Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  Silly cunt!

  She pulled a cigarette from the side compartment of her backpack and lit up. Camel Light. She checked her watch. After eight. Who cared? She was already late. She slowed down her pace, enjoying the morning, the fresh air, her freedom. She turned down Savage Street. It was quiet and peaceful. Not a soul in sight. So, she’d be a few minutes late. She sat down on the curb and took another deep drag off her cigarette. The cement felt cold and rough against her ass. She pulled her skirt down to cover her thighs. Burr… She folded her arms to conserve heat. It was chilly out. Her nipples were hard. She knew what she would do. She would tell Mrs. Preston she had to take her mother to North Charleston. To that free abortion clinic. That would stop the bitch dead in her tracks. That would shut the witch up. Bernard!

  Oh, well.

  She stood up and brushed the dirt from off her rear end. She flicked her cigarette with one hand, something Philip had taught her. She watched as it spiraled into the gutter. Then, she crossed the street.

  If she had one wish, it would be for her Mom and Dad to know her. Really know her. Know who she was, not the Jenny they needed her to be. She would really, really like to have cool parents. People she could actually talk with.

  Up ahead, on the other side of the street, Jenn noticed another person stepping off the curb. He looked in each direction before crossing. His hand clenched the inside of his coat pocket. So, she wasn’t alone. Thank God. She often wondered what it would be like to pick up some stranger and just do them. In an alleyway or a public bathroom. Anywhere. Just do it! Go for it. The thought made her horny. It took her away for a second. She could escape the pain. The emotional anguish she felt so often. Parents. Expectations. Performing! She began fantasizing about the man approaching her. Hidden deep within the folds of his trench coat and white cotton boxer shorts, a one-eyed, cobra dick rested, preparing itself to strike.

  Oh geez, Jenn. Get a grip!

  Somehow, the whole scenario had a déjà vu feeling about it. Like she’d been here before. Maybe it was the raincoat he was wearing. Did Daddy have one like that? Or, the sunglasses? Large aviator frames that covered most of his face. He also wore a large ball cap. As Jenn inched closer, she could see her reflection in the glass, the faintest tint of pink. He was carrying a newspaper, held tight against his side. Kind of strange, but oh, so familiar.

  Jenn smiled sweetly as she passed by. She flicked a wave of bouncy blond hair from off her shoulder, something her Mother had taught her to always do for strangers…

  29

  Stupid bitch!

  draw

  If anything is sacred…

  The human body is sacred.”

  ‘I Sing the Body Electric’

  ~ Walt Whitman

  8:47 AM

  Saturday

  30

  “Hello?”

  “May I please speak with Jennifer?”

  “This is Mrs. Stattler, Jennifer’s Mother. May I help you?”

  “We’ve been very patient with your daughter, Mrs. Stattler. Waiting for Jennifer to show up this morning, but…”

  “For her babysitting job?”

  “Yes, exactly. And it isn’t the…”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but Jennifer should be there by now. She left well over an hour ago…”

  “Well…”

  Mrs. Stattler hung up.

  “Oh, dear God…”

  Clickety-click on terra cotta.

  8:49 AM

  31

  “It’s important to focus on the crime scene analysis and victimology. Right away,” Wright said, as Dan led him to the front of the conference room. He carried a bulky manila folder with him and placed it onto the table.

  “Coffee?” Dan asked. He didn’t want to appear overly enthusiastic, a fan, a brownnoser.

  “That would be great. Black. Thank you.” Harry flung his gray suit jacket over the back of the chair and took a seat. He rolled the sleeves of his white button down shirt up to his elbows and glanced quickly at his watch. “I apologize for being late. As you know, we have our work cut out for us.” Wright opened the envelope, emptied the contents onto the table and started shuffling though papers.

  Dan poured Wright a cup of coffee in the kitchenette. He allowed Wright to use one of his personal mugs.

  “Why were these victims selected over others?” Wright’s voice had range. Tone. Projection. “How were they killed?” Dan could hear him from the kitchen.

  Dan delivered the coffee and took a seat beside Police Chief Abrams. Fellow officers sat behind them in a clump, organized as the Mutilator Task Force. It reminded Dan of a twelve step meeting. Everybody sat quietly and stared and sipped from their paper cups, mesmerized and attentive.

  “From these two questions, we can begin to address the ultimate question: Who? I made a few notes when I initially checked out the file, but, unfortunately, I haven’t had the opportunity to study much of it. So, please bear with me. Detective Hammer, is there a Coroner’s report with this paperwork?”

  Pressure released with a squeak from Dan’s chair as he walked back to the desk and sifted through the paperwork. Harry looked up. His eyes were old and tired and red from no sleep. But fierce with defiance, a sense of purpose, focus.

  “You are the homicide detective working this case, am I right?”

  I am.” Suddenly Dan was back in boot camp. Orlando Florida. On the grinder. Early morning roll call standing at parade rest. Nerves on overload.

  “Were you the first Detective at the scene?”

  “Other officers arrived before me, Sir. Officer Evans. I think…he was the first one at the location.” He looked out over the crowd in Evans’s direction. Evans sat slumped back in his chair, biting down on a jelly donut. “Here’s his report. Right here, Sir.”

  Wright glanced up from his paper. “You think?”

  Evans straightened his posture. He smoothed down his hair.

  “Was there a Medical Examiner?”

  “Yes, Sir. Dr. Marjorie Dunlap was the Medical Examiner on duty that night.”

  “She is a physician, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, Sir, and an excellent Medical Examiner, too, I might add.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ve had situations where the Coroner is nothing more than the local funeral director. He checks the body, gives it a push and says, ‘Yep, that boy sure is dead.’”

  Chief Abrams hearty laugh boomed from behind Dan. Other officers in the room followed the Chief’s lead. Cinderblock had an irritating way of echoing. Dan didn’t find the story amusing. He felt protective and defensive of Marjorie. “I don’t think, I mean, I know you’ll find Dr. Dunlap’s protocol on the money. She’s quite comprehensive.”

  Wright continued rearranging papers. “Was the crime scene altered in any way by the investigation team?”

  “Not that I know of, Sir.”

  “Who found the body? Family?”

  “The first girl, Angie Kessler, the one who survived the attack was found on Old Towne Road stumbling along the side. A pedestrian, George Madden, picked the girl up and transported her to the hospital.”

  “Was he questioned?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t until later that we found the remains of the second victim.”

  “Were photographs taken?” He rustled through more papers. “I don’t see any crime scene photos. I’d like to see the remains.”

  “Yes, Sir, photographs were taken.” Wright must think we’re complete idiots. Country bumpkins. “I’ll collect them when we finish up here. They’re probably still at the Lab.”

  Wright held his chin with his index finger. His eyes squinted. Was Dan the only one here? In the room? Wright’s concentration was overwhelming. Intense.

  “Was anything taken that you know of; underwear, jewelry, anything that belonged to the victim? Souvenirs, maybe?”

  Dan swallowed hard. He was being given the first degree. Others watched on in amusement. The Hammer finally under scrutiny. Hammerhead. Dan needed
water. In his own mug. He spoke but his voice cracked. Clearing it, he answered, “not that I know of, Sir.”

  “It’s important to visualize the crime scene. As close as possible to see how the offender left it. Do you understand?”

  Everybody in the room nodded in agreement. Mannequins. Puppets. Robots.

  “Detective Hammer, you may sit down.”

  Saying his name aloud startled Dan. He was in a zone, dozing. A daze. Wright’s voice was hypnotic. He walked back to his seat, a zombie, as Wright continued.

  “From what I see here, gentlemen, we have a very long way to go. We must start by recreating the crime scene. In our head. In order to do that, we need to know as much about the victims as possible. We have to imagine how they reacted. We have to put ourselves in their place, feel their fear, their pain. We have to understand what it felt like to scream in terror, realizing it won’t help, that the person or people responsible won’t stop…”

  Wright stood up to make his point stronger. He began pacing back and forth. His shoes squeaked. He tapped the eraser of his pencil on his wrist.

  He doesn’t remember me.

  Wouldn’t he have said something by now?

  Wright rested his large hands on the table, palms down, as if he were about to do a set of pushups. He talked like a preacher, sent from God. His word was God. He had a gift.

  “But, just as difficult, we need to put ourselves in the role of the attacker as well, plan along with him, think how he thinks, understand and feel his gratification. This one sacred moment when all of his pent up fantasies can finally come true and he can gain ultimate control. Able to manipulate and dominate another human being. We have to walk in the killer’s shoes as well as the victim’s.”

  Quiet.

  Outside, a bird chirped sweetly, answering another bird’s call. Ironic. Sun spilled into the room through narrow, dirty slats. Motes of dust danced chaotically in the filtered light. Dan looked outside, searching for the bird. He needed a reminder, a gentle nudge that beauty still existed in the world. That nature and innocence could coexist together. Still. What he witnessed instead was a splotch of dried bird shit, streaking the glass pane a dingy dull gray and white.

  8:52 AM

  32

  Janice was worried about Jake.

  Her intention of going to Lisette’s house last evening was to have dinner. That was it! Then go home. No hanky panky. No fooling around. End of story. The last thing on her mind was staying over.

  Or was it?

  I’m a damn liar!

  Jake would be absolutely crazy by now. Angry and upset. Probably pissed off and pooped all over the place. And, she wouldn’t blame him. She hadn’t even put papers down. Old, used Post and Courier’s worked well. Especially the editions without her byline. Sometimes the State sufficed, for good measure. Extra protection. Better absorbency.

  How could she have known? She wasn’t a fortuneteller. Besides, what warning signals were there? Did she have the slightest suspicion that she would be seduced into being with Lisette? On Lisette? Underneath Lisette? Dear, sweet Lisette. Now, she knew. It was a fact. Janice Porter was definitely in love. In love. Really and truly. Seriously. With Lisette.

  Jake. Back to Jake. She loved Jake, too.

  She took King Street, the downtown exit ramp off I-26. Her speed dwindled as she turned onto Rutledge Avenue. Morning traffic clogged the highway like metal cholesterol. Not to mention all the construction. Charleston was bursting at the seams. The only place to go – to grow -- was up. She checked her watch. Almost nine. She wanted to catch up with Dr. Garrison during her morning rounds. Never one to let Louis down, she turned right on Bee Street. MUSC loomed in front of her like a huge concrete tomb.

  Hopefully, Jake could wait another minute… or two.

  Janice was working, as usual, on a deadline.

  33

  Motherfucker!

  Let me out of here.

  It was boiling hot in here and she couldn’t see. Something tight was wrapped around her wrists and ankles. Her arms were secured behind her. Her shoulders ached. There was a sweet, awful medicinal taste in her mouth. Like the time she tried coke with Lisa, one of her druggie friends. What was her boyfriend’s name? Lester. Lester scored them some coke one night and so they snorted a few lines. On a dare. Big deal. Boring. Lester told them to rub the rest, what was left of the powder onto their fingers and massage it into their gums. What? Go fuck yourself, Lester!

  Where am I?

  Let me out of here, you motherfucker! Now!

  She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even talk.

  Little puffs of breath from her nose. In and out. That was all she could do. She worked her tongue across the inside of her lips. They wouldn’t open. There was tape, something strong and durable clamped down hard across her mouth. Like adhesive or duct tape. It wrapped all the way around her head. Several times. It pulled at her hair each time she moved.

  Ouch!

  Who did this to me? What happened?

  She tried collecting her thoughts. She felt hazy, dizzy, drugged.

  She kicked out, but her feet caught against something hard. Metal perhaps. She moved her head backward and forward, but the tape pulled at her hair.

  She was laying on something coarse, like carpet. Indoor outdoor. Like on their outside terrace. Where the gas barbecue was. She was lying in a fetal position, curled up, cramped into a tiny space. A trunk, maybe.

  I’m in a fucking car!

  Some motherfucker’s got me hostage in a freaking trunk!

  She had a dull headache, a throb pulsed in her left temple. Somebody must have hit her on the head. Somebody deliberately did this. But who? When? Why?

  Did Phillip stack some pot in that last cigarette she smoked? Shit, she must be so late for work.

  Somebody better let me out of here before I get my ass reamed by Mrs. Preston. Or fired. Mrs. Preston warned me. She’ll hire somebody more reliable.

  Somebody let me out of here.

  Somebody better.

  Somebody please let me out of here.

  And quickly…

  9:07 AM

  MUSC

  34

  Dr. Ronald Kendleson, the Chairman of MUSC’s surgical residency program had decided to join Dr. Garrison for attending rounds. Eleven residents entered the surgical ward, located on the second floor of the hospital. Nerves splintered as the residents observed Dr. Kendleson dramatically pull charts from three post op patients. He flipped through the pages effortlessly, stopping every so often to write a note into his pocket-sized binder.

  Dr. Garrison slipped in, unnoticed. She took a position at the front of the group. She nodded to the mass of green scrubs and white lab coats looking up to her for salvation. She understood their obvious tension and frustration. It hadn’t been that long ago that she, too, had been standing where they were now, waiting to be executed by Dr. Ron.

  She always fared well with Dr. Kendleson. She made it a point to never be intimidated by him or by anybody. He enjoyed every opportunity to prey on other people’s weak points. Find their soft spot, zoom in on their vulnerabilities and use it against them. For sport. How many times had she seen a resident retreat from rounds, driven to virtual tears by his ruthless interrogations? His merciless questions. And, not only females. Men, too, feared his wrath. His personalized humiliation. He must have realized early on that Dr. Garrison was impenetrable. That she would stand up, debate, and even disagree with him at times, if she felt it were necessary. Besides, Dr. Ron understood one very important thing. Dr. Garrison knew her shit. She hadn’t studied that hard, for so long, for nothing.

  They took their places around bed number six. The floor opened to a petite Asian resident, Soomie Kim. It was her turn to present the case.

  Dr. Kendleson removed his glasses. He inserted the plastic end into his mouth and bit at the tip. He studied the chart, trolling for mistakes, missing details, any opportunity to strike.

  Dr. Garrison watched on proudly
. She’d stolen a moment, earlier, to browse through the patient’s chart. Everything was in order. Soomie was an excellent resident. Now, Dr. Garrison wanted her appearance to calm her down. Dr. Kim cleared her throat. She looked up, first at Dr. Kendleson, and then at Dr. Garrison who gave her a reassuring nod.

  “The patient is a fifty four year old Caucasian male, admitted early this morning via ambulance service with a gunshot wound to his thoracic region…”