, deep
in thought, almost didn’t notice the white Mustang convertible with its hood up,
pulled on the shoulder of highway 90. The young lady never waved him down, just
sat there in the driver’s seat with her head buried in the steering wheel. He
glanced at his dash clock and it was a quarter past midnight. This stretch of
the highway, dark and desolate, was no place for a woman alone.
He spotted
an old pulpwood road in his high beams and eased in and turned around to see if
he could assist. Pulling off the shoulder directly in front of the white
convertible, the raised hood blocked his view of the lady sitting behind the
wheel.
Leaving
his old Buick running, headlights down on low beam, he opened the creaking door
and headed toward the woman in distress. The lady stepped out of the driver’s
side and smiled, looking relieved to have someone stop to help her. Jorge
noticed she wore a white polka dotted mini skirt, sheer black blouse, and knee
high black leather boots. Her huge breasts pressed braless against the fabric,
exposing more of her than he felt comfortable seeing. His first impression was
that she had to either be a local stripper or a prostitute. That was not his
concern. She required assistance. He would not judge her.
“What’s
the problem?”
“If I knew
that I wouldn’t be sitting here now would I?” She smiled, answering him in an almost
angelic yet sarcastic tone.
“That was
a stupid question on my part,” Jorge apologized in his broken English accent.
“You are
Hispanic?”
“Does that
concern you if I am?”
“I didn’t
mean it as an insult. I have this thing for languages. It’s almost a curse. I
have to guess the origin when I hear an accent.”
“No
offense taken. I’m originally from Mexico. I hope that is not a problem?”
“On the
contrary...I had you pegged for Mexican. I simply love your culture. Do you
think you can help me?”
“I’m no
mechanic, but let’s see what I can do. What did your automobile do to bring you
to a stop?”
“It just
sort of chug-a-lugged, and then the engine died. The gas gage indicates I have
at least a half tank of gas so I’m not sure what happened. My baby has never
stranded me before.”
“Let me
take a peek under there,” said Jorge, peering under the hood.
Leaning
forward, he checked the battery cables, jiggled the spark plug wires, opened
several caps, checking fluid levels, and pretended that he knew more than he
really did about the mechanics of an automobile engine. If he couldn’t fix it,
which he had no reason to believe he could, he would offer her a ride; probably
not the safest thing for a woman alone to accept a ride from a stranger. It
just struck him. He had not introduced himself to her and didn’t know her name,
either. How rude he had been.
Jorge never saw her making her move. The syringe
penetrated his neck like a bee sting. He instinctively grabbed his neck and clutched
the female hand holding the needle. How had he been so stupid? The Good
Samaritan made eye contact with the lady in distress questioning her intentions
then collapsed on the ground.
She closed
the hood on her White Mustang and made a quick phone call on her cell phone.
She needed to dispose of the Buick as quickly as possible. She tugged on the
limp and lifeless body of Jorge Cruz, maneuvering him into the passenger side
of her vehicle.
She
checked the ID from his wallet. “Yep, this was him, and right on schedule.” It
paid to do one’s homework she thought.
Horry County Police Department
Near the South
Carolina Grand Strand
Constable Woody Anderson had been summoned to Sheriff Hank
Singleton’s office. This always made Woody nervous when the big guy formally
requested his presence. Woody had just received troubling information and
wasn’t in the best of moods, and he felt things were only about to become much
worse.
Hank stood and shook Woody’s hand then said, “Woodrow,
you look a tad down. What seems be the problem, tough case?”
“Janice’s cousin Marian Bond is coming to town this
weekend from Gatlinburg, Tennessee, extending her honeymoon to the grand
strand. I say, Bond, but she just recently got married again. I can’t
remember her new name this time. It begins with an S, something like Salmon or
Samson, Simian or something like that. I’ve never met the groom. She will
be living in Butler, Tennessee with him after they wrap up this honeymoon stop,
so she says. Marian was originally from Abbeville, South Carolina, a little
town nestled in the Piedmont, near the upstate area, about four and half hours
from here. You might remember it. It was the place they filmed parts of
the movie, Sleeping with the Enemy, with Julia Roberts. Anyway,
she’ll want me to play tourist with her. You know how I hate that crap.”
“Come on Woodrow, it won’t be that bad. Look at it
this way; you’ll be doing it for Janice, rest her soul.”
“Oh it will be that bad. She’s already sent me a
partial list of places she wants to go. I can just see them sitting on that
motorcycle at Hard Rock Café up at Broadway at the Beach, the perfect tourist
photo op. I’ll have to drag the rug rats along too; they eat this stuff up, and
especially any chance to go to the Pavilion, unless I can corral Lullabelle or
the mother-in-law into babysitting.”
“It could be worse; you could be the one mounting the
motorcycle, smiling for the camera. Besides, your chaps deserve a little
downtime with their daddy, now and then.”
“I draw the line on being in any of those gosh awful
touristy pictures. Maybe you could have me pull a double shift this weekend. I
could tell them you were short handed or something. ”
“Woodrow, I’m not going to that, and you know it. This
is Janice’s family. You just need to man up and do what’s right.”
“Maybe I should locate that bastard, Lance Rocker and
let him be their tour guide. He’d probably enjoy ruining another
marriage.”
“You know you don’t mean that. Okay, humor me,
son. Where do the newlyweds want you to take them?”
“It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll survive. I didn’t
come here to air my grievances. You asked me here. What’s up, boss?”
“It’s time for me to take it easy and pass the baton,”
stated the mountain of a man, Sheriff Hank Singleton. “Woodrow, I’m a dinosaur
and too set in my ways. Besides, the old ticker isn’t what it used to be. It
would be unjust for me to stay out my term.”
“Just like
that, you’re rolling over. You’re just going to hand it over to someone else
and walk away?”
“Woodrow,
look at me. I’m an old fat fart with a diagnosed heart condition, and it’s time
for me to call in the dogs. I’m damned fortunate I survived that serial killer
ordeal a few years ago. Lance Rocker lobbied for my resignation back then.
Lucky for me he moved on to the big time, got the hell out of town with that
big TV show deal, and things finally died down.”
“Come on
Hank, you still have some good years left in you.”
“Woodrow,
to be honest, I’m tired of doing this. I’m just plain burned out on law
enforcement. I’m ready to kick back and do a little fishing, a little hunting,
and maybe just plant me a row or two of okra and a few tomato plants. I’m glad
you’ve been promoted to Constable. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”
“I guess I
can sort of understand. We’ve all come a long way. I really had to work to
overcome Janice’s death. I, for one, am glad Rocker has moved on to greener
pastures too. I hate that bastard for screwing my wife, and I still hold him
partly responsible for her death. Not having to deal with him probably saved
his life and me a term in prison. Good riddance, I say.”
“I would
feel the same way if I were in your shoes. You and Wagner did a fine job. You
brought down Joseph Preston, putting to bed all those road rage murders, and
you even nailed Tim Ford. Ford is still locked away and should never see the
light of day.”
“That was indeed a defining moment for Horry County
law enforcement, and kudos to you for allowing Wagner to form that CSI unit.”
“She just confirmed why I hired her. I still have a
tough time swallowing Preston’s rampage, though. That troubled soul killed a
hell of lot of motorists, just to avenge his folk’s deaths.”
“I just wish we could have brought him to justice. The
damn coward had to put a bullet through his brain.”
“It saved the taxpayer, Woodrow.”
“So when does your retirement go into effect?”
“End of the month, just three short weeks,” replied
the grinning mountain of a man with a slick shaved head, now standing up from
behind his desk. “It’ll be just enough time for me to teach new arrival,
Sheriff Burton, the ropes.”
“So tell me about this fellow Burton.”
“She’s not a feller.”
“Not again...don’t you believe in hiring men anymore,
Hank?”
“Dag-nabbit, Woodrow, she’s qualified and was
available.”
“It’s not going to be the same reporting to a skirt.”
“Now don’t prejudge, Woodrow. Samantha Burton had
quite an impressive career down in Charleston.”
“Samantha Burton, I’m sorry chief, she just doesn’t
sound like sheriff material to me. For some reason I have this vivid picture of
Bewitched!” Woody tried to twitch his
nose like the television witch.
“Give her a chance, Woodrow. You felt the same way
toward Wagner, if memory serves me right. On paper she looks like she can hold
her own in this position.”
He shrugged. “I suppose I really don’t have a choice,
do I?”
“Nope, that’s a fact. How do you think Wagner will
deal with reporting to a woman?”
“Why don’t you ask her, sir?” She responded, standing
in the doorway. “And my last name is now Pierce, remember.”
“I reckon I just did,” answered a scrambling Hank Singleton.
“Good morning, Detective Pierce.”
“So you’re really going to do it, sir, just up and
retire?”
“That’s my plan and I’m recommending this Burton to
replace me, at least until the next election. The Mayor has bought in on it, so
I reckon I still carry a little weight around here.”
“We need more women in this department. I’d say we’re
on the right track,” stated an exuberant Trudy Wagner Pierce. “No offense
Sheriff!”
“Watch what you wish for, Detective Wagner. I mean
Pierce. She’s a tough piece of work, and she has a reputation for kicking
female butts.”
“I have a big one to kick, sir, and always welcome a
challenge.”
“This is going to be just great. This department is
going to hell in a handbasket.”
“Come on Woodrow,” advised Hank. “That’s an inappropriate
comment even for you.”
“Sorry Hank, I sort of liked things before the female
invasion.”
“Not to worry, Sheriff, she’ll wear him down like I
did. He’s not as tough as he acts.”
“See what I mean, Hank.”
“Enough, do I have to remind you that you’re supposed
to be professionals? Can we just change the subject? Y’all really ought to get
out there and fight some criminals and make Horry County a safer place.”
“We can do that, Hank,” answered Woody, winking at
Trudy.
“Pierce, we have a missing person,” advised Hank. “Go
by the Pentecostal Church in North Myrtle Beach, and talk to Raeford McCrery. He’s
the preacher there. It seems that his associate pastor is missing. He hasn’t
shown up for several days. The good preacher said he hasn’t been seen in a
couple of days.”
“Will do,
sir,” replied the blue eyed detective, still fit. Her six foot one frame
remained lean and hard at one hundred forty pounds. Now twenty nine, she no
longer wore her blonde hair cropped short. Brady Pierce, her husband, had
convinced her to let it grow out shoulder length. “What do you have on your
agenda, Constable Anderson?”
“Homicide,
domestic dispute down in Surf Side, and I’m doing the follow-up.”
“Who bit
the big one, a man or woman?”
“Neither,”
Woody replied, shaking his head in disgust. “ A nine month old girl; the father
just got tired of her crying and smothered her with a pillow, best we can tell
while the mom stood by and did nothing to prevent it.”
“Pathetic,”
chimed in Hank. “I hate it when innocent chaps are victims. It’s just a crying
shame.”
“What’s
really pathetic is the mother. She’s not fingering the father. They’re claiming
they just found the baby dead in its crib. Coroner says different. Worse still,
they were manufacturing methamphetamine in their home.”
“Keep me
posted, officers. Now go do your duty,” said Hank, his nearly three hundred pounds
supported by a mountainous frame would have made him look like Big Foot, except
his hairless head would not support the Sasquatch theory.
Woody in
contrast was eight inches shorter. He no longer sported a mustache and side
burns. He was now clean shaven and twenty pounds lighter, and he still remained
a pit bull. His hair once jet black, was now peppered with gray, compliments of
the road rage murders and the loss of his wife, Janice. She had died at the
hands of the serial killer after having had a one night stand with newsman,
Lance Rocker. Preston, the road rage killer, had attempted to pen the murder on
Rocker.
The road
rage serial killer case had shaken the beach community but had no long term effects
on tourism; rather the opposite. Lance Rocker had penned a book on the case. It
had landed number one on the best seller list for almost sixteen weeks. The
book launched his lucrative television career, and he now hosted a weekly
investigative reporter show on the Crime Channel. No longer a thorn in the Horry
County Police department’s side, he had relocated to Atlanta.
The beach
community had eventually returned to normal. Sure, it still had its fair share
of crimes, but nothing to the magnitude of the Road Rage Murders. Transients,
especially during the peak tourist season, brought with them numerous home
break-ins, assaults and shoplifting. There were still the occasional murders
but most were domestic or gang related, and not the work of a deranged serial
killer
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