James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  "Are you sure?" Reid asked, bringing the pickup to a stop.

  "Yeah, take the path to the right. The cabin will be at the end of the road, about twenty feet through the trees."

  The thin blanket of white almost made the land feel pure. But snow couldn't cover up the inhumanity that had risen to the surface. Five graves that became the final resting place for someone's daughter, someone's wife, someone's mother. Five more women who became nothing more than practice for the beast. Human life held no value, so why should it get a proper burial? Norman wasn't happy with the first kill. A whore he picked up in uptown Charlotte. She didn't live up to his expectations. Like the time he had sex with Mary Sue Bell. Sex was unsatisfying; she didn't put up a fight as he raped her, so he choked the life out of Mary Sue. That's what got him off. He used the same logic with the whore. But left unfulfilled, he needed more. Over the next three days in 1955, Norman Wallace abducted three women. One was Victoria Hoffman. Victoria, and the other women, wouldn't consent to sex; no amount of money would get them to change their minds, so he raped them. Norman was a man and men were supposed to like sex. Find pleasure in bedding women. He didn't, and that made him feel broken, less of a man. Murder was the glue that put him back together — made him whole again.

  The pickup hit a root that extended across the path. The truck bounced, throwing me against the passenger door, bringing me back to the present.

  "Through there," I said, pointing to a row of Oak trees. The flakes were wetter, heavier. Forecast called for a foot of snow. Soon the sins would be harder to uncover.

  Reid stopped the pickup and took a shovel from the truck bed. I grabbed another shovel and blew warm air into my closed fists, regretting the choice not to bring gloves.

  "Lead the way," Reid said.

  I swung the shovel, on the ground, in front of me, pushing the snow to the side. The path, covered in white, was no longer visible. I didn't need to see it. This was the right place. The map was etched in mind. Through the words Norman spoke to my brother, I felt the fear, the horror, that Victoria Hoffman felt when Norman dragged her through the woods. It was a pain that I kept to myself. Reid didn't need to know how scared his mother was when the beast took her.

  "You know, I've been waiting for this moment for twenty-five years," Reid said. "I've wanted to find my mother's body. To lay her to rest. Why am I dreading this?"

  I didn't have an answer. I couldn't begin to imagine the emotions overtaking him. Norman killed my biological mother, but I never had time to mourn. Things happened so fast. I hadn't had time to truly start hating my father for what he was, for what he made my brother.

  "This has been the only thing keeping me going through the years. The only thing that stopped me from eating a bullet during all those drunken nights."

  "This is about healing," I said. "We are going to find your mother. You're going to finally get to say goodbye. And then you'll be able to heal. You've wanted revenge. Revenge doesn't make your mother proud. She's already proud. It's time to heal for her."

  A hint of barn red color flashed through the falling snow. I saw Norman walking George to the cabin. My stomach grew queasy. Reality and memories were blurred to the point that I couldn't tell if I was about to vomit or if I was experiencing the butterflies George felt. This moment was a huge impact on him becoming a ruthless killer. This was like meeting your favorite baseball player for George.

  "You OK?" Reid asked.

  "Yeah. I still get winded."

  "Shit, I'm sorry, Michael. Do you need to rest?"

  "I'm fine," I said, holding my stomach. "The cabin's just over there."

  The foundation of the cabin had given way to rot. The building sloped to the right. The only remnant of a front porch was one column supporting a caved-in roof. Ivy grew up the sides of the red cabin. It looked like cartoon hands squeezing, strangling, robbing the last breath from a heart. While everything else green turned to brown in the winter ivy remained defiant. Reid was too my left, but I saw Norman standing there. George sitting on a stump watching him reenact a kill. I grabbed Reid's arm.

  "What?"

  "Walk over here," I said. "There's a body buried there."

  Out of respect, we couldn't walk on the dead. This was our chance to honor them. To say goodbye for their families, who couldn't be there.

  "How do you know?" Reid asked.

  "I can see Norman playing out the kills to George."

  "Is it my mother?"

  "No," I said, placing a red handkerchief on the spot. If we didn't act soon, the handkerchief would disappear beneath the snow.

  I followed Norman, just as George did that day, to the side of the cabin. Norman turned and smiled. He told the story of how the "whore" buried here put up a fight. He showed George a scar just above his right eye. She was feisty. The bitch tried to gouge his eyes out.

  "Stop," I said.

  Reid turned to me.

  "She's here." I started shoveling snow, but immediately couldn't catch my breath.

  Reid grabbed my arm. "Let me."

  I moved to the side, used the shovel as a crutch, and watched Reid dig through years of dead leaves to unearth the last resting place of his mother. The frozen ground was tough. It was as if it didn't want to give up the evidence. Trying to hide the horrors of Norman Wallace. But Reid fought physically and mentally to take back what had been stolen from him. Something lavender appeared beneath the dirt. Reid dropped to his knees and started crying.

  "The dress she wore that day," Reid said. "I can see her waving as she said goodbye." Reid tossed the shovel aside and starting to dig with his bare hands ignoring the cold. He was finally reunited with his mother. She was there to comfort him. To free him from the hate that haunted him for twenty-five years.

  A flash of light pierced the gray air. I turned. Standing against a tall Oak near the front of the porch was Sunshine — Ashley Harris, my sister. She smiled and made a heart with her hands before placing them against her chest. She mouthed the words, "You did good, big brother" and faded into the snow just as a huge, wet snowflake smacked my check. I smiled.

  Chapter 51

  Helping Reid find his mother served as an exorcism of sorts for me as well. All the visions stopped. No George, no Norman. There was no longer room in my life for them.

  "I'm going, don't push me," Rebecca said. "You try walking with a dragon tail."

  She was arguing with her father as he walked her down the aisle to marry me. Finally, he picked up the back of her dress.

  "She's going to be a handful," Father Abraham said, patting me on my shoulder.

  "Don't I know it. But she is beautiful."

  Rebecca made the ugliest face as she wrestled with the wedding dress. Her blond hair started to fall from its bun. She grabbed for it, dropping a bouquet of white flowers. Even disheveled she was gorgeous.

  "Sorry," she mouthed to me, straightening her dress.

  "Everything situated?" Father Abraham asked. "Can we begin?"

  I nodded. Rebecca smirked and tilted her head.

  The ceremony went smooth until Father Abraham asked if anyone objected. There was a moment of silence. Then a baby started crying. Rebecca buried her head on my shoulder. "Just great. It's not embarrassing enough that you knock me up on the first date. Now, the brat has to make sure everyone knows her mother is a slut."

  Chapter 52

  "She's beautiful, isn't she?" Barbara asked, watching the new silver Cutlass, with 'Just Married', written in shaving cream, on the back window, pull away.

  "He has no idea what he's in for," Reid said.

  Barbara smacked Reid on the knee.

  "Oh hush. Young love is wonderful."

  "Don't tell me you're getting soft now, Dupree."

  Someone bumped into Reid pushing him into Barbara.

  "You better not be on the sauce again," Barbara said.

  "I'm so sorry," Father Abraham said. "Wasn't watching where I was walking. Weddings take it out of me." He laughed.

&n
bsp; "No problem, Father," Reid said.

  "Looks like you dropped something." Father Abraham bent down, picked up a wedding program, and handed it Reid. "You two have a blessed evening."

  "I didn't drop this. Did you?" Reid asked, handing the program to Barbara.

  "I don't think so."

  Reid caught a glimpse of something written in red ink inside the program. He opened it.

  I took your mother. You took my son. But we are not even. That's a mighty fine looking woman you have there. I hope she has as much fight as your mother. Let's catch up soon - Norman.

  About The Morning Star Trilogy

  I hope that you enjoyed Chasing Fireflies, the first book in the James Beamer/Michael Callahan Morning Star Series. Babylon Girl and Facing Hell are now available.

  One question that readers might have is — Why spoil, in the first book, the fact that Michael Callahan will eventually become James Beamer? Shouldn't that be a "holy shit" moment later in the series? Good question, but there will be plenty of "holy shit" moments as the life of Michael Callahan progresses. Mike's a hero in every sense of the word and Norman is ultimate evil.

  I chose to divulge that Michael Callahan eventually becomes James Beamer to put it out there that something awful is going to happen to make this man kill the identity he spent his entire life creating. Imagine someone on train tracks, a train racing for them. You want to yell, "Get the hell off the tracks," but your screams are drowned out by the locomotive. So you just sit back and hope for the best.

  In a way, The Morning Star trilogy is a prequel to the life of James Beamer, one of the FBI's most prolific serial killer hunters. This trilogy will give readers insight to every horror that pushed James into that direction. Hold tight, it's going to be a fun ride.

  In the immortal words of Norman Wallace — Let's catch up soon.

  -Paul

  By Paul Seiple

  Copyright © 2014 All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design: bookscovered.co.uk

  Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise) without proper written permission of the copyright owner.

  Chasing Fireflies is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  "Life is neither good or evil, but only a place for good and evil."

  -Marcus Aurelius

  One

  Knoxville, Tennessee

  Summer of 1987

  “What’s wrong, Tanner? Looks like you’re about to lose your lunch.”

  This would be the first time Officer Jill Tanner saw a dead body. This was to be the first time the majority of the rookies viewed a dead body. Jill wasn't looking forward to the field trip to the “Body Farm” at the University of Tennessee Anthropological Research Facility, but the time for worry had passed. The day was upon her. The rookies were getting a crash course in the do's and don'ts of crime scene procedure. She spent countless nights awake, running alongside insomnia, trying to escape this. But throughout life she learned that if she could just get over the initial fear, she would be fine. She questioned that philosophy when the slight breeze brought a hint of death to her nostrils. Her mouth watered — a prelude to nausea. Jill fought the queasiness with thoughts of her father. She kept telling herself, she was doing this for him.

  Jill’s father was an assistant district attorney in Memphis. She watched her father put away his fair share of criminals. From her first memories, Wright (Cy) Tanner was her hero. Tanner's court record earned him the nickname Cy, a homage to baseball's most winningest pitcher Cy Young, who recorded two-hundred and sixty four wins. Tanner's case winnings weren't far behind. Jill idolized him as the man who was always there to protect her — but then one day he wasn’t.

  Jill grew up in a world where Superman was bulletproof and Batman, although human, seemed immortal. Heroes didn’t die. But Wright Tanner did. Did that mean he wasn’t a hero? Not to Jill, but the East Seventh Street gang found him to be a nuisance. Two days after putting away JoJo Harris, the gang’s second in command, for life, Tanner was gunned down. Shot ten times as he opened the door to his Mercedes, outside of the district attorney’s office. Jill's mother tried to shield her from the news reports of her father’s murder, but she wanted to watch. Images of blood splattered over the bullet-riddled white car taught Jill a valuable life lesson. There is no such thing as bulletproof. If someone has a bullet with your name on it, the bullet will eventually find you. Heroes die.

  “Just think about it, Tanner. It’s what, ninety-five degrees out here? You smell that? Rotting flesh feasted on by hungry maggots.”

  “There will not be any maggots.”

  The male voice stepped in front of the bullying words, protecting Jill from the assault.

  “You will not be viewing a body today. So, no maggots,” Dr. Mack Root said. “The objective of today’s exercise will show you the correct technique to estimate time of death at a crime scene that is less than twenty-four hours old.” He took an apple from his white lab coat pocket. Dr. Root had a reputation for being unorthodox. Once during a press conference about the Route 16 killer, he demonstrated a death blow by stabbing his sub sandwich with a fork. He tossed the apple into the air and caught it. “Today, we are going to work with fruit. I know that’s a disappointment to some of you sickos.”

  The majority of the rookies laughed. Jill exhaled, finally feeling that it was safe to breathe again. The knot in her stomach unraveled like a poorly tied bowline. The smell must have been a trick of her mind. She avoided death's handshake for one more day. With decomposition came bugs and she didn’t like bugs. But Jill was tougher than she looked, even in the pasty white stage of the moment. At five-foot-two, she could handle her own, and that included putting John Hiatt in his place. She was just about to crush his ego and spoon feed it to him when Dr. Root spoke.

  “Mr. Hiatt, would you speak to a member of a victim’s family the way you spoke to Miss Tanner? Would you heckle a colleague in the field that way?” Dr. Root took a bite from the apple.

  “No, sir,” John Hiatt said, the cockiness in his tone was gone.

  “Why did you join the force, Mr. Hiatt?” Dr. Root tossed the apple to the ground.

  “To rid the streets of scum, sir?”

  “What's your definition of scum? Maybe a teenager harassing an elderly woman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So how would you rid the streets of this scum?”

  “I would scare the shit out him; threaten him with stiffer consequences if I ever caught him doing it again, sir.”

  Dr. Root chuckled. “I see. Mr. Hiatt, do you plan on making a career out of law enforcement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dr. Root pointed behind John. “Get the hell out of here, Mr. Hiatt. I’ll explain to Chief Marker why you’re not taking part in this exercise. And if I ever catch you bullying anyone again, your career in law enforcement will be over.”

  “But…”

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Hiatt? By your definition, you’re scum. I’m just ridding my farm of scum.” Dr. Root tipped his head in Jill Tanner’s direction. “Shall we get back to the exercise?”

  Dr. Mack Root was one of the country’s leading forensic anthropologists with a near genius level knowledge of the effects death has on the human body. He was one of the FBI’s go-to guys when bodies were discovered. In law enforcement circles, Dr. Root was known as The Leprechaun, partly because of his physical appearance — a short man, barely five-foot-six, red hair and a red beard that coupled with his glasses hid the majority of his face. But that wasn't the only reason for the nickname. Dr. Root would turn over every stone, no matter how long it took until he found his pot of gold — the c
lues to avenge the dead body.

  John Hiatt walked away, kicking dirt and weeds, just like a child turned away from a pick-up ball game. The six remaining rookies followed in line behind Dr. Root like he was luring rats with his magic pipe.

  “Today’s exercise will take place on the south end of the farm, just a few more minutes,” Dr. Root said. “But you're already making mistakes. You’re not studying the surroundings, there may be valuable clues.”

  “There,” Officer Romano said. “It looks like a body.”

  Dr. Root stopped. There were no cadavers on the farm at the time. “Hold back,” he said, walking toward the lump that stuck out just above the tall grass. The undeniable smell of death hung in the air. The closer he got, the clearer the image became — a woman, on her back, dressed in a flowered dress that borrowed from 1950s fashion. Her brown hair was pulled tight to the sides. She wore an apron that had the words “Reidy Bug” stitched between the pockets in green thread. There were no visible signs of trauma, but there was no denying this woman, dressed as a ‘50s housewife, was dead.

  “Tanner, run to my office, and call Chief Marker. Tell him to get Homicide here.”

  “Isn’t this the exercise?” Officer Romano asked.

  “This is an active crime scene. Everyone stay where you are.” Dr. Root took a purple sheet of paper from his clipboard and started tearing pieces off. He dropped one in front of him and stepped on it, making sure his footprints were marked by the paper. He walked toward the body.

  “Someone dumped a body at the Body Farm?” Officer Romano asked.

  Dr. Root didn’t answer. He was a few feet away from the woman. He didn’t want to get any closer out of fear of contaminating the scene, but something next to her left shoulder caught his attention. He dropped another piece of paper and stepped on it. Dropped another piece parallel to his shoe and planted his other foot. He stretched his upper body enough to make out that the object was an aged identification card. All four corners were jagged reminders of what used to be smooth edges. Years of decay mimicked patina on a copper pipe, making the card almost unreadable. If Dr. Root didn’t recognize the name, he may never have been able to make out the words.