With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  “Let’s do something different today, shall we?” she inquired. “I want this half of the room to be the Sheriff’s Office.” She waved her hand indicating the right half of the room. “And you,” waving her hand to the remainder of the group to the left, “will be the predator or stalker as you like.” The students taunted and jeered at each other across the classroom. “Okay now, settle down a bit, I’m going to give you a few questions to consider. Work together as a unit and come up with some concrete answers.”

  “Sheriff’s, okay this morning you’ve had your third B&E within three weeks with an increasing propensity towards violence. The populous is scared, housewives are buying handguns, you have little if no clues, what do you do?” Ella asked.

  “Serial predators, you have successfully claimed three victims in three weeks and your confidence is soaring. What do you do now? What’s your agenda? Why are you doing what you’re doing? Who are you?” she asked the other half of the class.

  She gave the group about ten minutes to discuss the questions among themselves and asked them to assign a spokesperson for their side. Seymour was chosen to represent his side of the discussion, the Sheriff’s Office, and a heavy set black girl, named Tequina, was chosen as the representative for the degenerates.

  “Okay Seymour, let’s start with you. First let’s see what you’ve got to say, then we’ll have the predators ask any questions they may have, then we’ll switch. Sound good?” Pink directed and the students listened.

  A nervous Seymour walked to the front of the class, a pad of paper held with their ideas in hand. “A couple of us went to the press conference the Sheriff’s Office did this morning and they still claim they have very few clues. We think they are just telling the public enough to keep them happy but they are not releasing everything they know. Mrs. Wild, I think you would consider that SOP, right, Standard Operating Procedure?”

  “I’d say you are right on there. There will be things they’ve discovered that they will hold back to strengthen their case once they bust somebody and have to prosecute,” she agreed.

  “With three crime scenes behind them, we were in agreement that they would be looking for similarities between those three, and trying to connect them to any known criminal behavior or patterns. Forensics would be scouring these places for clues and trying to confirm that the same person is responsible for each. Sheriff Lupo is not denying that at this point, and he’s given up the theory that it’s a prankster or one of us.” His fellow students laughed.

  “Good, but what would you be doing now, this afternoon after the press conference, what do you think the officers were assigned to do?” Pink pushed him.

  “I’m sure they were back in all three neighborhoods going door to door interviewing people, trying to draw information out of neighbors that think they don’t know anything. Somewhere out there someone has seen this guy or his car or noticed something out of the ordinary and it’s the officer’s job to drag it out of them. We didn’t think he was selecting his victims at random, however, we think there is some sort of a pattern to his work. We also think he’s a local boy, knows the area and knows his way around. Bottom line, he likes what he is doing and is learning to love it.”

  “I’d tend to agree, good work. Okay predators, any questions for Deputy Seymour and company?”

  A few questions were offered and discussed but nothing Seymour couldn’t handle. The floor was then given to Tequina and she did the same for the other side of the room. They offered some good suggestions but Ella wanted them to see inside the guy's head. “What is his motivation? Why is he doing this?” she asked.

  “We talked about that but couldn’t reach a consensus. Some of us thought he was doing it as some kind of a sexual release but he hasn’t accosted any of the victims, at least not yet. The others think it’s a material thing, like most B&E, just looking for items he can steal,” the female student offered.

  Pink paced the floor and instructed the young woman to take a seat. “All good ideas and insights, but to be successful at this game you have got to learn to think like a predator. I know it’s kind of creepy, but you have to learn to get inside their head, walk around in their skin and see what makes them tick. You can’t beat a serial predator or killer if you can’t put yourself in his situation. Good work today, I’ve had some fun with this and I hope you have. See you Friday. If you think of anything in regards to this case write it down and we’ll talk about it then.”

  * * *

  Blanche thought for sure she would hear from Beverly Davis sometime throughout the day. By the time she got to work at noon she had still not heard anything and was hoping that perhaps she had found some housing options. That did not seem to be the case, so at lunch she phoned Bev’s cell, but was directed to her voice mail where she left a message. It was unlike her not to return calls, the librarian had been impressed with how quickly she’d helped her in the past and it was a bit troubling for Blanche. She tried to put a positive spin on it, thinking that she must just be busy with other things, closing a deal, but a feeling kept tugging at her that something was not quite right.

  It was nothing more than a typical day at work, steady flow of people in and out of the library. The students that normally helped out had the day off. School would be starting soon and they needed the time to shop and register for classes. Although the library seemed quiet, Blanche found herself more on edge than usual. Each patron that walked through the door she sized up as a threat or not. The news from the morning, she suspected, had everyone paying more attention to his or her surroundings. Probably would not have been as big a deal if she had not looked through the material the other night in an effort to help Seymour.

  “He must be reveling in this stuff,” she thought, and then realized he would be in to work shortly and her sympathetic nervous system responded. She suddenly felt anxious to see him, her palms were instantly moist, her face felt warm and she detected the slightest increase in her breathing and pulse rate. “What’s the deal?” she thought. “I’m not a school girl any more, for heaven’s sake, get a grip Blanche.”

  The rest of the afternoon passed much slower than she would have liked. She looked at her watch often, counting the hours, then minutes, until 6:00 p.m., however, the distraction and her excitement over the arrival of Seymour had eased her tension over the predator, until at half past five, a gentleman walked into the library that gave Blanche pause.

  He walked through the entry, waited for the door to close behind him, then just stood and surveyed the library from that vantage point. A straw trilby hat sat atop his head with a red checked band running around the circumference. He was unkempt, dressed in a flowered shirt from the 60’s and a pair of grubby jeans that had not seen the inside of a washing machine for far too long, but it was more than his appearance, something just didn’t feel right to the librarian. As he took in the main floor, eyes moving over every shelf, patron, and finally the main desk, his eyes locked on Blanche and he grinned, noting that the shapely librarian seemed to be staring at him.

  “That face, I’ve seen that somewhere before, I know I have.” Her mind went into overdrive, sorting through memory banks in an effort to remember how she knew him. If he’d just take off the darkly tinted glasses she’d have a better idea if she knew him, and there was something odd about his hair, just couldn’t quite put her finger on it but it was somehow unusual. “Or maybe he just has one of those familiar faces,” she ultimately reasoned.

  When he finally moved away from the entry and appeared to be browsing, like most people do when they get their bearings, she breathed a sigh of relief. A few minutes later she saw him again, this time ignoring her. His brown shaggy hair was hanging over his ears, as he moved in and out between the shelving units, but not really looking at the titles. She looked at her watch again, quarter till, she’d be glad when Seymour got there. This guy was making her very nervous. He passed by the desk, nodded his head as if to say hello but did not open his mouth, rather moved up the ele
gant staircase to the second floor. She stared after him wondering what his game was.

  At exactly six Seymour burst through the main doors as he always did after a spirited run from the bus stop. Blanche was so relieved to see his smiling face, more than she dared to admit. He acknowledged her from the doorway with a wave and quickly moved to the desk. The anxious librarian scooted from behind the large desk to meet Seymour in the empty space at the bottom of the stairs. She grasped his arm, pulling him close to her, cradling his arm between her breasts as she pulled his ear low enough for her to whisper into.

  “I am so glad to see you today,” she quietly spoke, her breath raising the hair on the back of his neck.

  He turned his face to look into her eyes, she was beautiful, and having her so close made him feel warm all over. “And I you, is there something wrong?” He could see the worry in her face.

  “I don’t know, I’m just a little freaked out by the stuff that is going on, you know The Stalker and all,” she said, not letting go of his arm, her lips moving dangerously close to his. “A guy with a straw hat came in about a half hour ago, kind of gave me the creeps and he’s upstairs doing something, I don’t dare go up and see.”

  “Would you like me to take a look?” Seymour offered, wanting to shorten the distance even further and pull her into his arms.

  “Could you? It would make me feel so much better if you would just see what he’s up to.”

  He loved coming to her rescue, made him feel like her knight in shining armor, but he was sure he’d find the guy just reading a magazine or surfing the net on one of the many computers on the second floor. “Sure, your wish is my command,” he said, bowing before her as if she were a queen.

  “Okay, knock it off and get your butt upstairs,” she said, with a girlish grin.

  Seymour bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and was gone from Blanche’s view. She returned to the desk and the work she had been putting off all day. A few minutes passed, then a few more, Blanche anxiously looked up the stairs but could see no one. Fifteen minutes later she felt she could wait no longer. “What is taking him so long, it’s not that much space. Must have found him and is having a heart to heart, or - or else...” Her mind ran wild with possibilities. “I’ve got to know,” she thought, anxious and trembling as she started up the stairs.

  Half way up, she saw Seymour coming down. He lifted both hands, signifying empty, and met her in the middle of the staircase. “There’s nobody up there, I looked everywhere and then some. You sure he went up there?”

  “I definitely saw him go up and it was about 30 minutes ago, I’m sure of it. I guess it’s possible that he came down and left the library when I was distracted, but I really haven’t left the desk.” She thought for a moment, running the past half hour through her mind. “That’s really the only logical explanation, I did step to the back for just a quick minute to get a box of tissues, he must have come down the stairs then and I didn’t notice.” Relieved she again took his arm and led him down the stairs to the desk. “I do appreciate you doing that for me, I’ve been a nervous wreck this afternoon. I feel so much better now that you’re here, thanks.”

  “Glad I could help. Can I tell you something, and I hope it doesn’t sound corny to you.” He mustered up the courage to speak from his heart.

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a little awkward around girls, I mean women.”

  Blanche interrupted him with a little white lie, “No, no, I don’t think you are.”

  “Well I am, anyway, I just wanted to tell you that when I’m with you I don’t feel that way. I feel like I can just be myself and you’ll still like me,” he managed to say, moving his eyes from his feet to her eyes as he expressed himself.

  She wanted to pull the young man to her and hug him. She could tell this was difficult for him and she wanted to let him know that she felt the same way, but the words of his mother kept ringing in her ears, “Don’t hurt my son.”

  “What I’m trying to say, I guess, is I really like you more than I think you know and I was wondering, and I know we work together and everything, but I was wondering if you would have dinner with me tomorrow night so we could be together someplace other than here,” he said, looking around the library.

  Blanche’s heart skipped a beat and she wanted to enthusiastically say yes, but she hesitated for numerous reasons and moved her eyes away from his, as she dipped her chin to her chest. Seymour read the gesture as a no, and was almost sick, until she raised her head with a twinkle in her eyes and a beautiful smile across her lips.

  “There is nothing I would like more than to spend an evening with you Seymour, when will you pick me up?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  (Eight Years Earlier)

  Jeremy Marshall sat in the office down the hall from his congressional boss, head in his hands, trying to weep but could not. The phone call had come out of the blue; his father was in the Emory University Hospital in Atlanta after suffering a massive heart attack in Valdosta. Emergency units there had responded, delivering him to the local hospital after stabilizing his vitals. The Valdosta doctors had concluded, under advisement from a local cardiologist, that his father’s condition warranted a transfer to a better-equipped cardiac unit in Atlanta.

  The younger Marshall man had just celebrated his 28th birthday, but with the day’s events was feeling much older. Premature thick, grey hair, cut short at the sides and swept back, with no bangs, accentuated his thin face and slightly furrowed forehead. Green eyes, set back with narrow fissures, and long lashes almost made Jeremy look sinister, but a cosmetically altered row of teeth and a picture perfect smile, soon overcame most people’s first impressions. His nose, he’d inherited from his mother, was slightly angled to the left with an odd, little cleft right in the middle at the end. It drove him crazy but added character to his aging face. At almost 30, Jeremy’s lifestyle was already taking its toll. Too many meals at the mall and no exercise were wearing him down physically, but his brain was ever active, never a moment without something winding its way through the vast networks of his mind. Nights were often spent on the computer or reading material to keep his boss informed, but he could quite easily get by on four hours sleep without looking any worse for wear. Women found Jeremy Marshall attractive but he could not be bothered, the young clerks, interns and the occasional hooker were enough to satisfy his sexual urges, but a marriage relationship was nowhere on his radar, at least not yet.

  The father and son had not spoken for months. The older Marshall’s wedding to a realtor, two years previous, had driven a wedge between them that seemed immovable. The woman, Beverly Davis, was a feisty piece of work, aggressive, motivated, and certainly not without merit, but Jeremy, from the beginning, believed the relationship was more about money than love. The weeks leading up to the marriage had put an unbearable strain on the father-son relationship; Jeremy had pushed for a pre-nup, which his father refused to consider. Blinded by love and lust, a man in the middle of his life would do all sorts of stupid things; at least Jeremy saw it that way.

  His father had significant real estate holdings throughout the South, enough to make Beverly a very rich woman should he have an early demise, however, word of his heart attack had been a total surprise to the estranged son, and he suspected his stepmother had nothing to do with it. His interactions with Ms. Davis had been quite formal, with very little opportunity to get to know each other on a personal level, both lead very busy professional lives. She was likable and seemed to make his father happy, but two years for half his father’s estate was more than he could bear.

  Jeremy was a top aide to a longstanding republican congressman who had a prominent position on the House Armed Services Committee. Most of his time was spent in Washington D.C. but he kept a home in Charleston, South Carolina, the place of his birth. It had been Beverly that had convinced his father to pull up roots and move his operation and home to Valdosta. The mov
e had been more than troubling for Jeremy, what little control or influence he had with his father was gone, and he knew it. It was not that his father did not love him, he knew better, but the two men, both very independent, did not see eye to eye, and that was it.

  The news of his father’s condition sent Jeremy’s mind into full, self-preservation mode. He wondered how much information, in regards to his father’s vast holdings, had been released to his new wife. Prior to the wedding he had warned his dad not to make his business affairs an open book to the realtor, but rather give it some time, see how the marriage went before disclosing everything. He hoped, as he sat in the office, that his father had taken that advice to heart. Jeremy had not been privy to the will since his father’s wedding, but suspected that it had been re-drafted over the past two years to include Beverly as a 50% claimant.

  He picked up the phone, but only after practicing speaking in a distraught, emotional tone, “Hello Bev, this is Jeremy, how’s my dad?” He needed some firsthand information before he’d be able to make any concrete business arrangements, didn’t want to appear too greedy, too quickly.

  “Jeremy, you poor thing, all the way up there in DC by yourself,” she spoke in a sickening sweet Southern accent that he saw through in an instant. “How you holding up?”

  Like she really cared. He again kept his voice quivering and full of concerned emotion, “I’m trying to keep it together but it’s hard, not being there and not knowing what to expect.” He played this game of chess better than most; his political career had taught him well.

  “I’ve just spoken to the cardio specialist here at the hospital and he’s optimistic. They’ve got his vital signs stable for now, but he’s weak, very weak,” she repeated. “Are you going to catch a flight?”