Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist

by Duncan Whitehead

  * * * * *

  “Make sure the device is delivered to me personally. Do not leave it with the receptionist, however well you think it is packaged. Find me and hand it to me, not my driver, but to me. You know where I am staying, and my driver is parked outside. Take the plane and return to DC once I have the bomb. Tell them it will all be over by lunchtime. I will do the rest.” Peter Ferguson hated speaking on mobile phones, even if they were secure and like his, designed to be immune to bugging and hackers. After he had hung up, he kicked off his shoes and lay back on his bed. What an absolutely lovely room he thought, before closing his eyes to enjoy a well-deserved catnap before dinner.

  * * * * *

  After spending forty minutes flipping through television channels, browsing through pamphlets and brochures advertising local attractions, but before perusing the pizza delivery menus spread on the desk in his room, Dermot Lynch headed to his car parked outside his room in the motel’s lot. He removed his overnight bag from the vehicle, containing a change of clothes and some toiletries. The bag that was next to the high-powered sniper rifle, as well as the case containing the telescopic sights and the rifle’s noise muffler.

  * * * * *

  Anthony Sands was in a good mood as he headed to his car. Excited, he was anticipating a good meal and a few drinks before an early night. He needed to rise at six the next morning to find a good vantage point to watch the procession of marching bands and Irish-themed floats. His immediate thoughts, though, were of fried chicken. He heard nothing. He saw no one. It was over in a split second and in the blink of an eye it was done, quick, professional and efficient. The blade entering the back of his neck, severing a vital artery, resulting in Anthony’s instant death the moment he unlocked his car door.

  * * * * *

  Doug Partridge moved swiftly, confident that no one had witnessed the murder of Anthony Sands. He pushed the body into the driver’s seat of the car before forcing it over into the passenger side seat. Quickly, he removed the key from the driver’s door lock and sat in the driver’s seat, turning on the ignition of the car. He pulled out of the Motel Six parking lot and then preceded to the highway.

  * * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, after driving along several minor roads and heading deep into the countryside that surrounded Savannah, he parked the car in a lane that separated two densely and secluded wooded areas. Once he was sure he was alone, and not within sight of the road, and positive that the area was deserted, he dragged Anthony Sand’s body from the car, just as late afternoon daylight was replaced by early evening darkness.

  Meticulously, calmly and without emotion, Doug Partridge removed every tooth from the dead man’s mouth using a pair of pliers purchased, along with other items, during his brief stop in Vero Beach,. Then, using a hammer, purchased at the same time as the pliers, again without emotion, he began smashing the jaw and cheekbones of the still corpse. Once satisfied, Doug then took Sand’s right hand, and removed a ring from his finger, which he tossed into the darkness. Using a sharpened blade, he flayed the skin from the dead man’s fingers. Once all five digits were skinless he took Anthony’s left hand and did the same, removing any trace of fingerprints.

  Early the following morning, while Savannah still slept, Doug would douse the mutilated corpse in gasoline, but not yet. Before he placed Anthony Sands into the trunk of his car so that he could drive back to his own vehicle, Doug Partridge placed a menthol-flavored cigarette in his mouth. Before lighting it he admired and appreciated the stillness of the night. He inhaled the nicotine and then exhaled smoke into the night air.

  In the distance, he could hear the sound of an owl. This was the Savannah he remembered: beautiful, tranquil, and peaceful. There was a slight chill in the evening air, which Doug appreciated. It was so different from Rio, the stillness and the coolness, it was another world. He took one final draw of his cigarette and then threw the butt to the ground, before retrieving it and placing it back into its packet. He would not sleep that night, he never did; never after a kill, and certainly not before one.

  Chapter 25

  Present Day, March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day, Savannah, Georgia 0500 hrs.

  Just as he had been told, the door to the bank building was unlocked. Dermot Lynch glanced at his watch, everything was on schedule. He had been told that the crowds would gather early, so to avoid anyone seeing him, he would set up his weapon, make himself comfortable, and wait for the procession to come into view well before the streets below filled with people. He would have some fun though with his sights, and from his vantage point, he would take the opportunity to people watch.

  Dermot had been born and raised in Boston, and had served in the US Marine Corp for twelve years before his recruitment by the Organization a year ago. They had kept him waiting; for the first ten months of his tenure, he had simply collected the monthly checks and waited patiently for them to call. They had told him to relocate to Miami, where he would rent an apartment and keep a low profile. He was not to socialize. He was to keep to himself and under no circumstances was he to deviate from any instruction given him to him by the Organization – and he hadn’t.

  The long awaited call had eventually come, and in a few hours, he would carry out his first job for his employers. He wondered what he would spend his fee on; maybe a vacation. Maybe now they would allow him to move out of his tiny apartment and maybe they would let him, once he had proved his worth that morning, at least make some friends.

  * * * * *

  0700

  Doug Partridge parked his rental car in the parking lot Peter Ferguson had instructed him to, courtesy of his briefing notes. He had been quite specific. It was all part of Doug’s escape plan, and there could be no deviation from Ferguson’s plan. The lot was a makeshift car park, a strip of waste ground located where the I-16 merged into Savannah at the junction’s of Montgomery and West Harris Street. It had been adapted to cater for the thousands of visitors due to arrive, or who had already arrived into Savannah. Doug paid the attendant the $25 fee, which would guarantee his parking spot for the whole day, and then proceeded eastward towards Bay Street. It was a brisk five-minute walk to the Union Bank Building and Dermot Lynch.

  * * * * *

  From where Peter Ferguson’s car was parked, he had seen Doug’s every move. Partridge had arrived on time, parked the rental vehicle in the lot he had been instructed to, and had not looked out of place. Crowds now had begun to gather, and hotels were emptying of guests as they headed to their chosen viewing points to watch the parade. Ferguson instructed his driver to head into the parking lot across from the alley, where their car had been secluded from view thirty seconds before.

  The black Mercedes crawled into the makeshift parking lot. The attendant noted that it was an expensive car and had already decided he would charge the occupants double his advertised amount, especially as his lot was virtually full and he didn’t expect many more customers arriving this close to the parade start time.

  Ferguson’s driver lowered the driver’s window after the attendant had directed the Mercedes to a parking space, a space next to Doug Partridge’s vehicle. The attendant approached with a smile on his face. His work was done and he would now leave the lot unattended and watch the parade, secure in the knowledge that there would be no more customers that day.

  “Good morning,” said the attendant, “Seeing as though you got my last space that will be fif….” The bullet fired from Peter Ferguson’s silenced Glock 9mm automatic pistol, as he leaned over his driver, struck the attendant directly in the forehead. Quickly, and without anyone seeing, Ferguson’s driver exited the Mercedes, dragged the body of the unfortunate attendant towards the rear of the vehicle, and placed his body into the trunk of the car. Later on, he would dispose of the body on his drive back to Washington.As his driver was bundling the corpse into the trunk of the car, Peter Ferguson was placing the timed car bomb under Doug Partridges rental vehicle. Once satisfied that the device was secured on the c
hassis of the car, and the timer set correctly, Ferguson walked towards the sign that indicated that parking lot was open. He removed it, and placed his own sign over it which stated that the lot was now full and closed. Returning to the Mercedes, he and his driver slowly exited the parking lot and headed east towards Bay Street.

  Chapter 26

  Present Day, March 17th Saint Patrick’s Day, Savannah Georgia 0800 hrs.

  From his vantage point on the roof of the Union Bank Building, Dermot Lynch could see the parade turning onto Bay Street. The procession, led by four officers of the Savannah Police Department motorcycle division, who sped in front of the crawling parade, lights flashing and their sirens blaring, was the signal to the excited crowd that the parade was approaching. The long stream of floats, cars, marching bands and representatives of police, firefighting departments, military units, schools and colleges; many dressed in kilts of assorted tartans, led by bagpipers and drummers, was now only minutes away. He could sense the crowd’s anticipation and excitement, and he had never seen so much green in his entire life.

  He rubbed his right eye, adjusted his baseball cap, and tucked the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. Maybe he would grab a turkey leg before he left the city, they smelled delicious. Finding his target, Lynch took a deep breath before he gently pressed on the trigger… and fired.

  Chapter 27

  The bullet struck Dermot Lynch in the back off the head, killing him instantly. He hadn’t heard Doug Partridge enter the roof of the Union Bank Building. He hadn’t heard him approach, and he hadn’t even heard him breathe as he pressed the trigger. Dermot Lynch had been good, but Doug Partridge was better. Doug stared at the body that lay prone in front of him, blood oozing from the fatal head wound. He didn’t need to check for a pulse. Another paid assassin, thought Doug, probably just like him. Nothing personal, it was just business.

  Doug knew he didn’t have long. Dermot had managed to fire off one shot, a result of a nerve reflex after Doug had shot him, though Doug was certain that there was no way that Lynch could have hit his target. Still, he needed to check.

  Timing was essential and he knew that only had minutes-- minutes that were quickly turning into seconds. Partridge reached for the binoculars that lay beside Dermot Lynch’s body and raised them to his eyes. Scanning the crowd, he saw that the parade was still moving and that Elliott Miller was still alive and well. He threw the binoculars to the ground. That was the mission; kill the assassin and ensure that Miller lived. That was enough for Doug. Anything else was of no consequence to him, it was just collateral damage. Nothing more.

  Doug sprinted towards the door that led to the roof, the door he had just entered. As he ran he unscrewed the silencer from his weapon and tucked them both into the front of his jeans pulling the green t-sheet he wore over them; concealing his tools of death. Exiting onto the street he found himself immediately immersed into the mass crowds of revelers. He removed his gloves and discarded them onto the ground, where they would be trampled by a thousand pairs of feet, he bent over and picked up a green plastic bowler hat from the ground and placed it on his head. As he headed west, he retrieved a cigarette from the carton in his pocket and lit it as he continued towards the car park where he had parked fifteen minutes earlier. No one paid any attention to him, no one noticed him. He was just another person enjoying the parade, and like a ghost, Doug Partridge disappeared into the crowd.

  * * * * *

  Peter Ferguson had seen Doug exit the building and had kept his eyes trained on him. Following behind, and unseen by Doug, he called his driver to signal for him to pick him up. As he waited for his driver, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he had lost Doug only to see him rise up, wearing a tacky plastic bowler hat. He watched as Doug moved through the crowds, disappearing into the throng of green. He was good. Doug Partridge was good. He was invisible; he had simply vanished, but Peter Ferguson knew where he was heading. The black Mercedes pulled up to the curb and Peter Ferguson entered the back seat.

  “Did anyone try and move you on?” asked Ferguson.

  “Yes sir, a cop, but I just showed him my shield and credentials and he just nodded,” replied the driver.

  “Good, head back to the parking lot. I want to make sure that he gets into the car.”

  Chapter 28

  Elliott Miller turned his head to face his wife “Did you hear that?”

  Kelly was smiling and waving, and barely heard her husband speak, “Sorry what did you say darling? I can’t hear a thing. Isn’t this just fantastic? Look at them all. I have never seen so many happy smiling faces.”

  “I thought I heard something. Something whizzed past my ear, and it sounded like a bee. Did you hear it?” repeated Elliott.

  Kelly Miller laughed, “All I can hear is people cheering and shouting. All I can hear is people being happy, happy that they have the best mayor in the country,” she said turning to face her husband, “and they are right to be cheering. This is a wonderful day, and no dear, I didn’t hear a thing.”

  Elliott grinned at his wife and returned to waving and smiling to the crowds of onlookers as his and Kelly’s car crept slowly forward.

  * * * * *

  Jeff Morgan, like Elliott Miller just had, also thought that he had heard something, and for a minute, thought that maybe a fly had flown into his ear. Shrugging, he continued to wave at the crowd, though with far less enthusiasm than the mayor and his wife. This would soon be over he thought.

  * * * * *

  Sam Taylor stopped waving and smiling the second he had heard the bullet fired by Dermot Lynch pass his left ear. There was no mistaking that the whistling noise. It was the sound of a speeding bullet. But, he hadn’t heard a shot, maybe because of the noise of the crowd? No, even with the cheering, laughing, and shouts of delight, he would have heard a gunshot. Maybe it was nothing. He turned his head and looked behind him, as his driver remained oblivious to his passenger’s shift in position, and the car continued to creep forward following the parade. If it had been a bullet it would have had to end up somewhere, thought Taylor as he turned to face forwards. If a shot had been fired, it could have only come from in front of him and the only building directly ahead of him was the Union Bank Building. He stared at the tall structure, roughly one thousand yards ahead, and thought that he saw something glint in the sunshine; something reflecting from the roof. He turned to face behind him once again. In the distance, he could see what looked like some type of commotion in the crowd, roughly two hundred yards behind his car. It was at the spot where he, Morgan and the mayor’s car had only a few seconds ago passed. He could hear screams, even above the noise of the crowd he could make out the shrieks of terror coming from behind him. He turned to his front and tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Stop,” he demanded. “Stop the car.”

  * * * * *

  The bullet intended for Elliott Miller, travelling at approximately three thousand feet per second had missed the mayor by two inches. It had then sped past the left side of Jeff Morgan’s head and missed Sam Taylor by an inch. The bullet had then entered the head of a woman standing in the crowd, killing her instantly before it passed through her skull. Then it ricocheted off a street lamp before eventually becoming imbedded in another reveler’s stomach. Sam Taylor jumped from the now stationary car, and despite his age, sprinted towards a crowd that had formed a circle in the vicinity where the screams had come from. He pushed his way through the throng of shocked onlookers and immediately saw that the woman was dead, her head virtually exploded on the sidewalk. Those who had been unfortunate enough to be closest to the woman were covered in blood, brain particles or both. Many were in shock and most were screaming.

  As Sam Taylor stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of him, paramedics pushed past him. Even though it was obviously pointless, they tried to perform emergency aid on the fallen woman. Several uniformed police officers were now also on the scene as the screams and hysteria of the witnesses to the horrific scene seemed to s
pread amongst the crowd lining the south side of Bay Street. Sam Taylor composed himself and made his way towards a second crowd that had gathered twenty yards behind the first incident.

  * * * * *

  Doug Partridge had picked up the pace of his walk. He lengthened his stride as he headed to the parking lot, his car, and freedom.

  * * * * *

  Peter Ferguson and his driver, both seated in the black Mercedes were once again parked in the alley opposite the parking lot, waiting for the arrival of Doug Partridge.

  * * * * *

  By the time he had pushed himself to the front of the crowd that had gathered around the second victim, paramedics were already at the scene and were trying to revive the badly injured man. However, the dead eyes that stared back at Sam Taylor would not see again. People were now beginning to panic. There was shouting and screaming as friends and relatives tried to locate loved ones, hoping that they were not among the victims of whatever had just transpired.

  Sam Taylor stared around him, as the massive crowd that moments ago had been waving, smiling and whooping with delight now dispersed into buildings and side streets. Bay Street was now littered with discarded beads, hats and Irish flags. Panic was ensuing and the parade was now in total disarray.

  The retired police chief shifted his gaze from the pandemonium developing around him and back to the man lying dead on the sidewalk. Above the noise and commotion, he could hear sobbing and could only stare in disbelief as his neighbor, Robert Thompson, cradled the head of his lover Danny Blake in his arms. The grief-stricken man was suffering from shock and rocking back and forth as a paramedic tried to pry him away from his partner. Robert looked up, tears streaming down his face, his eyes pleading for someone to wake him from the nightmare that he found himself in. His sad eyes met Sam Taylor’s.