Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  Harry turned off I-95 and merged onto I-26 toward Charleston. A green road sign informed him he had ninety six more miles to go. His stomach rumbled as ribbons, the color of salmon, streaked across the morning sky. Dawn was breaking. Daylight was sneaking up on him, straining through the thick black tree line. Sunlight tipped the tall pines lining both sides of the highway causing a strobe light effect on his windshield. Up ahead and to his right, beside a towering Exxon Station, was the familiar rectangular sign of The Waffle House. Comfort food. Fresh coffee. His signal turned on automatically. His stomach leads the way.

  * * *

  7:16 AM

  “Shit!” she sat up and took a double take at the clock. She nudged Phillip hard in his side with her elbow. “You have to get out of here.”

  She jumped up and ran across the carpeted floor. Jesus, it’s cold in here. Thankfully, she’d remembered to lock the door when Phillip first arrived. She pressed her ear to the wood and listened into the hallway. Did she detect movement? Quiet. Still, how embarrassing. She scampered back to the bed. Phillip was stretching, stiffening his legs and arms.

  “We don’t have time for this. You have to go.” She hit him. Hard. “C’mon, Phillip. Now! I have to get to work.”

  She was losing her patience. She grabbed her robe from the closet door, scrambled to step into her slippers from under the bed and hurried to the window. Phillip slowly sat up and slid on his underwear. Damn, she wished she had more time. He had a raging hard on.

  “I have to piss.”

  “You have to leave.” She opened the window. Early morning traffic was already zinging on the street below. A few joggers ran the Battery. Fishing boats peppered the harbor against the enormous Cooper River Bridge. A lone man sat reading a newspaper on the bench across the street. “C’mon, let’s go!”

  Phillip leaned down to lace up his tennis shoes.

  A triple knock on the door in rapid succession.

  “Are you up yet?”

  Silence.

  “Jenn?”

  “I’m up. Thanks.” She motioned for Phillip to hurry. He pulled his sweatshirt over his head as she grabbed for a cigarette. Lighting up, she stood by the window and puffed away like a maniac. Phillip grabbed his jacket from off the floor, positioned his cap backwards on his head and joined her at the window.

  She whispered. “It’s about fucking time.” He leaned his torso out the sill, turned around and kissed her.

  “Go!” She practically pushed him out the window. His breath stunk to high heaven. “I’ll talk to you later. Text me.” She flicked the cigarette and closed the window in his face.

  Did she have time for a shower? She checked the clock. Seven thirty seven. Nope. Just enough time to get dressed and go. Fuck! She hated that. She probably smelled like sex. Phillip’s sticky was still inside her. Not so sticky anymore. She smiled as she unlocked the door and tiptoed down the hallway to the bathroom.

  “Thanks for waking me up, Mommy. You’re a lifesaver.” She laid it on sweet. Sugar dripped from her tongue.

  “You’re welcome.” She passed by the bedroom. “Jenn, honey, I told you a thousand times. I wish you’d stop smoking in your bedroom. If you must smoke, why don’t you just smoke in front of me?”

  “Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m trying to quit.” She closed the bathroom door behind her.

  * * *

  Two women fighting for a bathroom

  A conundrum.

  Since it was Lisette’s apartment, and since Janice was the guest, and it was their first night together, Janice insisted Lisette go first. To Janice’s surprise, Lisette had prepared well. Fresh, clean towels and a newly bought, soft Oral-B toothbrush sat out on the porcelain sink ready for use. Already mounted high upon its bristles, glistening like a sparkling gem, was blue gel toothpaste. Never had anybody done that before. She scoped out Lisette’s bathroom. After all, she was a reporter, always prying, paying close attention to every detail.

  Orange painted walls and a lingering sweet smell of coconut oil, musk and herbs, all rolled up together. It blended with the faint aroma of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Janice opened the shower curtain. Squeaky clean. She checked out the rack of body essentials lining Lisette’s shelf; Loofah’s and pumice stones and brushes with long handles to reach the lower back area. She turned the hot water on and fantasized Lisette’s generous hands dancing upon her, massaging her needs and her desires, when Lisette quietly entered the shower.

  Never had Janice felt so receptive, so open, and so incredibly ready to receive another person. Lisette turned her around slowly and kneeled in front of her. Hot water steamed up the mirror and the bathroom. Lisette spread Janice’s thighs and gently took her with long, even strokes. Janice felt weak. Her feet tingled in the shallow, warm water. Hot liquid pulsated over her head, her shoulders, down her back and in between her buttocks. Eaten. Like ripe fruit. A mango or a papaya. Janice created her own in this erotic, delicious rain forest.

  Afterwards, Lisette rinsed her mouth out with water and gave her a kiss. Janice could taste herself.

  Then, sweetly, like a teacher, she purred, “Good Morning.”

  Janice’s defenses melted. Again. Her gated walls of protection slipped open. The horrible memories of her Father pooled and festered and spiraled like a toxic whirlpool down the bathtub drain.

  * * *

  KC wobbled toward Harry. He purposely picked a table near the front of the restaurant. He wanted plenty of sunshine, as much as possible before entering the world of dungeons and dragons and darkness.

  “Will that be all for ‘ya today?” KC asked, the brown and orange uniform she wore must have been XXXL.

  “That will do it.” Harry answered.

  KC did some extra doodling on her pad and deposited the check on the table. “Whenever you’re ready. Next time you’re in the area, stop on by and say ‘hi.’” She gave a sweet smile and walked away, maneuvering her body extraordinarily well for a woman her size.

  Harry looked outside. The parking lot was full of cars already. Outlet stores lined the opposite side of the freeway. Billboards boasted thousands of towels in all sizes. Pots, pans, you name it, all predominately displayed and advertised. “WE WILL NOT BE UNDERSOLD.”

  KC went about her job. Harry tried imagining her life. Her ramshackle house. The mess four kids can make, especially without proper supervision. Unintentionally, he profiled her husband. White and skinny, he probably worked the graveyard shift at some blue collar job, just making ends meet. Both of them without proper education after high school, if they finished at all. Maybe a GED. He envisioned KC returning home from work, shopping bags loaded down with junk food. Little Debbie’s and Hostess Cupcakes, lots of potato chips. Some milk and white bread for good measure. Plenty of Pepsi. The kids at home, left alone, unsupervised, without shoes. Dirty feet and runny noses.

  Harry was caught off guard, brought back to reality when KC refilled his coffee cup.

  Maybe he was wrong. He sure hoped so.

  He took his check to an area near the front that read: PAY HERE. An older woman with white, pink tinted hair and fire engine red lipstick walked from an adjacent room. Her nametag read Loretta.

  “Everything okay today, honey?” She took Harry’s money and administered change back to him like a bank teller, counting out the singles one by one.

  “Just fine.” Harry collected his change, left a generous tip for KC on the table and walked outside into a blast of sunshine. He entered the number to the hospital in Fredericksburg and connected to the nurse’s station.

  “Good morning, this is Harry Wright.”

  Sharon answered, the AM nurse in charge of the General Medical Floor. “Susan’s doing just fine this morning, Mr. Wright. Would you like to speak with her?”

  “I’m actually on the road. Tell her I’ll call as soon as I get situated at the hotel.”

  “Will do. I heard you paid us a little surprise visit this morning. You were the hot topic at the nurse’s meeting.”


  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Well, I’ll let Susan know you called.”

  “Thank you, Sharon. I appreciate all you’re doing for her.”

  “No worries. You take care now.”

  “Send my love to Nancy and the girls.”

  Harry ended the call. He paused for a moment. Maybe Nancy was right. Maybe he should have stayed home. How many times had he sacrificed his family for work? How often had he put his job first? Was it guilt raising its ugly head? Yep, it sure was. Loud and clear.

  He went back inside and used the restroom before leaving. He was surprised at how clean it was. An automatic air freshener dispensed deodorizer as he washed his hands. An overly sweet odor, a condensed mist of mint hissed like a snake as it released above his head.

  Using the sleeve of his jacket, Harry pushed the smeared glass doors of The Waffle House open. He took a deep, invigorating breath, filling his lungs. The scent of pine and early morning moisture. The fusty smell of earth and manure combined. Pure country. He repeated the process several times, as he crossed the parking lot to his car. He pulled a map of Charleston from out of the glove compartment, complete with directions to the Lockwood Precinct. He checked the time. Arrival should be in less than an hour.

  Then, let the fun begin.

  * * *

  Dan’s profession as a Detective incorporated many different skills and job descriptions. Today, his arduous duty was to set up the conference room for “The Mutilator Task Force.”

  Located on the third floor of the Lockwood Precinct, the conference room lacked light and atmosphere. It was a large, vacuous space comprised of drab, green floor tiling and dull, gray walls made of cement cinder block. A blackboard had been rolled in and placed in front of some fold up chairs, set up in a semi circle in the middle of the room. Off to the side was a small kitchenette. Nothing fancy. You wouldn’t be finding the room gracing the pages of Good Housekeeping any time soon! Dan began brewing a pot of coffee. Next to the Mr. Coffee machine was a dozen assorted Dunkin’ Donuts he’d picked up on his way in to the Precinct.

  His trip to Quantico to attend the National Academy Class had kindled a special interest in the Investigative Support Unit. Under Chief John Douglas, the division’s name had changed from Behavioral Science to the latter “to get rid of the BS.” Dan hadn’t noticed much bullshit. The majority of special agents and instructors he encountered there were incredibly intelligent, had astute and accurate intuition, were diligent on the job and had enough integrity and self-confidence for three people. Among them, Harry Wright was Dan’s favorite. His style and poise were clean and precise. The way in which he profiled cases seemed more like the work of a psychic, or a superhero, than the act of a mere mortal man. Often, Wright would say, when out in the field profiling an UNSUB, when the PERP was finally apprehended, the Police Chief in charge would say to Harry, jokingly of course, “Why didn’t you just give us his address and telephone number?”

  Harry Wright’s profiles were virginal. Tight.

  Dan looked forward to working with Wright. Many state detectives and police chiefs held resentment when the FBI got involved in a case usually handled by local jurisdiction. Often, more deaths occurred senselessly because officers were unwilling to make that call to the regional FBI field offices, or get Quantico involved at all. It all had to do with egos. Whose dick was bigger? Who was going to solve the case first? Who ultimately would conquer and be the victor? The Investigative Unit Agents were the last ones to stress out about this, knowing full well it was usually the detectives or the police officers working in the area that ultimately apprehended the killers. Not them. They were merely tools. A well-trained tuning fork leading the locals to the perpetrator.

  Dan poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. He lightened it with powdered Cremora (he forgot to buy milk) and snatched a cinnamon fritter from the box of donuts. He sat his ass down on a folding chair in the front row.

  He hoped Harry Wright recognized him.

  He prayed Harry Wright would lead him to the killer.

  June 15, 2007

  Saturday

  7:49 AM

  28

  Her mother waited downstairs. Jenn could hear her, pacing back and forth in the terracotta foyer. Her high heeled shoes were making that annoyingly irritating noise. Clickety-clack, clickety-click. Please Mother, not today. Now was not the time to get into another long, boring argument. She was already late for work and Mrs. Preston had told her if she was late, one more time, she’d have to start looking for another babysitting job. Mrs. Preston needed somebody more reliable, more responsible, to take care of her little Bernard. Imagine. Jenn hated the brat anyway. Why would anybody call a child Bernard?

  She looked over the painted balustrade. Imported from Italy, of course. She could still see her Mother prance into view, turn, pivot, and walk back out again. Maybe Jenn could sneak by without her noticing. What time was it? Oh, sweet Jesus. She needed to go. She grabbed her favorite GAP sweater, the one she shoplifted on a double dare with her best friend Sabrina and ran down the stairs. Two at a time. Maybe if she was fast, her mother wouldn’t see her, let alone, stop her.

  “Jenny?”

  Too late. Shit! She stopped and turned ever so sweetly. “Yes, Mommy?”

  “May I have a word with you before you go?”

  “I’m already running late for work. Can’t we talk later, when I get home from school?”

  “I’ll drive you to Mrs. Preston’s if you want. I think we should talk.”

  “That’s all right.” Jenn glanced outside to avoid eye contact. “I prefer walking. What is it? Can we make this quick, please.” She grabbed her black suede backpack from off a foyer chair and flung it over her shoulder. “C’mon. I’m late.”

  She walked toward Jenn. She had that concerned look on her face. Oh, God, what now? She rested her arm around Jenn’s shoulder, the scent of coffee strong on her breath. She must have just finished smoking a cigarette. The lingering smell hovered above her like stale perfume. It almost made Jenn want to quit.

  “Jenny?”

  “What?” Jenn rounded her shoulders, hoping her Mother would get the hint and remove her arm. “What’s the matter, now?”

  “I just want you to know… that I know.”

  Jenn looked puzzled. What could she possibly know? “What? You know what?”

  “I know about…” she paused in that fake, overly dramatic way, like she was filming an afternoon soap opera or something. So corny. Jenn was losing patience. And fast.

  “What? What? WHAT do you know? Tell me!”

  “… about Phillip. I know he stays with you. I know he was here last night.”

  Jenn turned sixteen shades of white, then green, then gray, hoping what just fell from her Mother’s lips was some sort of parental joke, a dream, some horrible PTA nightmare.

  She continued, “I want to make sure you’re using some sort of protection, that’s all.”

  Jenn felt as if she might pass out, right here, on the spot. The only thing she could think of doing was to leave. Exit. Get the fuck away from her Mother!

  “Yes. I’m using protection.” She bolted for the door, pushed the screen so hard it bounced back against the side of the house with a twang.

  Protection, she thought as she jumped the three cement steps, opened the trellised gate and took off running up East Bay Street.

  Protection?

  Well, to tell you the truth, Mother dear, it’s a little too late for protection. Your baby Jennifer has an appointment to go in for an abortion. Remember our little talk? Well, maybe you should have had that “little birds and the bees” talk two years ago when your Jenny first started playing with boys.

  She could see it all, flashing before her. Forty years from now. When her Mother was an invalid and in some nursing home and her Daddy, a not-so-sweet memory. She’d be sitting beside her bedside confiding the entire horrible decadent deeds her only daughter had done. How she was the first girl in her class to
lose her virginity. On a dare (of course). What else was new? To Jimmy Sanders, the Senior All Star football quarterback, who, on the way home from a football game, in the backseat of the bus, no less, decided to do his own private investigation. A winning season. Jenn said, “Deposit a quarter,” and he did. Oh, Mother, his dick was huge. And beautiful. Especially for her first time. She was as tight as a cherry. Bomb! Want to hear more? Mommy? Want to hear every itsy bitsy teeny weenie detail? Your little Jenny must have been all of what, thirteen?

  Thanks for the concern, Mom, but you’re a tad bit late to start rapping about protection.