* * * *
Did he feel what she did, or was it one-sided? She remembered the night she saw him wrapped in a towel, the muscles rippling down his back and arms. With his hair back from his face, he was absolutely god-like. His eyes sparkled with a blue-green fire, and he didn’t shuffle, but moved around sure of himself. She knew he had to be hiding something, and she was determined to find out what.
Chapter 7
An old wino lay sleeping just inside the doorway of an old abandoned building when a cold rain began pelting down on his face. Slowly the soft drizzle became heavy, and big drops splattered his face. His fluttering lids slowly opened to a dingy gray sky that rumbled with thunder and soaked the streets until they were shiny.
This rundown part of town was known as the Darktown District. The streets were empty, and the buildings were half destroyed and rundown. It had been given its name by the homeless blacks who gathered here. Over the years, the close-knit group had given several of the wrecked buildings names of rich hotels such as the Fountainbleu, Waldorf-Astoria, Statler-Hilton, and so forth.
Now, as the old man looked around the crumbling Waldorf, he frowned, wiped down his face with wet hands, and then pulled himself up and crawled deeper into the building. His growling stomach was empty, and his head felt as if it were stuffed with sawdust. He reached for what he thought was his salvation, but the bottle was empty. Turning it over, he watched one single drop as it slowly made its way down through the bottleneck, stuck his tongue out, and waited until the slow-rolling liquid dropped into his foul-smelling mouth. Scratching his stomach, he sat up and looked around. He grabbed at one bottle then another, looking for a taste of the grape that might have been left over from previous drunks.
When he didn’t find one, he plunged his fists down into the tattered pockets of his trousers, but came up with nothing but the lining. This meant he’d have to do a little wheedling to get himself the price of another cheap bottle of wine. Looking down at the bottle, he picked it up again, turned it upside down, and looked in as if he thought he’d missed some precious drop that got away from him.
Finally, being convinced that the bottle was dry, he muttered a curse or two, and then threw it backwards, but didn’t hear it hit the floor. Turning to see where it landed, the old drunk’s eyes widened when he barely saw the dim outline of a body lying on an old, ragged couch.
He jumped up yelling, “Get out of here, you sneaky coward, this is my place. Go find your own pile of boards, you can’t have mine!”
No answer came, and no movement, not even a twitch. So on hands and knees, he crept closer, squinting through the dusty shafts of dim light with bloodshot eyes. As he drew nearer, and the dim outline began to sharpen, the man gasped. It couldn’t be, not in his hotel. He lifted an old wrinkled hand and wiped furiously at his eyes, believing he must be seeing things after a long night of drinking. But when he looked again, she was still there, the body still just as dead. Finally, he had to face the truth. He was looking at a naked woman with her throat gaping open. Blood was everywhere, and her heavily made up eyes were staring into space.
“Oh, my good Lord!” he cried out, raking his gaze down the black woman’s naked body. He quickly jerked his head around and looked into the menacing shadows as if he thought the killer might still be there. A horrible fear swirled through him when he thought he might be the next victim, so without a backward glance, he hoisted himself up and ran out of the building, falling, getting up, and falling again. The rain beat down on him as he ran to the end of the block and turned onto a street that led to the main part of town.
When he arrived at the police station, his ragged clothes were sticking to his skin, and his hair was soaked. He ran up the steps of the station two at a time. When he finally made it in, the station was busy as usual. He looked around, wondering whom to tell. Finally, he ran up to the long desk breathing hard. Stumbling over his words, he tried to tell them what he saw.
“A woman…she’s…I saw…she’s dead!”
His eyes were wide with fear, glancing from one to the other before he realized no one was listening. He moved a little further down the desk, trying to get someone’s attention.
“She’s been killed! Dead…zip…gone…throat cut…” he yelled, indicating to his neck. “Blood everywhere.”
An officer walked up to him. “Are you drunk again, Jake?”
Jake whirled around at the sound of the voice. “No!” he yelled as he tugged frantically at the sleeve of the blue-shirted policeman.
The officer pulled away. “Hey, you’re getting me all wet!” While gingerly picking at the wet material, he looked impatiently at the old bum. “All right, what are you trying to say? And go slow.”
“A woman is dead, dammit!”
The officer’s eyes widened, and he looked at Jake suspiciously. “You killed someone?”
“No! I found her!”
“You found a dead woman? Where?”
“She’s down in Darktown…throat slit…blood—”
“Where did you find her?”
“The Waldorf.”
“Yeah? What were you doin’ in the Waldorf?”
“It’s my hotel! I came in late last night, went to sleep, and this morning when I woke up, there she was, not feelin’ too damn good!”
By this time, a crowd of blue uniforms had gathered around the two men, listening closely, wondering what the old tramp was up to this time. He seemed over-excited, frightened about something.
Looking at Jake thoughtfully, the officer said, “I don’t know, Jake, last week you had us runnin’ all over the city on a wild goose chase in hopes of beating the police department out of a little money to finance your next drunk.”
“No,” Jake said, his eyes wide and fearful. “Not this time, I swear.”
“Okay, we can forget about last week. I mean, it was no big deal. But, Jake, murder is serious business. If I find out you been pullin’ my chain again, it could go rough on you.”
“I know,” Jake said, his words rushed and excited, “but I swear. If I ain’t tellin’ the truth, may I never touch another drop.”
The officer looked at him thoughtfully, then made a split-second decision. “Samuels,” he called out, “you and Wilson get down there. Jake, you ride along with them.” Just as they were leaving, he grabbed Jake’s arm. “I warn you now, you pathetic old bastard, you’d better not be pullin’ a fast one like you did the other time.”
“If I can produce a body this time, do I get a reward?”
“Get the hell out of here, you old drunk.” He abruptly released his arm. “I’m not givin’ you money to buy wine with. When you’re ready for a meal, we’ll take a walk down to the diner. Now get going.”
“All right,” Jake said excitedly as he scooted toward the door, “but for this, I’m gonna order steak!”
A few minutes later, the patrol car came to a screeching halt in the drive of the Waldorf, its siren blaring. The shabby courtyard was scattered with cracked asphalt, rocks, debris, jagged pieces of board, and puddles of mud riddled with raindrops. The two officers, and Jake, quickly spilled out of the car and ran toward the open door. As Jake led them in, the officers began their battle with low-hanging cobwebs and broken furniture that they kicked out of their path. They slowly made their way toward the back, squinting to see through the shadows. Gradually, a faint buzzing sound began, and they stopped, looking around.
“What the hell is that?” Wilson cast a puzzled look toward his partner. “Do you hear it?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure, but I think it’s coming from back there.” He pointed toward a corner.
They began walking again while batting at a collection of dust motes exposed in the leaning shafts of cloudy light. In spite of the cold rain, the day had turned warm and sultry. The dirty air in the old hotel was humid and close, perfect conditions for a horde of flies to feast on a dead woman’s bloody flesh. When they realized what they were looking at, their stomach’s lurched, and they quickl
y turned away.
“Oh, my God!” Samuels whispered, his head lowered. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do this.” By this time, a wet, ragged crowd had gathered, and after taking time to get his stomach settled, Samuels called out to them with a wavering, weak voice. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is police business, and unless you can tell us something that will help, please go back to your homes.” Realizing the mistake he’d made to a homeless group, he lowered his head, cursing himself. After taking a minute, he looked up, and continued, “You’re all considered suspects until we question you, and I’m warning you now. If after we cordon this area off, anyone disturbs this crime scene, it’ll be grounds for incarceration. Is that clear?”
“This was done by somebody from the outside, not us!” one angry voice cried out from the crowd. “He invaded our turf! It’s jus’ like some creep comin’ into our house without permission. We deserve protection jus’ like anyone else, so what the hell you gonna do about it?” The crowd murmured while looking around at each other and shaking their heads in agreement.
“I agree. The Darktown District is your home, and you have a right to protection. Asking questions is only a formality that helps us to help you. We also need you to watch the area, report anything suspicious, and keep everyone away from the crime scene until we can examine it for clues. Can you do that for me?”
“Whatta ya say? We gonna do that?” the man yelled. The crowd surrounded the man and a few muttered sentences here and there filled the silence. All at once, the crowd separated and the man turned back and looked at the officer. “We’ll do our part. You jus’ be sure to do yours. Catch that damned bastard. None of us’ll feel safe ‘til you do.” He turned then, and the crowd that seemed to follow him shuffled along behind him.
Wilson looked at his sick partner, took the initiative, and pulled out a pad and pencil, writing down their time of arrival. He walked around, taking notes on the position of the body, description, and looked around for a weapon, or clues of any kind. Finally, he turned to Jake. “Jake, I want you to think. Last night, when you came in, are you sure there wasn’t anyone here?”
“Nobody that I saw, but it was real dark, and well,” he scratched his head, “I wasn’t in much of a shape to entertain visitors.”
The second officer looked up at his green-faced partner, and trying to help, he made a suggestion. “Samuels, why don’t you go out and get on the phone, and I’ll take care of things here.”
By noon, the crumbling old building was bustling with people. A homicide detective was surveying the area, a photographer was clicking away at every angle, and a medical examiner looked the body over, determining the time of death.
“Do you know who she is?” the chief asked Samuels.
“Well, she’s a hooker, that’s all we know. She probably has a record, so I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting her name. The ME says there was intercourse—”
“She was raped.”
“Huh?” The officer looked at the chief.
“I said she was raped.”
“But, Chief, she’s a hooker.”
“Correction. She was a hooker. How about a weapon?”
“No weapon found.”
Samuels looked curiously at the chief as they walked around looking for clues. “Chief, how can a hooker be raped? I mean, the man that did this was obviously a trick, and she must have come out here willingly.”
“Her hands and feet are bound, and that indicates force. Whether it was just part of the so-called fun, we don’t know, but since she was killed, we can only assume it wasn’t and determine it a rape.”
Looking at the carnage laying before him, the officer’s stomach lurched again, but he managed to ask, “God, what reason would a man have to do something like this?”
“Only one that I know of. This bastard, whoever he is, can’t have normal sex with a woman. He has to kill her before he can get it up.”
As the chief looked down at the body, he recognized several aspects of the murder to be similar to the one in L.A. So far everything pointed to it, and if it was the same killer, their job just got a whole lot easier.
* * * *
That night, Blaze was bustling around in her little kitchenette when she heard a newsflash come on TV. She dropped everything and walked into the living room, giving a concerned look at the stiff anchorwoman.
“We’ve just received news that early this morning a woman was found murdered in an old abandoned building over on the south side of town. Our Field Reporter, Arch Danton has more. Arch, what can you tell us?”
A picture flashed on the screen, and a reporter was holding a microphone up to his mouth while standing in front of the camera. The area behind him was a skyline of ruined, crumbling old buildings, broken asphalt, and narrow streets that wound around through a neighborhood of ragged characters that resembled the cast of Night of the Living Dead.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the area that I’m standing in is what’s known as Savannah’s Darktown District. Early this morning a woman was found dead inside one of the old abandoned buildings with her throat cut. Jake Hibberman, a man that for years has made his home in this area, has suddenly found himself the center of this mystery.” He turned to Jake who stepped forward into the camera shot. “Mr. Hibberman, since you were the one who found the body, could you tell us what you know?”
“Yes sir,” Jake replied, taking care to be respectful to the man who had called him mister. “Nothin’ much to tell, though. When I found her, she was tied up, layin’ on an old broken down couch in this buildin’ here.” Jake turned and pointed toward the pile of rubble that served as the Waldorf, and then turned back to the reporter.
“What did you do then?”
Jake chuckled while scratching his head. “Well, it nearly scared me to death. You know, I thought maybe the killer was still around, so I got outta there as quick as I could and hightailed it down to the police station.”
“So, as far as you know, no one else was around when you found her.”
“I didn’t see no one, but I wasn’t waitin’ to find out. I mean, she was a mess. Somebody had stuck a knife in her throat and raped her, I guess. At least that’s what the police are sayin’.”
“Are you saying that you disagree with the police?”
Jake looked up at the reporter and shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know exactly. It’s jus’ that she was fixed up like one of them hooker-type females. You know, lots of makeup, glittery stuff and all. There was a pile of clothes, and some boots layin’ beside the couch. Didn’t look like nobody had ripped ‘em off or anything. She musta took ‘em off herself, ready to, well, you know.”
After the interview, the chief came on and told the audience there was an ongoing investigation, and assured them that they’d been given a good lead on who the killer was.
Not being able to take anymore, Blaze clicked the TV off. The murder had happened the same night that Barry phoned her, the night she had called him out. This murder was his retaliation against her, a message. In her mind’s eye, she could see the woman lying in a bloody pool, but instead of the hooker’s face, it was hers.
Suddenly, the phone rang, and she jumped.
She looked at it for a moment, thinking she wouldn’t answer it.
No, she thought. I can’t let him dictate my behavior. I’ve got a life to live, and I want to live it as long as I can.
Finally, her trembling hand shot out, and she grabbed it, but brought it up slowly. She placed it warily against her ear, but said nothing.
“How does it feel to have a murder on your conscience, you slut?” he growled into her ear. “The night I was outside your apartment, I saw you on display. You was dancin’ around with nothin’ on, them tits and ass bouncin’ to beat sixty.”
His breath became labored when he thought about that night. “It was all for me, wasn’t it, bitch? Why didn’t you just raise your shade and let me get a good look at what you won’t let me have?”
Te
rror gripped her and tears crept down her cheeks. She held her hand over her mouth, determined not to let him hear her sobs.
“Say something, bitch!” he bellowed. Talk to me the way you do to those bozos on the radio. Tell me how much you want to feel me inside you, because I warn you, one day, you will. Ever been fucked with a ten-inch blade?” A growling chuckle rasped into the phone. “I don’t know what it’ll do for you, bitch, but for me, it’ll be like the Fourth of July, a hundred times over!”
Blaze slammed the phone down, and collapsed in sobs. She’d tried to remain strong, but found herself burying her face in her hands while drowning in tears. Barry had become so insane that he actually believed she had been performing just for him. He thought she’d been teasing him, egging him on.
The murder had been her fault.
She’d thought calling him out was the right thing to do, but she didn’t know he was right outside her window. She never thought that exposing him would have him charging through the city like a madman, looking for someone to kill. Now, because of her, that psychopath was on the loose, and this was only the beginning. Because of what she’d done, more women will be found with their throats cut.
And just think, someday it’ll be her turn.
* * * *
The next night, Chief Randy Parnell was in his office buried under a mountain of paperwork when he received a call regarding the results of Barry’s semen test. After he received the news, he banged the phone down, yelling, “Hot damn! We’ve got him!” He jumped up from his chair and yelled out to the dispatcher. “Chico, radio Samuels and Wilson and tell them to pick up Barry Schorr on the double. We’ve got all the proof we need!”
The chief grabbed up the phone to call the L.A. police, but thought about Scott Sanders, and the help he had been in the case, and punched in his number instead.
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