Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  Mercy Killing

  (Clancy Evans PI Book 2)

  M. Glenn Graves

  Mercy Killing

  (Clancy Evans PI Book 2)

  M. Glenn Graves

  City Lights Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  Copyright © 2015 M. Glenn Graves

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-64119-994-0

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  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  A Look At The Peace Haven Murders (Clancy Evans PI Book 3)

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  About the Author

  Introduction

  Blot out his name, then,

  record one lost soul more,

  One task more declined,

  one more footpath untrod,

  One more devils’-triumph

  and sorrow for angels,

  One wrong more to man,

  one more insult to God!

  Robert Browning,

  from The Lost Leader

  1

  It was late May and spring was in full attack upon the former ugliness from Norfolk’s winter. Flowers were coloring the parks, edges of streets and expressways, and along the borders of some houses. Trees were a hearty green. It even smelled good in the city. I was jogging in Town Point Park in the middle of the day, sweating profusely, and enjoying every minute of it. The winter was still fresh in my mind because of its severity, but it was fading quickly from the several days in a row like this particular one I was presently enjoying. It was good to be alive. In my line of work that was more than just a trivial comment from the euphoria of the erupting springtime.

  Sam was with me, but he wasn’t jogging. He was resting near a park bench under a grove of trees close to the flags. Actually, he was under the park bench and enjoying his nap in the great outdoors. I passed him every few minutes. On the first few laps he opened his eyes to acknowledge my passing. Once he was satisfied that I was here for a long run, he settled into his comfort zone and paid me no attention. My watch dog.

  I finished ten miles and began walking to relax, catch my breath, and work out any muscle kinks. Staying in some semblance of shape is sheer misery. If anybody tells you differently, send them to me. Misery.

  “Hey, you always abuse your body that way?” a voice called out to me from an adjoining pathway.

  I turned to see Sara Hightower approaching.

  “If it isn’t Mother Teresa,” I said.

  “Wrong group.”

  “But a compliment, nonetheless.”

  “Compliment accepted. How’ve you been?”

  “You come to hear my confession?”

  She gestured towards a park bench. “Let’s see. I’m always open.”

  “How are the good folks at St. Barnabas?” I said.

  “Holding our own, despite the economy, the cuts, and the layoffs. It’s tough on the working class, which is largely my congregants.”

  “How many years have they put up with you?”

  “More than I deserve, no doubt. I am working on number fifteen as we speak.”

  “I’m impressed. The little engine that could keep right on going. Wow. So life is good for you.”

  “Most days. And you, what are you involved in these days?” Sara said.

  “You know, the usual – stabbings, rapes, general homicides, and serial killers. I take the ones you can’t convert.”

  “Most of them do not even give the Church an opportunity to help them. It is rare that your clients come through my doors.”

  “Well, that’s not entirely the case, Sara. Unfortunately, I have had some clergy types who crossed the line and ended up on my playing field.”

  “Sorry to hear that, but the truth is we clergy are disgustingly human like the rest of the world.”

  “Higher expectations, I suppose.”

  “Let’s just say we should aim higher.”

  “You out for a constitutional?” I said.

  “No, I was looking for you. I called your apartment and your answering machine informed me that you were jogging in the park with Sam.”

  I smiled to myself knowing that I had left no such message with Rogers. I sat down on the bench next to The Reverend Dr. Sara Hightower, the Rector of St. Barnabas for nearly as many years as I had been living in Norfolk. I first met Sara when I was a rookie cop on a Norfolk beat near the waterfront, just after my first shooting.

  “Okay, you found me. How can I help you?”

  “Four years ago while I was on a six month sabbatical to refurbish myself and my ministry, I met a young man while I was taking a course at Watershed Seminary near Richmond, Virginia. He was a second year student and we happened to be taking the same course. Through the rigors of that course of study we became acquainted. We’ve stayed in contact with each other, off and on, for the past three years. Nothing romantic here. We simply enjoy each other’s company. Kindred minds. He likes to come to Norfolk, and we dine together. Sometimes we exchange war stories about the ministry.”

  “Friends.”

  “Exactly. Well, Josh,...his name is Joshua Ainsley...Josh came to see me and was visibly upset over an encounter he had recently with one of his parishioners.”

  “He have a parish nearby?”

  “Well, to be specific, he’s a Baptist clergyman and I don’t think they use that terminology. He’s the pastor of Riley Corners Baptist Church in Riley Corners, North Carolina. That’s in eastern North Carolina, close to the state line near Elizabeth City. Anyway, he shared with me that one of his members, an elderly lady, told him in one of his visits that she had witnessed a murder when she was a young child. During that initial visit, he naturally asked her some questions about it and she became increasingly distraught, w
ould not answer any questions, and asked him to leave. All he could ascertain was that she had kept this knowledge bottled up for many years. Josh told me that he had decided to wait and see what might develop with this lady. His thinking was that maybe she had imagined this or dreamed it, that it really had not happened. Then he related that a few weeks later the woman called him and asked him to come see her again. During this visit she apologized for her behavior weeks earlier and told him that she wanted justice for her little brother. Still, he said that her memory was sketchy at best and she can only recall brief images of what took place.”

  “Did he learn anything more?”

  “Over the next several weeks he believed he was able to piece together a horrible story. According to this woman, Mary Elizabeth Carpenter, she apparently was playing under a bed in the same room where her younger, infant brother was sleeping in his crib. She was about five or six years old. Her brother, Colby, was a year old or so. She told Josh that she saw someone enter the room, go to his crib, and, using a pillow, smother him while he slept. She told Josh that this happened at her grandmother’s house. She was naturally afraid to say anything to anyone about it for fear that the same thing might happen to her while she slept.”

  “And she didn’t recognize the person who entered the room?”

  “Josh said that she could not remember who it was, that perhaps at one time in her life she had known, but had apparently blocked this from her memory. She couldn’t be sure, she told him. It all seemed like a dream.”

  “Did she say it was male or female?”

  “Josh didn’t say anything about that. He’s not an investigator and likely has not asked the kind of questions someone like you might ask.”

  “And you are coming to me because…”

  “At first Josh did not think her story to be credible, that she had imagined the whole thing. Over the last several weeks, he has changed his opinion about that. He says that she has recalled specific details and his gut feeling is that she actually witnessed a murder. But, he wanted me to come and talk with this woman and see what I think.”…..

  “And did you?”

  “No. I prayed about this for a day or so and decided that you would be the better person to go down there and check it out.”

  “You and God decide this?”

  “Well, I can’t blame it all on God. Our friendship had something to do with it...and the fact that you are the only female private detective I know, and you also happen to be the only one I trust to check out the credibility of such a tale, and, be kind to the woman who is telling it.”

  “Wow. All of that. Lucky me.”

  “Your sarcasm notwithstanding, I trust you to sniff this one out and see if Josh is on to something, or he is simply overreacting to a distraught octogenarian who has a wild imagination.”

  “Like a bloodhound?”

  “Well, if that’s the best metaphorical comparison you’ve got.”

  “I don’t like clergy people, present company excluded,” I said.

  “I’m flattered, I think. What’s your beef with the clergy?”

  “Too many scoundrels, mongrels, and charlatans amongst them. I’ve had more than my share of run-ins with them in my young life and I simply do not trust them as a tribe.”

  “You do allow for singular exceptions.”

  “I do, as in the case of one Sara Hightower. But she be unique.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment. However, if you trust me, then I am asking you to trust Josh Ainsley. He is a good man. And, I believe, a good minister. I want someone to help him who knows what they are doing. You are the best help I could possible send him.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “I’m hoping.”

  “Okay. One visit. One drive down and chat around, and then I decide if it has merit. Understood?”

  “I ask no more of you than that. I owe you.”

  “You owe me nothing.”

  “I’ll pay your expenses.”

  “On your salary?”

  “Hey, I do okay. I’ve been at St. Barnabas long enough for the good people there to be generous with me. Episcopalians pay more than Baptists. I can afford to pay your expenses.”

  “No doubt, but I do this one on the house for you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is for me. You helped a young rookie cop years ago. I’m indebted.”

  “We just talked.”

  “Talk was enough.”

  2

  Sam and I piled into the Jeep two days later and drove down to Riley Corners, North Carolina. It took less than two hours to get there. Spring was gushing out all on both sides of the state line. It was a great day for traveling and relishing the extravagance of nature. The downside for me was that I had to meet a man of the cloth whom I did not know and against whom I already had a bias despite Sara’s strong recommendation. I am sure that it comes from the fact that some clergy-types have tried in earnest to kill me. Literally.

  Sam was in the passenger’s seat watching the red bud trees zip by as we entered Riley Corners. He was a good traveler. He rarely said anything offensive and demanded only water and a bathroom break now and then.

  He rolled his honey-colored eyes at me as if to say ain’t spring grand. I smiled.

  The sunlight coming through my side window shot across the seat and caused his black coat to glisten. He was a beautiful specimen of a dog, but I refrained from telling him so in order to keep his ego from filling the inside of my Jeep.

  As we passed the sign for the name of the town, I wondered how these quaint little towns received their name. Why isn’t it named Riley’s Corner? Although it did cross my mind that a town, even a small one, would have more than one corner so that Riley Corners would have some merit in terms of accuracy. Yet, it was for me an unusual name. I worked myself into a corner on that one and decided to leave the etymology of the town’s name alone for a while. Presumably, I had more important stuff to investigate.

  Sara had arranged for my meeting Josh Ainsley at his church building located on Church Street. It was named Church Street, I surmised, because his Baptist church along with the Riley Corners Methodist Church and the Riley Corners Presbyterian Church and the St. Jude of the Cross Catholic Church were all located on Church Street as well. Imagine that. Wonder if this small town had a traffic jam come Sunday mornings?

  Josh Ainsley was waiting for me in the Baptist church parking lot. He was leaning against the only other car in the lot. I assumed it was his since it was an older model, needed washing, and had a matching set of worn tires. On the other hand, he was dressed in a light colored jacket, opened collar pale green pastel shirt, no tie, and khaki pants with a tiny stain on the left thigh. He looked sharp for a preacher, even with the stain. Can’t say much for the car. At least he had his priorities in order.

  “You must be Miss Evans,” he said, approaching my Jeep as I stepped out.

  I held the door for Sam and he jumped out on my side.

  “Say, what a beautiful dog.”

  “Don’t go overboard. I’ll never get him back into the car if you keep talking like that,” I said.

  “Oh, but he is majestic. Come here, boy.”

  Sam had just finished his bathroom break on some shrub at the front of the Jeep and was now coming over to investigate this clergy person. He wagged his tail and sniffed him as Josh knelt to rub his head and stroke his coat.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sam.”

  “Good strong name. Your partner in your work?”

  “The best there is.”

  “No doubt. I can imagine that he is quite intelligent.”

  “What makes you say that?” I said.

  “He’s a good judge of character. He likes me.”

  Good line, I thought. Even for a clergyman. And, it was also true. Sam was the best judge of character I had ever known. When he meets someone and growls, then I pay close attention to the person at hand. So far he ha
s not misjudged anyone. Solid record.

  “So you’re a character?”

  Josh smiled and stood up. He was about six feet tall and on the thin side for his height. I could tell that he had spent more time studying than working out in the gym.

  “I am indeed a character. I hope that you find me to be a good character.”

  “Shall we talk here or go inside?” I said.

  “Wow, straight to the point.”

  “Time is money.”

  “Okay, let’s go inside,” he gestured for me to lead the way and I headed towards the side door of the church building along the sidewalk that joined the parking lot.

  He opened the door for me. Gentleman. Once inside, we swapped places. I followed him down a long hallway. The building was painted cinder block with tile floors and lots of windows. The rooms off to our left and right were well lighted and spacious. Some had carpet instead of tile. Most of the rooms along with the hallway were painted a very pale yellow. We passed a room for children that was a bright orange with dashes of blue here and there to offer some contrast. I was only able to glance at the rooms as we passed by en route to Josh’s office.