Danny picked up the tiny child and wrapped him gently in the blanket. The boy had been born with obvious physical abnormalities that included a cleft lip. The mother, not yet willing or ready to accept her responsibilities, just up and decided to disappear into the night, content with abandoning a piece of her life. The baby let loose with another whimper. Danny made a small attempt to provide some kind of fatherly protection. “Ssshhh! I’m right here.” He smiled, gingerly bouncing the boy in his arms. “It’s okay now. You know where you are? Hmm? You’re in a safe place.” He pointed to the side of the church, illuminated with the silhouette of a cross. “He’s here with you now!” With baby in hand, Danny stood up and prepared to knock at the door. Something, however, stopped him from doing so.
He knelt down and placed the infant back in his basket, then walked to the fence and unlatched the gate. Taking his stance to “ding-and-dash,” Danny looked over his escape route and prepared to run. He banged on the door and rushed toward the gate. The sidewalk was slick from the snow, causing him to slip and slide out into the street. While struggling to get to his feet, he saw the shadow of Pastor Pate approaching the doorway. He finally secured his footing and tore around the corner of the wrought-iron fence. Pastor Pate opened the door, reached down, gently removed the baby from the basket, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He saw Danny running down the street and yelled, “Thank You! God bless you! Merry Christmas!”
As he ran, the memories of Christmases past with his family consumed his mind. The pictures in his head were interlaced with the disturbing visions of Tommy’s and Jessica’s deaths. Tears streamed down Danny’s face as he raced to his apartment. In his mind he could still hear Pastor Pate yelling “Merry Christmas” as he took the stairs two and three steps at a time.
He burst into his small, dingy room breathless and angry. There was no tree, no gifts, no lights, no family, and most importantly, no love. He paced about anxiously, then yelled mournfully, “I hate you, God!” He flung himself on his couch and shook his fists as his torn soul cried out, “Augh! Why me, God? Why?”
1988
Butch pushed his way through the dense and twisted mix of mesquite and cedar trees, tall Buffalo grass, and Indian paintbrushes and bluebonnets. He and three officers from the Ellis County Sheriff’s Department were near the northernmost tip of Lake Sawyer, a couple of miles southwest of Alma. Just a few hours earlier, a hitchhiker stumbled upon the body of a young girl while looking for a shady spot to escape the mid-August heat.
“She ain’t been moved since we called. We were waiting for the coroner to get here,” Deputy Leon Radakowski stated as he, the other officers, and Butch steered themselves through the trees.
“Anybody touch her? Move her?” Butch asked.
“Nope. Scared the hitcher plumb to death, though!” Leon chuckled, desensitized to the thought and sight of a dead body. “He ran back up to I-45 and thumbed down a truck…almost got himself run over.”
Butch and Leon were first to breach the small clearing where the girl’s body lay in deep, thick grass. Butch stood directly over the head of the young girl, removed his sunglasses, and tipped his hat back a bit.
“Anybody been walkin’ ’round ’ere?” Butch called out as the other two deputies emerged from the thicket.
“Nah,” Leon answered. “This is the only path we walked on. So as far as we can tell…we think we still got a clean scene. We think.”
As he listened to the deputy, Butch closely examined the deceased youth. She was lying face up with open and lifeless eyes staring out into space. She once stood near five-foot-three and had dark, curly hair with eyes of brownish green. He estimated her to be twenty-two to twenty-four years of age. Her skin was tanned and she had beautiful, broad, full lips that barely covered her straight and snow-white teeth. Her hands and wrists bore no evidence of a struggle and there was no bruising about the neck or throat. None of her fingernails were broken and all of her jewelry was intact. She was completely clothed, her shoelaces were tied, and there appeared to be no visible signs of rape or molestation. The only telltale sign of her actually being dead and not asleep, other than her eyes being open, was the single, clean gunshot wound to the left side of her chest.
“This guy’s pretty good, ain’t he?” Leon commented with a smirk as Butch continued his preliminary investigation, circling the body.
Butch squatted down and asked, “Why do you say that, Deputy?”
“Well…” Leon began with a quick glance to his cohorts for support, “…he really didn’t leave us any evidence.”
“Good!” Butch patronized as he wrote in his notebook. “But what makes you think it’s a he that did this? Why are there no signs of any environmental disturbance, Deputy Radakowski? Or better yet, answer me this: why is there no supporting evidence of the homicide taking place here? How do you know this was even a homicide? Could have been a double suicide attempt and the second party didn’t go through with it.”
Radakowski stumbled as he tried to support his comment “He, uh…well most of those who, uh, commit homicides are, um…male…and, uh…more than likely…uh—”
“Because this is not the true crime scene, Deputy Radakowski,” Butch interrupted bluntly. “This is merely the dump site…the geographical location chosen specifically for the disposal of evidence and for marking the end of a single, intentional transaction—a very well-thought-out transaction at that, if I may add.
“Yes, he is good,” Butch agreed as he scrutinized the leaves on the trees and kicked through the deep grass. “Statistically speaking, Mr. Radakowski, the perpetrators of homicides are predominantly single, white, males between the ages of twenty-three and thirty-seven. They have a history of having suffered through and endured a variety of substance, sexual, psychological, and physical abuses or combinations thereof. So, in turn, they commit their crimes of passion to show off their skills, their supposed intellectual superiority, power, authority and control…they use all of these as a cover for what really comes down to as an extreme act of rebellion, regret, or vengeance!”
Radakowski and his fellow deputies remained silent during the lecture.
“Know why I think we’re gonna have our work cut out for us on this one?” Butch motioned for the deputy to bend down with him beside the body. The others leaned in close to listen and broaden their horizons. Butch reached over the girl’s chest, grabbed her shoulder, and rolled her onto her side, revealing the exit wound and slightly pressed, clean green grass. He whispered, “Where’s her blood?”
1993
It was a dry and windless July day. The blazing sun bore down hard as Butch and the Henderson County sheriff, B. W. Saggaser, trudged through the rows of freshly turned topsoil at Norwin Kirby’s peanut and watermelon farm. Norwin’s farm was southeast of Athens off Highway 175 and just a few miles west of Lake Athens.
“I found her when I was about to start on the northeast corner,” Norwin explained as they walked. “I don’t usually get out and look around while I’m drivin’, but I thought I saw a large animal or something near the well head. When I came up close enough, that’s when I realized this ain’t no animal!”
Sure enough, just as Norwin described, there lay the body of a girl in her mid-twenties, face up and dead in the dry red dirt. She had long brown hair that was slightly curly on the ends, was wearing jean cut-off shorts and a Hondo’s restaurant T-shirt with one single gunshot wound to the left side of her chest. Her skin was clean with no visible bruising, nor were there any open wounds about the face, neck, throat, or abdomen. There were no foreign materials such as skin tissue, fabrics, or hair fragments under her fingernails or blood spatters on her or the ground around her; she was also completely drained of her blood.
Minus the fresh shoeprints of Butch, Norwin, and B. W., there were no other tracks about the girl. Butch had seen this before.
1999
Luther Carmichael and his son Brett woke up early and drove southwest of Emory to the Sabine River for a long day
of fishing. The humidity was high, and although there was a steady breeze blowing, they enjoyed little to no cloud cover. While walking through some high weeds and grasses, Luther spied the body of a young girl lying in the shallows on the other side of the river, barely visible through some low-hanging branches of a willow. He held his arm out to the side and stopped his son, saying, “Stay here! Do not move!”
Brett took his father’s tackle and watched him slowly ramble across the river.
Luther waded to the opposite shore and cautiously approached the corpse, bending slightly to investigate.
“What’s wrong?” Brett yelled anxiously from the riverbank.
Luther turned to respond, but all of a sudden, a possum quickly darted from the dark and wet recesses of the willow. Startled, he let loose with a high-pitched squeal and slipped on the rocks in his rubber waders, falling backwards on his rear into the river. “Call 911!” he yelled as he tried to regain his footing.
“What?” Brett hollered back. The wind, water, and distance distorted his father’s voice, proving it difficult to understand what he was saying.
“Call the police!” Luther again shouted.
Brett dropped the poles and tackle to find his cell phone. He finally located it in his vest pocket and raised it triumphantly to his father.
Luther stared at the girl’s feet, hesitating to approach again, as he was unsure about the condition of the torso or if another animal was lurking ready to pounce. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brett rustling about on the shore. Brett held up the phone and shrugged his shoulders. “Keep trying!” Luther urged.
“Nine-one-one” a voice finally answered.
“I got ’em! I got ’em!” Brett shouted jubilantly.
“What’s your emer… Hello? Is there…?”
The line was full of static, making it almost impossible for Brett to hear the operator, then he lost the signal and the line went dead. Frustrated, he waved for his father to come help. Luther crossed the river, took the phone with him up the hill, and tried calling again, this time getting a stronger reception. His call was quickly answered and redirected immediately to Butch’s office, who had been with the Texas Rangers for five years. Butch answered the phone and, like a dam bursting, Luther hurriedly unleashed an incoherent torrent of information as he explained what had happened.
After giving Butch the directions to where he could find the girl’s body, he tried his best to describe her condition, though he saw very little.
“Well, thanks for calling, Mr. Carmichael,” Butch replied. “We’ll have somebody there shortly.”
“No problem. I just wanted to make sure someone knew about her before the pigs and coyotes got a hold of her,” Luther offered.
“Right,” Butch agreed. “Say, are you near the body right now?”
“Uh, yeah. Well, not too close, but I’d say I’m about twenty, thirty yards away.”
“I wondered if you could do me a small favor and tell me if you see anything particular?”
“Uh, anything like what?”
After a pause, Butch replied, “A gunshot wound to the left side of the chest.”
JUST ONE OF MANY
As of the summer of 2005, Danny was still living in the tiny, one-bedroom garage apartment, even though Mrs. Magness had passed away in December of 1988. Mrs. Magness’s only daughter, Charlotte, inherited the house and tried to sell it after she and her husband Gary cleaned it up a bit. But after having it listed for just over a year, the house hadn’t sold. So Charlotte took it off the market and Danny agreed to pay half his normal rental rate in exchange for monitoring and taking care of the house in his off hours and weekends.
As he was walking to work early one Saturday morning, he passed by the church playground and observed Pastor Pate sitting at a small picnic table, drinking his coffee and reading the Dallas morning paper.
Upon hearing his footsteps, Pastor Pate raised his head to greet Danny as he passed. “Looks like it’s gonna be another beautiful day, eh, Danny?” But as usual, like he’d done for years, Danny simply ignored the sincere solicitation and kept his pace, acting as if he hadn’t heard. Not to be deterred, Pastor Pate leaned over slightly and raised his voice as Danny turned the corner. “Have a great day!”
Just after lunch, a new black Acura MDX pulled up to the gas pumps at Charlie Doyle’s garage. Danny casually sauntered out of the office and greeted the driver as he exited the vehicle. “Fill it up for ya?”
“Sure! Please!” the man replied.
Danny looked him over as he began fueling his car, spying a splinter of white light above the man’s right shoulder. The driver, in his mid-fifties, walked around the shiny SUV, gloating as he admired his new purchase.
“Where ya headed to?” Danny asked as the man stretched his legs, raising them higher and higher with each step.
“Phoenix!” he proudly replied. “Gonna’ go meet the missus. She flew out two weeks ago to get the new place settled while I’ve been tying up the loose ends here.”
“Mmm, Phoenix!” Danny said. “Heard it’s nice. Pretty hot, though, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, but it’s a dry heat,” the man commented as Danny tightened the gas cap and replaced the nozzle. “Just heat. Very little or no humidity, or at least not like home.”
Danny walked behind the man to his right and waved his left hand through the white light. His mind was immediately, but briefly, consumed by a scene of beauty and tragedy. He envisioned a man standing on the green of a beautiful golf course, preparing to take a swing, then suddenly falling over, dead. “Forty-two fifty please,” he said softly as they walked to the office. Standing at the register behind the counter, he asked, “Where’s home?”
“Leesville!” the man declared while handing Danny three twenties. “Just outta Fort Polk. Sold our old house on the Whisky River.”
“Wow! That’s gonna to be quite an adjustment.” He handed back the change and closed the drawer, then asked, “Ya think yer up to it?”
“Sure! Heck, I’m only fifty-three!” the man replied with a smile and a pat of his belly.
“Well, thanks for stopping by and, uh, good luck to ya’ll in Phoenix,” Danny said as he and the man exited the office.
The driver turned around and proclaimed, “Thanks. Looking forward to nothing but sun ’n golf!”
Danny darted back into the office and reappeared at the door holding a Polaroid instant camera. “Hey!” he hollered to the driver as he neared the end of the car. “Smile!” Without really stopping to think about it, the man struck an impromptu pose by raising his foot and resting it on the back bumper. He flashed an insincere smile and leaned over with his elbow on his knee. The synthetic smile quickly disappeared once Danny took the picture. The man then squatted down to look at where he had just placed his foot. He licked his finger and wiped off the slight smear of dirt, smiling arrogantly to himself.
Danny pulled the film out of the Polaroid, flapping it in the air as he approached the man and explained, “I take pictures of all our new customers. You know, vacationers, visitors. Not that many people moving into town.”
“Right…” the man affirmed unsteadily. He climbed into his car, started it up, and tore his way out of the shaded carport and onto the highway.
Danny looked at the slowly developing picture, waving it every few seconds. He went back to the office, walked around the counter, and picked up the handset on an old, black rotary style phone. He dialed the number “0” and spoke with an operator. “Phoenix, Arizona. The Phoenix Sun? Thanks. Subscriptions please.” While waiting to be connected, he pulled out a large spiral notebook and began entering numbers and dates onto a clean page. He then stapled the picture of the man to the paper and noted the time when the picture was taken. “Yeah, I need to order a paper please. Thanks, but, no, not a whole subscription. Just one or two days. Yes, please.” Danny read over the new entries in his journal as he answered the telemarketer’s questions. “Um, let’s see, Monday, August twenty-th
ird through Wednesday, August twenty-fifth.” He paused momentarily, then asked, “Say, instead of getting the whole paper and all, is there any possible way ya’ll can just send me the obituaries for those days?”
THE CATALYST
Later that same afternoon, Danny closed the garage and walked two blocks past the Snazzy Pig restaurant to Jigger’s, the local liquor store. Beth, who usually worked the late shift and weekends, looked through the wrought-iron bars covering the window and saw Danny approaching. She immediately reached for her canister of pepper spray under the register and stepped back as far away from the counter as she could.
Danny entered the liquor store and walked directly to the bourbon aisle for a bottle of Wild Turkey 101. Beth remained leaning against the shelf behind the register when Danny, still dirty from his day at work, slammed the bottle on the counter, startling her.
Danny didn’t try to hide his cruel chuckle as he rifled through the pockets of his cut-off camouflage pants.
“Thirty-two twenty-five,” she bluntly stated.
He pulled out a wad of crumpled and filthy one-dollar bills and change, a few nuts and bolts, and a lighter. He counted the money into three stacks of one-dollar bills, plus two singles and a quarter. “Hey, you have a great night, Beth!” he said as he picked up his bottle and opened the door.
The bells on the door handle jingled with a bright but false ring of merriment as Beth stood her ground, waiting for Danny to disappear from sight. It wasn’t until he was clear across the street that she finally relaxed and collected the money from the counter.
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