Devil's Nightmare (Devil's Nightmare, Book 1)

by Pruneda, Robert

  “What’s that pig doing here?” Jackson asked his mother, jerking his thumb toward me. “You didn’t say nuthin’ about cops.”

  “Just sit down and answer their questions, Jackson.” His mother led him to a recliner diagonally opposite from the couch. “They won’t be long.”

  Austin returned with a couple of bowls in his hand.

  “Austin, go to your room,” his mother instructed.

  “But, I thought we’re gonna watch a movie!”

  “We’ll watch it after these gentlemen leave.”

  Austin pouted, then dropped the bowls on the coffee table. He mumbled something about Jackson and marched down the hallway. A door slammed. Mrs. Smith closed her eyes and took a deep breath before sitting down in another recliner across from Jackson.

  I grabbed the antique book from Detective Riley’s lap and handed it to Jackson. “Recognize this?”

  “No. Should I?” Jackson flipped through a few pages. “Isn’t even in English.”

  “It’s Latin,” Riley stated.

  “Latin?” Jackson laughed. “I barely understand my Spanish book.”

  “So, it doesn’t belong to you?” I asked, not hiding my skepticism.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Jackson said. He handed the book back to me. “Why would I need an old beat up Latinese book, anyway?”

  My phone vibrated once, notifying me that I had received a message. Before returning to my seat, I set the book down and checked the message.

  Prints confirmed on Ouija planchette: Jackson Smith, Jason Dexter, Cullen Chandler.

  “Interesting,” I said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. I’d expected to see Cody Sumner listed. I showed the message to Riley and then slipped the phone back into my pocket.

  “What? What’s interesting?” Jackson asked.

  Detective Riley pulled out his own phone and began tapping a message into it.

  “Have you ever played with a Ouija board?” I asked. I had my legs crossed and one arm stretched out over the top of the couch.

  “A Ouija board?”

  “Yeah, you know that board game with a bunch of letters and numbers on it. People play with it to talk to ghosts. You and some friends touch a little planchette and ask the ghost questions. It’s supposed to move all by itself. But you already know that, don’t you? Personally, I think it’s just a mind trick.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jackson said, not making eye contact.

  “So, you and your friends have never played with a Ouija board?” I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward. “You sure about that?”

  “So what if I did or didn’t? Who cares?”

  “Answer him, Jackson,” his mother ordered, while eyeing me.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve never played with a Ouija board.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really? You sure you want to stick with that answer?”

  “Yeah,” he responded, his glare stern and absolute. “Positive.”

  I leaned towards Riley. “What did that message from the lab say?”

  “It says he’s lying.”

  “Allow me to explain, Jackson,” I got up and stepped towards him. With one hand on the arm of the recliner, I said, “We have evidence that you, Jason Dexter, and Cullen Chandler did in fact play with a Ouija board. I found the homemade planchette you used in Cody Sumner’s house… with your prints on it.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “Jackson!” Mrs. Smith reprimanded.

  “Then how do you explain your prints getting on there?”

  “So what if I played with a Ouija board? That’s not a crime.”

  “You’re right, it’s not,” I stood up straight with crossed arms. “But trespassing onto a property marked as a crime scene is.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That…” I pointed to the old tattered book on the couch, “I found it in Cody’s bedroom, locked up in a chest. And wouldn’t you know, I found the key inside a rotting pig’s mouth in the barbecue pit. Fitting message for a cop, right?”

  “What are you implying, Detective?” Mrs. Smith spoke up.

  “Want to answer that for her?” I said, raising my eyebrows at Jackson.

  “I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  I heard the front door open and turned to see Robert Smith with a brown paper bag in his arms.

  “What are they doing here?” he asked his wife.

  “Sir, I have reason to believe that Jackson trespassed on Cody Sumner’s property recently,” I said.

  “Like you trespassed on mine?” Mr. Smith answered.

  “He may have been involved in something a bit more serious, so I—”

  “You listen to me, Detective,” Mr. Smith said as he set the paper bag on the floor. “I already have every reason to report you for harassing my family, and now you’re here to make more unfounded accusations? Get the hell out of my house.”

  “There’s something you need to see.” I opened up the photo application on my phone and showed Mr. Smith an image of the pentagram and message written in pig blood. I also showed him photos of the pig carcass in the barbecue pit. “Someone did this at the Sumner home within the last twenty-four hours.”

  “And you think Jackson did that?”

  Jackson watched us with a nervous tick in his eyes.

  His father grabbed the phone from my hand to get a closer look. He then glanced at Jackson and then back at me. “What makes you think he did this? Looks like someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

  Jackson pursed his lips and shifted his eyes away.

  I explained how I’d found the key in the pig’s mouth, how Jackson had kept calling me a pig, and how I’d discovered the old book and planchette in Cody’s chest. “Jackson’s fingerprints are on the Ouija board planchette. And Cody claims the book belongs to Jackson.”

  Jackson knelt over with his head drooped and his hands clasped.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mr. Smith laughed. “Anybody could have gone in that house and placed those things there. And just because some sicko used a pig to get your attention, that doesn’t mean Jackson did it. And what about the other kids that played with the Ouija board? Maybe one of them did it.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Riley said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because they’re dead,” I answered.

  That shut him up for a minute. He glanced at his wife and handed the phone back to me. “Are you talking about Jason and Cullen?”

  I slipped the phone back in my pocket and confirmed, “Yes, the other sets of prints belong to Jason Dexter and Cullen Chandler.” I retrieved the book from the couch and handed it to Mr. Smith. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  He glanced at Jackson and then examined the book, thumbing through several pages. He held it for several seconds before handing the book back to me. “I… I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Pardon me for saying,” I said, revealing a questionable glare, “but you don’t sound entirely convincing.”

  “I’ve never seen the book before, Detective,” Mr. Smith acknowledged again. “So, what is it? The writing in it is Latin.”

  I wrinkled my forehead and tilted my head sideways. “You recognized that just by thumbing through the pages?”

  “I’ve been a practicing Catholic all my life, so yeah, I recognize Latin when I see it.”

  “Really?” I asked with interest. “Then you would be able to translate the text.”

  He gave me a distrusting gaze, and said, “I’m sure you have someone on payroll that could help you with that.” He reached down and grabbed the paper bag from the floor. I could see several ears of corn inside. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, unless you have a warrant, I’ve got some shucking to do.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, as he walked past me, “I do have a warrant.” I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out a search warrant. “I wa
s hoping for a little more cooperation, but since none of you seems to want to provide that, we’re going to have to search your home. Unless, of course, Jackson wants to start talking.”

  Mr. Smith dropped the bag of corn on the floor and snatched the warrant out of my hand. “You cannot be serious!” He reviewed the document. “What could you possibly think you’ll find? You’ve already had an army of police here.”

  “Playing with a Ouija board in and of itself isn’t a big deal, but the fact is, your son’s prints are on a planchette found in a crime scene where two people were killed.”

  “That—”

  “And the fact that Jackson’s prints are on that planchette along with the prints of the two dead boys makes me a little suspicious. When the dirt on the Ouija planchette is analyzed and confirmed that it came from Memorial Heights Cemetery, then—”

  “You can’t possibly think Jackson had anything to do with that.” Mr. Smith slapped the warrant across my chest. “He’s fourteen years old, for crying out loud. I’ve read the articles. Those kids and both of Cody’s parents were brutalized. Torn apart.” He pointed at Jackson. “There is no way he could have had anything to do with that.”

  “Then why does evidence keep pointing to him? At the very least, I believe he’s withholding information. I think he was at the cemetery when those kids died.” I handed the warrant back to Mr. Smith and noticed Jackson’s body trembling. “And I have a strong suspicion that he was at Cody’s house recently. I think he wanted me to find that key and that book.”

  “You’re so full of shit,” Mr. Smith said.

  “Am I?” I said, my attention focused on Jackson. I returned my gaze to his father. “Now, do you want me to execute this warrant or do you want to help me help Jackson?”

  He dropped the warrant on the floor.

  “Honey, you’ve got to tell them,” his wife said. She got up and moved to his side.

  “Dana, you need to—”

  “Tell us what?” I pressed while picking the warrant up. I handed it to Riley.

  Mr. Smith frowned and glared at his wife. He placed his arms on his hips, lowered his head, and breathed heavily. “Shit! I don’t know how many times I’ve told you to keep your damn mouth shut.”

  “I think you’d better listen to her, Mr. Smith,” I said.

  “Mom? What’s happening?” Jackson’s little brother said from the hallway.

  “Go back to your room, son,” his father ordered.

  “Tell them, Bob!” Mrs. Smith demanded. She walked past us and ushered Austin back down the hallway.

  I nodded to the couch. “Mr. Smith, would you please have a seat?”

  “What exactly do you expect to find? Severed heads? A bloody machete? What?”

  I let out a disappointed breath, holding my attention on Jackson. “Call them in, Riley.”

  “Call who in?” Jackson asked.

  Riley pulled out his phone.

  “Wait, don’t!” Jackson said. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything!”

  “Jackson, no!” his father demanded. “You don’t have to tell them anything. You did nothing wrong.”

  “I did it.” Jackson’s face turned red as he shed tears. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault!”

  “Son of a bitch,” Mr. Smith cursed. “What the hell, Jackson? You didn’t—”

  “No, Dad!” Jackson cried. “I have to tell them the truth. I just wanted to scare them.”

  “Scare who?” I pressed.

  Mr. Smith sat down on an arm chair. His wife returned from Austin’s room and stood behind her husband. She had tears in her eyes.

  “Who did you want to scare, Jackson?” I asked again.

  Jackson hesitated, and then, through choked words, he said, “Cullen and Jason.” He pointed at the book. “I found that book.”

  “So, it is yours,” I said, glancing towards Riley. “What’s the book about? Is it some kind of bible or something?” Jackson didn’t say anything.

  “It’s a book on witchcraft,” his father answered. He rubbed the back of his neck. “At least that’s what I gather from it. My Latin is very limited.”

  “So, you can read it?”

  “Some of it. Just a bunch of weird spells of protection, love, good fortune. Nonsense like that.”

  “Jackson,” I said, leaning forward, “were you with them when—?”

  “It was supposed to be a joke!” Jackson cried out. “I just wanted to scare them. You have to believe me!”

  “We believe you, Jackson.” Riley offered. “Why did you want to scare them?”

  He looked at his father and then at Riley. He wiped a few tears away and said, “I don’t know. It was stupid.”

  “What did you do to scare them?” Riley continued.

  Jackson pressed his lips and closed his eyes. He cried and whimpered, “There was so much blood.” He fell to his knees and sobbed, “I wish it was me.”

  His mother rushed over to him and placed an arm around his shoulders. “No, no, honey. Don’t say that.” She rubbed his arm. “We love you, Jackson. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes it was!” He pulled away from his mother. “I killed them!”

  My breathing stopped for a brief moment after hearing those words. Riley and I locked eyes. I could tell he had the same internal reaction.

  “That was not a confession!” Jackson’s father said. He told his son, “You didn’t kill anyone, Jackson. We’ve already been over this. You didn’t have anything to do with—”

  “Yes, I did,” Jackson said through sobs, his face red and wet with tears. “I killed them.” He continued to whimper, burying his face in his arms almost in an upright fetal position. “I killed them,” he repeated, his voice more like a choked whisper.

  I reached behind my back, retrieved a pair of handcuffs, and apologized to his parents for what I needed to do next.

  “What?” Mrs. Smith cried, seeing the steel cuffs dangling from my hand. “No! No, please. You can’t!” She grabbed my arm and pleaded, “Please, don’t take my son. I’m begging you. He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Mr. Smith said, rising from the chair. “It’s impossible! He couldn’t have done those things. He didn’t kill anybody.”

  I nodded at Riley and then noticed Austin in the shadows of the hallway. I shook my head in sorrow. Riley gently grabbed Jackson underneath his arm pits and lifted him. He didn’t resist, but his mother continued to plead for him, yelling that he was innocent. She sobbed uncontrollably and collapsed to the floor, as I pulled Jackson’s hands behind his back and secured them in handcuffs.

  “Jackson Smith, you’re under arrest in connection with the murders of Jason Dexter and Cullen Chandler. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” I led Jackson towards the front door. Detective Riley grabbed the old Latin book and tucked it under his arm. “You have the right to have an attorney present during any future questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one can be appointed at no expense to you.”

  Mr. Smith stood in front of the door.

  “Do you understand these rights, Jackson?”

  Jackson nodded and whimpered, “Yes.”

  His mother sobbed behind me. His father begged, “Please, he’s only a kid.”

  I took a deep breath, exhaled, and stared directly into Mr. Smith’s eyes. “So were Jason Dexter and Cullen Chandler. I’m sorry.”

  Detective Riley gently moved Mr. Smith aside and opened the front door, while I led Jackson outside.

  Just as he and I stepped on to the front lawn, Austin cried out for his brother. He ran and wrapped his arms around him. He begged me not to take his brother away. I glanced up at the heavens in a plea for relief. I didn’t want to deal with that kind of drama. Austin wept as he clung to Jackson. “Don’t take my brother away. Please!”

  “It’s okay, bro.” Jackson’s voice cracked. “I’ll be okay.”

  “No
!” Austin yelled while pounding on my hip. “You can’t take him! I hate you!”

  Mr. Smith pulled his son away as the boy continued yelling that he hated me. He then broke free from his father and ran inside, crying.

  As we approached my car, Robert Smith hugged his son. Then he placed his hand on the back of Jackson’s neck, pulling him close. Jackson whimpered, and his father promised, “Don’t worry, son. I’ll fix this. It’ll be over soon.”

  Mr. Smith grabbed my arm while I opened the rear door of the Charger. “I’ll do anything to keep you from taking him in. Believe me, Mr. Sanders. He didn’t do this. Please, anything!”

  “Watch your head,” I said to the teen. I held my hand on top of his head as he stepped inside the car and fell into the back seat. I then asked Riley to fasten Jackson’s seatbelt for him.

  “Please,” Mr. Smith continued to beg. “Anything. Just name it.”

  I turned to face him and warned, “Mr. Smith, for your own good and for your family’s own good, you need to stop talking.” I handed him a business card.

  A light breeze swept through the front lawn as lightning illuminated the clouds north of the Smith’s property. Horses neighed in the field nearby as the wind gusted. The temperature began dropping immediately.

  As much as I would have loved to have seen Jackson represented by a court appointed attorney, I advised Mr. Smith to spend his money on a private defense attorney. He read the business card. It was for a defense attorney that had a reputation for plea bargains. The victims’ families received justice when his clients accepted reduced prison sentences in exchange for mandated long-term psychological treatment.

  I pointed to the card and suggested, “You should call him as soon as possible. Don’t take my advice lightly.”

  Thunder rumbled as I stepped inside the car and started the engine. I pulled the door shut and lowered the window. When he stepped up to the car, I motioned for him to lean closer. Riley crouched over, and I spoke low enough to where only he could hear me. “I want you to call in the team and execute the search warrant.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I put the car in gear and said, “Something doesn’t feel right.”