Jack Ryder Mystery Series: Vol 4-6

by Willow Rose

  Shannon swallowed hard, and then there was a knock on her door. "Mrs. King? It's time."

  "Be right there," she yelled back, then returned to the phone. "Listen, Jack. I gotta go. Kiss the kids from me, will you? Especially Tyler."

  "Of course. Now knock them out of the park, will you? I know you'll be fabulous," Jack said.

  Shannon hung up and let the tears roll across her cheeks. As she wiped them off and corrected her make-up, she couldn't stop imagining this girl, this old flame of Jack's sitting at the table with her family. As she walked out and put on her stage smile, she couldn't help thinking that she wasn't going to be that hard to replace.

  Chapter 15

  Cocoa Beach 2007

  "Happy birthday to yo-o-u, happy birthday to y-ou-u-u."

  The boy felt his heart skip a beat as the cupcake was brought in with the one little candle in it, as was the custom on the boy's birthday. They couldn't really afford a real cake—except when baby sister turned one year old, but that was an exceptional birthday his dad had told him since it was her first—so, usually, his dad would buy him a cupcake on his way home from work and serve it to him after dinner. As his dad sang to him, his mom stared at him, her arms crossed across her chest, an annoyed look on her face.

  The cupcake landed on the table in front of the boy, and he gleamed as he looked up at his father.

  "Happy birthday, son."

  "Thanks, Dad," he said.

  His mom made a smacking sound with her lips, and the boy turned to look at her, looking for any sign that she too was happy it was his birthday, that she also wanted to wish him a happy birthday.

  But he saw none of that. Since she was probably just exhausted from taking care of the baby, the boy excused her. The same way his dad always did.

  That baby is going to end up wearing Mom out.

  "I have a present for you," his dad said.

  His mom let out a deep exhale the same way she had done on the night before when Dad had cooked for her, and she didn't like it. Again, Dad had told him that Mommy couldn't help herself. She was so tired all the time, and he had put a little too much salt on the potatoes, he had to admit.

  The boy hadn't thought there was too much salt in any of the delicious food his dad had prepared. He had thought it tasted heavenly. But, of course, what did a young boy like him know?

  Not much, according to his momma. According to her, boys didn't understand much of anything, and they certainly weren't as pretty and cute as little girls. The boy had learned that much.

  "What is it, Daddy?" the boy said, shrieking in excitement. Last year, the boy hadn't gotten any presents for his birthday, since Mommy had said they couldn't afford it, with just having given birth to the baby and all, and with all the things they needed to buy for her, like stuffed animals and such. Things the boy had never gotten, but then again, she was a girl and girls were cuter and prettier and smelled better than boys. That's what Momma said.

  "Come with me, son," his dad said and reached out his hand.

  "So, you're just gonna leave like that? With the kitchen a mess?" his mom said while sitting with his baby sister on her lap, making funny noises at her and making her giggle.

  The boy ignored his mother's remark because his dad did, then rushed out after him into the yard.

  "I asked you something," Momma yelled after them but, for once, what she said wasn't the most important thing in the world, the boy realized. His dad had something that was way more exciting.

  "Close your eyes," his dad said as they walked into the yard.

  The boy was overwhelmed with excitement as he let his dad guide him through the tall grass that the dad should have cut many weeks ago but hadn't had the time to because of all the other stuff that needed to be done to the house to make Mommy's life easier.

  "What is it, Dad? Tell me what it is?" the boy said, almost about to explode with happiness and anticipation. The boy had never had a surprise before. Never. Except for the time they had told him he was going to be a big brother. That had been a surprise all right.

  "Just one more second," his dad said and pulled him further, then stopped. "Now, open your eyes."

  The boy took in a breath of air, braced himself for a big surprise, then opened his eyes. He looked at the fence in front of him, then up at his dad, his eyes and mouth wide open.

  "Chickens?"

  His dad smiled and laughed. "Yes, son. Two chickens. Isabella and Victoria. I named them. If you don't like the names, then you can call them something else. But they're yours now, son."

  The boy stared at the two chickens inside the enclosure that his dad had built for them. He couldn't believe his own eyes. The boy absolutely loved animals, and chickens were among his favorites.

  "Between us, I wanted to give you a puppy, but your mom wouldn't hear of it. Chickens, I could get her to agree to since they stay outside. Look at them. Aren't they cute?"

  The boy looked at the two chickens and then decided that his dad was wrong. They weren't cute because that's what his sister was, and these two creatures were nothing like his baby sister. No, these chickens were a lot more than that. They were what he needed in his life right now. They were amazing.

  Chapter 16

  August 2018

  She was scrubbing the kitchen floor, getting layers of dirt off, when she saw the stain. At first, she thought it was just dirt, but the more she scrubbed, the more Diane realized it wasn't just ordinary dirt on the planks of her newly bought house.

  It was blood.

  Diane stared at the stain, then at her hands where the red had rubbed off and become mixed with the soapy water, turning it almost pink. Diane looked down at the planks again. She had been scrubbing for quite some time on the stain, yet there seemed to be a lot more. The blood had to have seeped deep inside the planks. And there was a lot of it.

  Diane rose to her knees with an odd sensation in her stomach. Trying to calm herself down, she got up to her feet and walked a few steps back, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. Misty came closer and was about to walk into the mess when Diana stopped the cat and picked it up. She thought about going across the street and asking Dennis to come to take a look at it, but she knew he had a family and she didn't know him that well. Maybe Jean? Diane shook her head; no, she wouldn't know what to do. Diane walked to the counter and grabbed her phone and called Jack. He was a detective. He would know what to do. After they had finished dinner tonight, and she had told him that he and his parents were the only people she knew in this town, he had given her his number and told her to call him if she needed anything. Anything at all.

  "Ryder here," he said as he picked up. He sounded tired.

  "It's Diane."

  She could hear a child crying in the background and looked at her watch. It was past eleven.

  Oh, crap. It's that late?

  "Sorry, did I wake anyone up?" she asked. "I’m so sorry."

  "Oh, no. It's just Tyler. He doesn't want to go to sleep. He does this every night. There's nothing new in that. He was already awake when you called. What's up?"

  "I was cleaning my new house and then…well, I found a big stain of blood on the kitchen floor. I don't know what to do…"

  "Uh-huh. Okay. Something might have happened in there while it was empty. Or maybe a homeless person slept there and hurt himself. Try not to touch anything, and I'll come look at it tomorrow," he said. "It might be nothing."

  Diane swallowed and looked at the area. It had been covered in dirt and dust, so that was why she hadn't noticed earlier.

  "Okay," she said. "I hope you're right."

  "All right. I should get this kid to bed. He seems to be tired enough now. See you tomorrow," Jack said.

  "Yes, okay."

  She put the phone back on the counter with a deep uneasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. She petted the cat while staring at the blood stain. Then she grabbed her pillow and a blanket and walked out onto the porch.

  Chapter 17

 
August 2018

  I skipped surfing the next morning and drove to Diane's house instead. We had a meeting about the Reynolds case at noon, so that left me with plenty of time to take a look at the stain in Diane's house. I knew it was probably a huge waste of my time. It was probably nothing, and usually, I would just tell her not to get worked up about it, but she had sounded so nervous and worried on the phone, I thought it'd be best if I showed up in person.

  There was something different about Diane. She wasn't quite the happy and confident girl I had dated back then. She seemed shaken and anxious, and that was very different from what she had been back in high school. I felt like she needed my protection.

  I parked in her driveway and walked up to the small house. It was cute—or at least it had been once—but the entire lot and parts of the house were completely overgrown, and the wood needed a serious paint job.

  I found Diane on the porch, sitting on an old mattress with a cat in her lap.

  "Diane?' I asked.

  She looked up. Her eyes were red. I stared at her pillow and blanket. "Did you sleep out here?"

  She nodded.

  "That must have been terribly hot," I said, sweating just from thinking about it. At this time of year, the AC at our house ran at its highest. It was also this time of year that our electric bill was through the roof.

  "I…I couldn't stand sleeping inside with that…with all the…well, see for yourself," she said.

  Diane rose to her feet and walked to the door. I couldn't believe that she didn't want to stay inside just because of a little blood on the floor. Why didn't she just choose another room?

  "It's right over here," she said and walked me into the kitchen. The planks had dried-up soap on top, but I could easily see the blood on them.

  "It’s all this area, and then it continues over here and to the stairs, and on each and every step," she said and pointed. "Look. It's like someone who was bleeding was dragged up the stairs." Diane shot me an anxious look. "Who was bleeding this much, Jack? Who?"

  I sighed and squatted to better look at it. There were several layers of thick dirt on top of it, but as I looked closer, I could see the blood underneath. "It looks old," I said. "Maybe it was the last owner? Maybe whoever lived here had an accident or something?"

  "What kind of accident?" Diane asked nervously.

  "I…I don't know. But I wouldn't worry about it."

  "So, you think I can just wash it off then? You don't need to investigate it?"

  "I hardly think so," I said. "Besides, we're pretty swamped lately. If there's no one hurt, or signs of any crime committed, I think we'll be fine."

  "But what if there was?" she said. "The thing is, I really want to remove the planks and put in tile instead."

  "Diane, I’m sure it'll be fine. The house is yours. Do with it what you need to, okay?"

  My phone was vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was Shannon. I decided to call her back after my visit here. As I put the phone back, I realized I was standing in a completely empty house.

  "Say…where’s your furniture?" I asked.

  "I…I don't have any. At least not yet. With my job at your parent's place, I hope to be able to buy some. Eventually."

  "But…but that's gonna take forever. You don't even have a bed?" I asked, baffled. "You can't live like this, Diane."

  She sighed. "I'll be fine. It's better than where I came from; believe me. Way better."

  Chapter 18

  After my first kill, I got paranoid. It was probably only natural, and I’m assuming all killers go through a phase like that right after they’ve acted their fantasies out for the first time. But it was a tough time for me. I was constantly terrified they were going to come for me. I was certain they would. I even began expecting them to. Every day, I waited for them to come; every day, I imagined them knocking on my door. I imagined them driving up the street, and every time a car did pass the house, I jumped, wondering if that could be them.

  Sometimes, I imagined they only arrived in two cars; other times, there were ten. How many officers were there changed from time to time, also how aggressively they entered the house. Sometimes, they knocked nicely and asked me calmly to come with them; other times, they came from all sides, guns blazing, yelling and screaming at me to get down. I even had little conversations in my mind with them. I knew what they were going to say, what questions they would ask me, and I had prepared all the answers. I knew exactly what I was going to tell them.

  I wasn't going to lie. I would admit to each and every detail of it. I mean, why not? They knew I had done it and, to be frank, I was proud of it. I wasn't going to try and wiggle my way out of it. There was no need to. I hadn't prepared an excuse for what I had done either. I wasn't even going to try to. I knew it was the evil inside of me. It was the rage that had finally been allowed to surface and demanded that I do it. There was no excuse. Was I sorry? Not really, no. Did I feel bad for what I had done? Not really, no. I knew something was wrong with me and I knew that was why I had these thoughts, why I constantly fantasized about killing to a point where I had to do it, where I couldn't ignore it anymore.

  The only thing I really felt, to be honest, was a desire to do it again. It's sad, I know. But it's the truth. The naked truth.

  As the days passed and the police didn't come, I started to think that maybe, just maybe I was actually going to get away with it. I watched them as they talked to the neighbors, as they questioned the nice couple across the street, and I even watched one of the men from further down the road being hauled off in a police car, and people started to talk about him being a suspect and maybe having killed more than just the poor family. Some even used the words serial killer.

  I liked the sound of that.

  I listened to them talk; I heard them say those things with a slight quiver to their voices, and that was when I realized that I wanted that. I wanted them to fear me. I wanted them to talk about me like that. I liked the sensation of them fearing me, of them shivering from talking about me, and meanwhile, I was standing right there, right next to them, living and being in their midst. That was what had me going. That was what I wanted more of.

  I wanted people to be scared of me.

  So, as time passed and no one even remotely looked my way or asked me any questions that showed they thought I might be the killer, I began a new phase in my life.

  I started to plan my next move.

  Chapter 19

  August 2018

  "Where are we on the Reynolds' case, Jack?"

  Weasel stood in the corner of the meeting room, pouring herself coffee from the pot. Her real name was Weslie Seal, but only a few knew that since she had been nothing but the Weasel since high school. She had put her dyed blond hair in a ponytail and was wearing a leather jacket over her broad shoulders. Her raspy, hoarse voice cut through me, mostly because I didn't really have an answer prepared.

  "Well, so far, we don't really know much," I said and opened the file. "From the forensics report, we know that the mother was probably attacked in the kitchen, and the killer probably entered through the back door. She was then dragged into the living room, where the killer tied her up using cords that he cut off from the lamps in there. She was tied on both wrists and ankles. Now, the medical examiner says that she was alive when the killer began the separation of the head from the neck. It was done with an ax that was later found in the garage. Other than the chopping off of her head, her body was only lightly bruised, so we assume she cooperated with the killer, probably thinking he would eventually let her go if she did as he told her to, or at least spare the children. This is all just speculation, of course. But what we do know for certain is that she died there on the floor sometime between six-fifty when her alarm clock went off and eight o'clock, according to the autopsy. We know that she would have left before eight o'clock since she had to be at work at the jewelry store in Cape Canaveral at eight. It's a drive that takes seven minutes from the house where they live. The dau
ghter, however, was probably surprised in her bedroom when the killer rushed in there after killing the mother. The music was still playing loudly from her computer when the police arrived, so we assume she hadn't heard anything while she was getting ready for school that starts at eight. She too was killed between six-fifty and eight o'clock; that is the closest we can get to an exact time of her death. A clear plastic bag was placed on her head first before she was tied up. The cause of death was strangulation. The young girl had more bruises on her body and her face. We believe she fought more intensely than her mother. We have conducted interviews with the neighbors and friends of the family, and I have asked the husband to come in again later today for a second interview. The two of them were separated but not divorced, even though it was years since they split up. According to friends, the husband didn't want to give her the divorce. There was also an ongoing dispute about the children."

  Weasel nodded. "Okay, and what has he told you so far?"

  I looked at Mike, sitting further down from me. "Mike was the one who spoke to him initially."

  "All right, Mike?" she said and sipped her coffee.

  "There really wasn't much he could tell us; he was quite shocked," Mike said. "Which is quite understandable when he just lost his wife—even though she was an ex—and his kid and he might lose the second child as well."

  "When was the last time he saw them?"

  "He wasn't in the picture much," Mike said. "He said she kept the kids away from him, but the last time he saw them was at spring break when Parker and Olivia came down to visit for two days."

  "He hadn't seen them since spring break?" Weasel said.

  "Nope. He said his ex always came up with excuses for the kids not to visit. And as time passed by, he simply stopped fighting her and took what he could get."

  "Kind of gives him a motive," Joe Hall said. He was one of the younger officers at the station.