Body Count

by Lisa D Jones

  I dried off, slid on my robe, and headed for the kitchen then froze in my tracks.

  In the middle of my dining room table was a vase full of daisies…the dead variation. The water was muddy and the flowers were in complete disarray. It looked like they had been plucked from the ground and literally thrown into the clear, glass vase. And there was a note was attached.

  I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t there when I got home. At least, I don’t think it was.

  I had the horrifying thought that the “flower delivery person” could still be in my house. I reached for my gun and remembered that I was in my robe. My gun was lying on my bed, right next to my phone. Shit!!

  I stayed where I was long enough to look around the room the best that I could. I didn’t see anyone, but since the only light on was the faint light from my bedroom, I couldn’t be sure.

  I backed slowly into the kitchen until I bumped into the far counter. I spun around and grabbed the butcher knife from the block and carefully walked around the rest of the house looking for my unwelcome (and unwanted) house guest. There was no sign of anyone, so I made my way back to my room. I shut and locked the door, grabbed my gun and my phone then called Nate.

  “Savannah, stay inside and lock the doors and windows. Tucker and I will be there in a few to check around outside”, said Nate.

  I agreed, got dressed, turned on every light then locked every door and window. I held my gun in the ready position and waited impatiently for Nate and his deputy, Tucker Bradley, to arrive.

  I tend to do my best thinking with a gun in my hand. I guess it’s because in the heat of the moment, I want to think about anything and everything except my current situation.

  For some reason, I seem to attract psychos and jackasses. I could almost swear that my car is an idiot magnet as well. They are almost always in front of me, anywhere and everywhere I go. Dammit! Focus, Savannah. Focus.

  I don’t have any current cases that would warrant someone breaking into my home and leaving me a vase full of dead flowers. Such a gift just seems more like a spring time thing to me. If it’s a past case, I have no idea which one it was.

  I heard a car pull up outside. It was Tucker and Nate. They came to the door a few minutes later and gave me the “all clear”.

  “Mind if we come in?” asked Tucker. “I need to dust for prints.”

  I nodded and opened the door the rest of the way.

  Tucker had their “crime scene kit” in hand. It was really just an old bait and tackle box with a few evidence collection necessities inside: fingerprint kits, DNA swabs, evidence bags, etc. They both put on latex gloves and started processing the scene.

  I had forgotten about the note being on the flowers until Nate picked it up. “For Savannah” was written on the outside. His face seemed to drop slightly when he read it. He folded it back up and slid it into an evidence collection bag.

  “What did it say?” I asked.

  “Savannah-“

  “Say it, Nate. I need to know”.

  “It said, ‘I can’t wait to kill you”, said Nate. “I don’t like this Savannah. Not one damn bit.”

  A chill went down my spine then I thought about the meeting at Todd’s office. “Miss Hartman, it boils down to this: we have a serial killer on our hands and he or she is fixated on YOU.”

  “Me either, Nate”, I said softly.

  Chapter 8:

  “Long Story Short”

  I NEEDED TO think and vent. Since yelling at the umpires wasn’t an option thanks to the rain up north, I had decided to make a trip out to Ryer’s Pub. I can toss back a few cold ones, shoot some pool, and throw darts. I have to admit there’s something about throwing sharp objects that I really tend to enjoy, especially after days like today.

  I seem to play my best when I can imagine the face of whoever is annoying me the most at that particular moment.

  Nate didn’t want me going to the bar alone, so he and Tucker went with me. First time I’ve ever had a police escort TO a bar. Once they knew I was safely indoors, they headed back out on the hunt for my current stalker. I sent a group text to my best friends Wendy and Jessica to get their asses up here and drink with me.

  Mitch Redman owns the place. I went out on a couple of dates with him, but things didn’t really progress much on the relationship front, so we took a breather. Not to say I wouldn’t still jump him if I had the chance. That man is sexy as hell! Mitch has a clean-cut beard, dark hair, and deep blue eyes. Hmmm. I may have to give things with him another try, if he’s game.

  Not too long ago, I had introduced Mitch to a good buddy of mine, Benji Allen. Benji’s a damn good country singer that performs mostly in Fort Worth and in the surrounding areas. I talked him into auditioning for Ryer’s a while back and, of course, it was a success. Mitch loves Benji’s music as much as I do, so he offered him a high enough payout to make it worth driving out here a couple of times a month.

  I met Benji several years ago on the Internet, of all places. He was looking for new fans in the area for The Benji Allen Band and had sent me a message on the social media network, MusicTime.

  Benji and I had joked around for a short while online before I had the chance to meet him in person. He told me once that I’m his coolest fan. I remind him of this fact every chance I get.

  When I got to the bar, The Benji Allen Band was playing one of their original recordings, “Beer Joint Baby”.

  “Well, I’m a beer joint baby…Mama couldn’t save me…Daddy had me there all the time...” sang Benji.

  I waved at him and sat down at my usual place at the bar. Mitch nodded a hello and sent Layla, the newest waitress, to take my order.

  Layla had replaced Lainie Phillips, the laziest, bitchiest, most stuck up waitress I’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. Mitch was too nice to fire Lainie, so all of the regular customers got together and decided to make her life enough of a living hell that she couldn’t wait to quit.

  I was sitting at the bar long enough to order my second beer when Wendy and Jessica walked through the front door. After a few seconds, I caught their attention and we sat down at a table near the stage.

  Layla was there at the table almost as fast as we were.

  “Hey, ladies! What can I get y’all to drink?” she asked.

  “I’ll have a strawberry margarita”, said Wendy.

  “Same for me”, said Jessica.

  “How about a pitcher?” asked Layla, smiling.

  They nodded in agreement. Layla turned to me and asked if I was ready for another. I waved off the idea of another beer and told her to just bring three glasses along with the pitcher.

  No sooner than I had my drink in my hand, the first drunk of the evening approached us. He was nice; cordial, but obviously intoxicated just the same.

  “Hello ladies”, he said. He staggered slightly and put his hand on the table to steady himself. He tried to act like he did it intentionally instead of just because he’d had a few too many.

  He introduced himself as Clay Cooper.

  “I’m Savannah. This is Wendy and Jessica.”

  Rick Woodson (Wendy’s husband) pulled up a chair and sat down between me and his wife. Clay cleared his throat, thanked us (no idea why, but he did), and retreated back to the other end of the bar.

  Wendy wanted a cigarette, so we took our drinks and went out front to one of the tables on the covered patio. .

  There were a few tables out there, along with a few drunks. The second drunk of the night was one of them.

  He looked like he was barely out of high school, nowhere close to being old enough to drink. He staggered up to us, winked at Wendy, and slurred a little bit when he said “Hey baby.”

  We loudly busted out in laughter and he walked away with his tail between his legs.

  I was halfway through my first drink when the third drunk started in on us. He was pudgier than the first two and far less attractive. I had a feeling that his friends had sent him over to us just so that they could l
augh at his epic failure. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be his first failure with women and it certainly would not be his last.

  He walked up behind Wendy and just stood there, or at least he was trying to stand there. If I had tossed a leaf or two at him, he probably would have fallen back on his drunk, pudgy ass.

  He stood there for several minutes, wobbling in one place and not saying a word. I kept hoping he would fall flat on his face just for our entertainment. No such luck.

  We looked at each other, one eyebrow raised, as if to ask, “What the hell??” We tried ignoring him, but it didn’t work. He just wasn’t getting the hint.

  “You need to walk away”, said Jessica to the drunk.

  He ignored her, of course, and kept inching closer to Wendy, a half-step at a time, attempting to steady himself as he went. This drunken idiot was really getting on my nerves.

  “You seriously need to back up and walk away”, I said.

  “Wh-wh-wh-what did I do?” asked the drunken fool.

  “You’re standing way too close to us. You’re ridiculously drunk. You need to take a step back and walk away before you get hurt”, I said.

  “I-I w-w-won’t get hurt. I’m just tryin’ to have some fun”, said the drunk.

  “You don’t get it, slick. IIIIIIIIII am the one that’s going to hurt you if you don’t get away from us pretty damn quick”, I said. I was beyond irritated, to say the least.

  “I just wanted to talk to her”, he said, trying to point at Wendy.

  “Well she’s married and that’s her husband”, said Jessica as she pointed to Wendy and Rick. “You need to move on before SHE shoots you” (pointing at me).

  The drunk continued to stand there, teetering back and forth like he was a piñata swinging from a tree branch on a breezy day.

  “Shoot ME? You-you wouldn’t shoot me. You’d go to jail”, said the drunk.

  “It’s a small town pal. I’m friends with all the law enforcement here. It’s not likely that I’d go to jail for anything”, I said with a smirk. It was only half true, but he had no way of knowing that. Nate would throw me in a cell in a heartbeat if he thought I was out of the line of the law. There’s a reason I don’t tell him everything that I do for my job.

  “She has a gun, a taser, and very little patience for drunk morons”, said Jessica. “And she’s had a shit day, so I really wouldn’t push things with her if I were you.”

  “Personally, I think it would be funny as hell if we let her loose on you”, said Wendy with a big ass grin.

  “Okay. I’ll go”. He hung his head low in defeat and started staggering away. He got halfway across the porch, turned around, and asked what he did wrong, slurring every word.

  “You were breathing weren’t you? That was enough”, I said.

  The drunk just stood there, trying to shake his right forefinger at us.

  “Well. We’ll jusss scheee what happens”, he said loudly.

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Not with us. Not tonight. Not ever. Now GO THE HELL AWAY before I SHOOT you and put you out of MY misery”, I said sternly.

  He turned and staggered back to the front door of the bar. He literally ran right into it, smacking his face dead center on the glass door. He put his hand to his nose and said “Ow” before trying several times to pull the door open and go back into the bar.

  We couldn’t help but to laugh, so we did - and loudly.

  We went back inside and stayed there through the rest of Benji’s musical performance. I gave Benji the customary ‘See you next time hug’, paid out my tab, and headed out the door.

  As we left, Wendy smiled a mischievous grin and said (with her best drunken idiot impression), “Well, we’ll jusss scheee what happens.”

  Chapter 9:

  “Date with Disaster”

  WHEN I WOKE UP, I forgot for a moment that a serial killer was out to get me. It’s amazing how the mind forgets, even if it’s just for a little while.

  Most people would freak out about things like this, but, sadly, I’m sort of used to it. Some people have “the flavor of the week”. I have “the crazy, psycho stalker of the week”.

  I was still in the ‘I’m not quite awake so leave me the fuck alone if you don’t want me to shoot you’ state of mind when my phone rang.

  “Morning, Nate”, I said, yawning halfway through.

  “Savannah, sorry to wake you but there are some things you need to know. Another body was discovered just north of town. The victim was a white male in his early thirties. Other than being very dead, he was a picture of perfect health. He’d been stabbed seventeen times with a screwdriver. The last stab was through his eye.”

  I grimaced at the thought. “Is this connected to the daisy killer? Any leads?”

  “No leads”, said Nate. “The only prints found on the screwdriver belonged to the victim. Savannah? There was a note stuck between the screwdriver and his eye.”

  I held my breath. This was getting more gruesome by the minute. Truthfully, it was making me hella nervous.

  “Nate, what did the note say?”

  “For Savannah: An eye for an eye.”

  “Nate, you need to call Todd Wakefield and set up a meeting for us as soon as possible. There are some gentlemen that I think you need to meet.”

  “Okay. I’ll call him and we’ll start heading his way. How long will it take you to get up and get moving?”

  “An hour, give or take. I need to take a shower plus I haven’t had coffee yet.”

  “Okay then meet me at my office in about an hour and I’ll bring the coffee and donuts.”

  Jolynn was filing some papers when I walked into the sheriff’s office.

  “Nate called and said he’d be here in a few”, said Jolynn.

  I nodded and sat down on one of the three chairs that were sitting in front of her desk.

  I texted Claudia and let her know that Nate and I would be heading to Todd’s office soon and that we’d stop by to get the files for Todd.

  When Nate got there, we took off in his patrol car. He dropped me off in front of my office and waited until I was safely inside before driving away.

  “Where the hell’s he going?” asked Keith. “I thought you were going to Wakefield’s office with him.”

  “I am. He went on a coffee run to Babe’s”, I said.

  Claudia handed me the files and I sat down at my desk. I figured I had just enough time to check my email while I waited for Nate. Hmmm..an offer for a Ukrainian mail order bride..delete…a Nigerian prince misplaced his fortune and is willing to give me a sizable reward for helping him find it…delete.

  The subject line on the next one just read: “Savannah”. Sigh. I scanned it for known viruses then opened it. It read: ‘A daisy for you, a dollop or two…Savannah Hartman, I’m coming for you. It’s almost that time! It’s almost time for you to die. I’ll see you soon, Savannah’.

  I cringed but didn’t mention the email to Claudia or Keith. I printed it out (headers included), folded it in half, and stuck it my back pocket.

  “Nate’s back”, Claudia.

  “Okay. Y’all don’t work too hard”, I said with a half-ass smile and walked outside.

  Nate and I arrived at Todd’s office a few hours later. Loughlin and Reynolds were there with Todd, waiting for us.

  After being introduced to the men, Nate told them about the newest developments in the case, the most recent body discoveries, and mentioned the torso that I had found in my backyard a few weeks ago.

  “No ID on the torso has been made as of yet. We are still waiting for the results of the DNA test that we sent off to Dallas County”, said Nate.

  Agent Loughlin and Chief Reynolds brought Nate and I up to speed with their end of the investigation. Chief Reynolds said he’d check on the status of the DNA test and see if there was any way to speed things along.

  I pulled the copy of the email I’d received out of my pocket and gave it to Todd. He read it aloud for everyone. We discussed it briefly, gat
hered up the new files from Todd, and headed back to Hopeville.

  In the past, I’ve had stalkers and unhappy clients that either didn’t find out what they wanted to (or they did and didn’t like it). None of them had me as worried as this one did. This psycho is randomly killing people and leaving notes specifically for me. Maybe it was just a pride thing, but I didn’t want anyone to know just how freaked out this crazy stalker actually had me.

  It was almost four-thirty when Nate dropped me off at my car. I wasn’t really ready to go back to my office, so I decided to take the “scenic route”, even though it was literally only around the corner.

  Stack’s Shooting Range is along this “scenic route”, which is technically at least a good five miles away from my office.

  I thought firing off a few boxes of ammunition would improve my thought process. Shooting inanimate objects always seems to make me feel better. Maybe it’s just the redneck southern girl in me. Hell, I don’t know.

  Since I can’t shoot who I really want to, annihilating these poor, defenseless paper targets will have to do, at least for the time being.

  I ended up blasting through three boxes of ammo before calling it a night.

  Chapter 10:

  “A Little Arsenic Goes a Long Way”

  THE NEXT THREE days were blissfully uneventful. There were no creepy notes. There were no daisies. Best of all, there were no dead bodies with my name anywhere around them.

  I sat in my office going over the stack of unsolved cases, separating them into three workable stacks: “now”, “later”, and “whenever the hell I feel like it”.

  Honestly, I try to put them off as long as I can get away with it. Usually this is until the client starts calling repeatedly, which puts both Keith and Claudia in bitchy moods. This, of course, entertains me immensely.

  I sighed then put my elbows on my desk and my head in my hands while I read the next file in the stack. It was for an eighty-two year old man named Harry Stanwick.

  Mr. Stanwick believes that his wife has been stepping out on him with “the younger fellar” from his lodge (Order of the Elks Lodge Number 831). This so-called “younger fellar” is seventy-six years old. Sigh.