In Case of Carnage

by Gerry Griffiths

  “Nice one of Bella, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Hank, you’re such a romantic.”

  “I’m glad you think so. So, am I forgiven?”

  “I suppose. I guess it’s true what they say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Good things do come in small packages.”

  Or not, Hank thought to himself, unable to get those poor souls dead in the warehouse out of his mind.

  3

  CASE NUMBER: 18-02-238

  Hank spotted a woman in a parka and jeans walking backwards on the opposite side of the road with her thumb out. “What is she thinking, hitchhiking way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  Bill slowed their unmarked sedan. He swung the car around onto the opposite lane to a complete stop on the shoulder.

  Hank lowered his window. “Evening. You shouldn’t be out here.”

  The woman froze, swinging the daypack off her shoulder. Mud caked her boots. She looked ready to bolt into the woods.

  “It’s okay. We’re police.” Hank showed her his badge. “Get in. We’ll give you a ride.”

  The woman didn’t move.

  Bill leaned over the steering wheel. “Come on, lady. We have to go. We’re answering a call.”

  The woman hesitated. She opened the rear door and climbed in behind Hank. She slowly edged the door closed.

  Bill spun the car around and gunned the beefy engine down the rural road.

  * * *

  Two hours earlier . . .

  “I used to love this drive this time of year.” Fay slumped against the armrest. She wore her customary black slacks with the navy pea coat.

  “It’s still pretty.” Will gazed out the windshield at the vibrant woodland kaleidoscope shades of yellows, oranges, and browns bordering the two-lane country road, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Will wished he’d brought along the camera.

  They traveled the sixty miles religiously, every Sunday, without exception. For Fay, admitting her mother to the convalescent home had been like opening the door for the Grim Reaper.

  “How did she seem to you?” Fay asked.

  It was the same question she asked during every weekly return trip from visiting her ailing mother. They could hardly be called “visits,” as the woman seldom spoke or acknowledged their presence.

  “She remembered my name.” Watching Fay suffer as her poor mother sank deeper into dementia broke Will’s heart even more than losing his mother-in-law, whom he loved as dearly as her daughter.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “She certainly did.”

  “She called you Billy. That’s my uncle. You’ve always been William.”

  “So, she forgot.” Will cringed, regretting his choice of words. He glanced at Fay, hoping he hadn’t upset his wife.

  She stared down at her hands, which were clasped on her lap, her thoughts elsewhere. “She’s getting worse.”

  Of course she is, Fay, Will thought. Since when do Alzheimer’s patients get better?

  “I’m sure the doctors are doing all they can,” Will said. He knew the prognosis was grim. His mother-in-law would have been better off having cancer. At least then there might have been hope of it going into remission, perhaps even granting her the honorary status of a survivor. Not so with Alzheimer’s. It was as good as a death sentence.

  “They damn well better, for two thousand dollars a month,” Fay snapped. She turned to glare out the window. Normally, she’d vent her frustration, blaming God for his unfairness, the doctors who were powerless to cure her mother, the inept orderlies, the emotionally draining weekly pilgrimages, the disease setting up roadblocks in her mother’s confused brain, detouring her from Memory Lane. Instead she remained quiet.

  Many times Will wished his mother-in-law would just die and save them from this purgatory.

  Will noticed a car parked on the right shoulder of the road.

  The front doors were open. He didn’t see anyone sitting inside or standing outside the vehicle.

  Seemed strange someone would leave their car unattended on the side of the road for anyone to steal.

  Will eased his foot off the accelerator. “Wonder where the owner is,” he said, coming to a stop alongside the abandoned car.

  “What are you doing?”

  “They might be in trouble.”

  “This doesn’t feel right.”

  “What if they need our help?”

  “They probably got out to take a pee. Can we just go?”

  “We should go see.”

  “No. Please, let’s go.”

  “Fay, every Sunday it’s the same damn thing. We’re like prisoners in that godforsaken room. We’re useless. There’s not a thing we can do for her.” Will motioned to the car. “There might be someone out there who desperately needs our help!”

  Fay teared up. “Okay. But I’m staying in the truck.”

  Will turned off the engine. “I won’t be long.”

  “Be careful.”

  Will brushed Fay’s wet cheek. “Lock up after me.”

  He climbed out of the truck and closed the door.

  Fay reached across to slap down the lock.

  Will grabbed the tire iron from behind the cab.

  He’d heard numerous stories about how criminals lured unsuspecting motorists.

  One such tactic came to mind.

  A motorist would spot a baby in a car seat on the shoulder of the road. The driver would pull over to investigate, only to discover it wasn’t a real baby but a lifelike doll. Before the driver could trek back to their vehicle, a sinister figure would charge out of the bushes and assault them.

  Will stepped around the tailgate, keeping one eye on the bushes at the edge of the woods. He cautiously approached the front of the car.

  The late model Toyota Camry boasted a bug-splattered license plate.

  Will placed his palm on the hood. The metal was still warm.

  He stooped to glance inside the vehicle. His heart thumped in his chest.

  A toddler’s car seat perched in the back.

  The sun had dropped behind the treetops, casting dark shadows across the road to where Will stood. He tapped the tire iron against the side of his leg.

  He leaned in through the driver side, resting his elbow on the steering wheel. He saw a dark shape on the floor mat on the passenger side.

  A rucksack.

  He gazed down. A billfold had been left on the driver’s seat.

  Will reached for the wallet.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder.

  Will spun around so fast, he smashed his head on the doorframe. “Shit!”

  “Honey? Are you okay?”

  “Damn it, Fay. I thought you were in the truck.” He massaged his head.

  “I’m sorry. Did you find anything?”

  “Yeah, someone left their wallet.” He opened the flap. “There’s over two hundred bucks here.”

  “We have to call 9-1-1.”

  “Is the cell phone in your purse?”

  “No. I thought you brought it.”

  “What’s the point of even having the damn thing if neither one of us ever remembers to bring it?”

  “We can have someone call when we reach the next gas station.” Fay tugged on Will’s arm. “What if there is some deranged killer out there watching us right now?”

  “Then they’ll get a piece of this.” Will wielded the tire iron to show Fay he meant business.

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll protect you.”

  “I want to go back to the truck.”

  “And wait by yourself?”

  “Damn it, Will.”

  “At least let me give them their wallet. I can’t just leave it in the car. Five minutes. If we don’t find anyone, screw it. We’ll leave.”

  “You promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay, but only for five minutes. Not a second longer.”

  Will stuffe
d the wallet in his coat pocket. They walked around the front of the car. He spotted an opening in the scrub brush. A worn trail led into the woods. He grabbed Fay by the hand and started down the path.

  They hiked along the carpet of dead leaves, then stopped at the crest of a gulch. The embankment dropped off sharply into a gloomy hollow surrounded by dense briars.

  The incline was a loose composite of sodden leaves, soft loam, and slick mud. Hiking down would be difficult. Will hated to think what it would be like trying to climb back out.

  “Hello! Anybody there?” he hollered down.

  “Here!” a man yelled. “I’m down here! Please help me!”

  “See? I was right.” Will started to step down.

  Fay clung to his arm. “Wait! It could be a trap!”

  “I don’t think so. You heard him. The guy’s scared out of his mind.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Fay—”

  Will’s right foot slipped out from under him.

  He dropped the tire iron, boot heels skidding down the slick mud. His fingers latched onto a tree root.

  Fay was still clinging to his arm. She stumbled over Will, tumbling down into the shadowy hollow.

  Will slid after her. Once he reached the bottom, he frantically looked around for Fay. It was almost nightfall. “Fay! Where are you?”

  “Over here!”

  Will turned to her voice. He could see her silhouette. She was kneeling on the ground, holding her left arm. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  A sinister figure suddenly loomed over Fay. The man hoisted a large rock over his head with both hands.

  “Fay! Behind you!”

  The rock came down like a sledgehammer, cracking Fay’s skull open like a coconut. Her head lolled onto her shoulder. Blood trickled down her face like red paint dripping down the side of a can.

  Fay teetered and fell onto the mulchy earth.

  “No!” Will screamed. He charged, tackling the man. Will heard the air whoosh out of the man’s lungs the moment he slammed him onto the ground.

  Will straddled the gasping man, sinking his weight into his chest so the man couldn’t catch his breath.

  The man wheezed.

  Will drove his fist into his face.

  The man tried fending off another punch.

  Will knocked his arm away, slugging him again. He kept beating him. His knuckles grazed the man’s teeth. He struck him above the right eye. He heard bone crunch. He kept pummeling the man until his knuckles bled raw and his arms felt like lead weights.

  The man’s eyelids flittered.

  Will’s rage spurred him to curl his fingers around the man’s throat. He pressed both thumbs on his Adam’s apple.

  His wife’s killer drummed his heels into the ground.

  Will throttled the life out of him.

  Exhausted, he fell off the body.

  Will crawled over to Fay.

  He grasped her hand. Cold.

  Her glazed eyes stared up at him.

  Will broke down sobbing.

  Something moved in the brush, startling Will.

  “Who’s there?”

  A woman wearing a dark parka and jeans stepped out from behind the bushes. She stood silent, gazing down at the man with the bashed face. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes. He killed my wife.” His tone was unapologetic.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “What about my wife? I can’t just leave her.”

  “You won’t be able to carry her out. Not up that hill. Someone will come back for her.”

  They clawed their way up the steep slope. It was pitch dark by the time they came out of the woods.

  Will looked at the woman. “You can follow me in your car.”

  “I don’t think I’m in any shape to drive,” she said.

  “Fine. Ride with me.” Will headed to the driver side of his truck. He unlocked the door with his key. The dome light came on the instant he opened the door. Will got behind the wheel and reached over to unlock the other door.

  The passenger door swung open, and the woman scooted onto the bench seat.

  “I believe I have something of yours.” Will reached into his pocket. He passed the wallet to the woman.

  She opened the billfold and smiled when she saw the money.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you,” Will said, inserting the key into the ignition. He couldn’t shake the image of Fay’s body lying back in the woods. She had died because of this woman’s poor judgment. “That was pretty stupid, stopping for a hitchhiker,” Will said, his face flushed. He closed the driver door.

  The interior light remained on.

  Will glanced over. The passenger door was still open. He spotted something on the floor by her feet.

  The rucksack.

  He looked at the woman, suddenly realizing she had been the passenger, not the driver. She was the hitchhiker!

  The woman gave him a sinister grin. “It’s kind of ironic, him mistaking your wife for me.” She aimed a small handgun at Will’s face and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  When the detectives arrived, they found two police cruisers parked on the opposite side of the road with their lights flashing. In front of the cruisers was the crime scene: a Toyota Camry with the front doors open and a pickup truck.

  Bill pulled over to the shoulder and shut off the engine. He glanced over at the woman in the back seat. “Stay put. We’ll get you a ride once we’re done here.”

  The detectives exited the car. They strode across the road, switching on their flashlights.

  “So, what do you have?” Hank flashed the officer his gold shield.

  “Unconscious victim in the truck with a GSW to the head. It’s amazing he’s still alive.”

  Another officer came out of the woods, carrying a spotlight, his shoes and pants caked with mud. “There’s a man and a woman down in a ravine, both bludgeoned to death.”

  Bill walked over to the car. He shined his flashlight inside. The light went out. He slapped the casing. Nothing. He turned to Hank. “We have any spare batteries?”

  “Try the glovebox.”

  Bill marched across the road. He opened the driver door of the squad car and slid onto the front seat.

  Hank shined his light inside the Toyota Camry. He swept the beam over the child’s car seat, panning over the clean upholstery and the spotless floor mats up front and back.

  He turned to the truck and peered through the open passenger side to check on the wounded man who was slumped back on the bench seat, head resting against the rear window of the cab. To staunch the bleeding until the paramedic arrived, an officer had wrapped the man’s head with a temporary dressing.

  Hank kept the light out of the man’s face.

  The man’s trousers and boots were covered with mud, along with the passenger floor mat.

  “Ah, shit!” He raced to the front of the truck, looked across the road.

  The light was on inside the Crown Victoria. Bill was stretched across the seat, looking inside the glovebox, unaware that the woman in the backseat was pointing a gun at the back of his head.

  There was no time to warn him. Hank drew his service revolver, lined up the forty-foot long shot with a two-handed grip, and fired a single round.

  The bullet shattered the rear side window. The woman jerked and fell back onto the seat.

  Bill hopped out of the squad car. “Hank! What the hell?” He marched back across the road.

  “Sorry. I didn’t have time to warn you. I believe this is her handiwork. There was mud on her boots, same as on the passenger side of the truck.”

  “Good detective work, Columbo.”

  “Wish it had turned out better.”

  “Hey, look on the bright side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Still have a partner.”

  “Do me a favor. Next time we teach a safety awareness class, remind me to mention it’s never a good idea to pick up hitchhikers.�
��

  4

  CASE NUMBER: 18-02-239

  “This has been one helluva night.” Bill kept fumbling with the knobs on the dashboard.

  “Keep your eyes on the road. I’ll do that.” Hank fiddled with the temperature control. Warm air blasted from the vents.

  “Nice of the sheriff to lend us a car, though I do miss the Crown Vic.”

  “Me too. Sure hated giving up my thirty-eight.”

  “All part of the investigation.”

  Hank gazed out the windshield. Driving through the woods at night was like passing through a poorly lit tunnel. “Can you put on the brights?”

  “Tried. Doesn’t work.”

  “Do you even know where we are?”

  Bill slowed when they came to a fork in the road. “I’m a little turned around.”

  “Go left.”

  “You sure?”

  “No.”

  Bill veered to the left. They traveled a couple more miles. The paved stretch turned to gravel. Further along, it became a dirt road.

  “We should probably go back, find another way,” Hank said.

  “Yeah, I think you’re—” Bill hit the brakes.

  A white minibus loomed off the road a few yards ahead, its front end smashed into a large tree trunk.

  The detectives exited the car. They spied patches of night through the treetops. They switched on their flashlights and shined them into the pitch-black woods, then on the distressed vehicle. The light refracted off the tinted windows. Each window was barred to prevent escape. No logos or lettering advertised a business or charter service anywhere on the vehicle.

  Hank panned the light onto the open folding side door.

  A dark, viscous liquid dripped from the bottom step onto the ground.

  He crept down the shifting carpet of dead pine needles. He lost his footing and skidded down. He caught himself before slamming into the minibus.

  “Careful there, Slick.” Bill laughed.

  Hank grasped the edge of the open bus door. He peered inside.

  The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. The man’s head looked like the inside of a watermelon after someone had punched through the rind.

  Hank didn’t see any damage to the dashboard. A single crack marred the windshield.