Friday Fiction (Serial Novel): Devils Walk Through Galveston, Chapter 5

This is the sixth installment of Devils Walk Through Galveston, my first novel.  The prologue, Chapter 1 (which introduced the crime and criminal), Chapter 2 (which introduced the police officers)  and Chapter 3 (the seduction of the initial victim) ; and Chapter 4 (which follows the fleeing killer)  were posted earlier.  In this chapter, the police begin to process of tracking the killers. 

I hope you enjoy it. Please read it and share.  Go to Amazon and get the book for the rest.

 

5.  Clarksdale, Mississippi at noon

            The sun was oppressive, forcing heads facing the light to bow.  Forcing movements to slow.  Forcing dogs into the shade at the fence line to watch people in the driveway stirring up gravel dust.  No one wanting to walk into the bamboo stand where moccasins rested wreaking in the moist leaf beds.  Mosquitoes stayed low on the edge of the yard, drawn to breath for blood.  Pushed back into the shade by the midday heat.

            Two squad cars, one Hearse.  One unmarked from the Coahama County Sheriff and one from the State Police.  A lot for one divorced woman in a rented duplex bungalow.  A lot because this wasn’t the first. 

There had been a nineteen year old girl in DeSoto County - just this side of Memphis - with her neck slit, but barely traces of anyone else in the house.  There was the smell of a man on the bed beside her.  Enough sweat for two on the sheets.  Wound too deep to have done it herself.  The dishes had just been done and the dishwasher still warm.  And no knife near the body.  Bleach on her skin.  It didn’t cauterize the wound.  Size eleven smooth boot prints from a man light for size elevens.  No fingerprints.  That had been curious.  More curious, no glove smudges around the house.  That had gotten lawmen talking two counties up and word had filtered down. Asking if anyone had picked up any drifters.  No one had who fit the bill.  Now this.

            They walked through the little house in covered shoes.  The uniforms were bagging whatever they saw, but really, there was nothing important.  They had dusted the house.  Dusted the girl.  Desiree Smith. Teacher at the high school up the street.  Married for nine months.  Then divorced for the last two years.  No children.  Thirty-four years old and liked by her students.  No boyfriend anyone knew of.  Had just lost some weight working out at Curves and she’d told folks she was going to get out more.  The school called over to her house when she didn’t show up for her summer-school class.  She didn’t answer the phone.  They figured her alarm hadn’t gone off.   They’d called her friend who had a key to walk down to see if she needed anything.  The friend had a sick child and was at the doctor.  She got to the duplex at about eleven.  Went inside after calling out for Desiree.  Saw the body in the bedroom.  Screamed and fainted.  The neighbor to the side heard the scream and came running.  Called the police. 

            There were long-fingered hand marks on her pale skin, but no prints picked up.  There were some lines from the mid-finger area, but no fingertip prints, no palm lines.  Her body was resting gently, head facing the wall.  Her neck was broken and jaw dislocated.  Someone or something had grabbed her head and jaw and twisted until it snapped.  And cut her from her vagina up across her belly.  Not very deep.   She’d had sex recently but it wasn’t violent or forced.  There was no semen.  There was bleach and vodka on the skin by her ears, below her waist, soaked into the mattress.  Her clothes on the floor smelled of cigarettes.  So did the edge of the footboard.  They would call the bars and clubs in a couple of hours when they opened up.

            The State boys walked outside to look around the side of the house. The window unit air conditioner had not been on for a while. The puddle under the condenser was decent sized, about eight inches across and shallow.  Someone had turned the unit on this morning.  Which was odd because it didn’t get appreciably warmer until about ten.  The school had already called by then. 

            The city cops had talked to the neighbors.  The nurse who lived in the front didn’t hear or see anything.  Had left for work this morning.  Nothing.

            The neighbor to the side had been in his car from about four to seven a.m. listening to music, drinking a beer.  He went inside when his wife woke up and called to him from the kitchen.  He was sitting in an interrogation room at the police station now.  His wife had been the one to call the police when she heard the scream.  She said her husband worked nights at the water department, got off at four.  He had a habit of sitting in his car in the driveway drinking a six pack and listening to the radio.  The nurse who lived at the front of the house confirmed this.  Said she’d had to jump his car battery on more than one occasion.  There were four kids in his 1200 square-foot house, one likely to play defensive line for the Rebels.  They understood his sitting in the car.  The story he told wasn’t too odd, but didn’t match what was inside Desiree’s house. 

He said he’d been sitting with the windows to the car open, listening to the blues station low so he wouldn’t wake up his wife.  On his third beer he heard soft moans coming from Desiree’s house. Her bedroom window about ten feet from his car.  This wasn’t too odd.  He’d chuckled.  Thought she got a new vibrator.  His wife was a little jealous of Desiree now that she had gotten tighter.  He swore he liked thick women but had been looking, telling his wife she should go to Curves, too.  That kept him in the driveway more often.  But, Desiree’s moans had been louder last night but no squeaking of bed springs.  No words spoken that he heard.  He hadn’t seen anyone move in the window, but he wasn’t looking.  The moans crescendoed then stopped abruptly.  Nothing more.  He’d dozed off.  He had medium sized hands likely too small for the marks on Desiree’s body.  He smelled of menthols.   He had size eight feet and didn’t own any cowboy boots with walking heels like the prints in the dirt between the gravel in the drive.  Neither did the gas man or anyone they’d seen around.  But he was going to sit in the interrogation room a little longer.  The boots could have been anyone.  He didn’t smell like bleach. He would likely go home soon.  He hadn’t lawyered up.  He might sit awhile.