Of Morality and Sin: Massacre of the Football Team (Virgil McLendon Thrillers Book 7)

by catt dahman

“Got too hot out here. You want some ice?”

  “Nah.” Tommy tried to concentrate. His head pounded with his fast, throbbing hear beat. He felt as if he needed to puke. He stood and the world tilted. “Hey....”

  Wayne laughed, “What are you doing?”

  Tommy moved at a strange tilt. He tried to tell Coach that he needed to puke and Coach looked at him oddly. Tommy's speech slurred worse and everything began to spin as his head started pounding. A leg cramp made him lurch.

  Coach asked if he had been drinking alcohol.

  Tommy shook his head; he was so weak and dizzy that he slumped to the ground. Coach said he was dehydrated but looked worried.

  “Something is wrong,” Steve said.

  “Tommy?” Coach leaned over him.

  Tommy tried to say how badly he felt but his words slurred and fumbled in his mouth so he made no sense. He couldn't concentrate on what people were saying and simply watched the sky spin.

  “We're getting the school nurse. I think you have heat exhaustion maybe. Relax and let's get you cooled off.” The coach took some cloth filled it with ice and rubbed Tommy's head and neck.

  “I bubber no rite,” Tommy said.

  He didn't see the Coach's eyes go dark with concern or hear him bark another order: to go call for an ambulance. He didn't see the players had all gathered on their feet to one side or that the cheerleaders had stopped practice and were standing close.

  Tommy's girlfriend was there, in her not-short-enough-skirt, her face set in a deep frown. She was so pretty. He watched her face spin off into the sky with the clouds and was aware that someone was calling his name over and over, but he was too tired and confused to answer. He wanted to sleep.

  With is eyes closed he eased into darkness, finding it more soothing and softer than the spinning sky. He was too exhausted to respond to those calling his name and although the noise around him grew louder it also grew softer muffled, until it was not there at all and there was silence. Because it was easier, Tommy let go and allowed the darkness to take him.

  Tommy's girl, Lisa Marie Yow, cried with worry, as Tommy was loaded into an ambulance and her friends patted her back and hugged her often. She kept asking what could be wrong, but no one answered her. One of her friends Mindy, drover her home because she was shaking so much.

  Coach told the boys to clean up and go home. He had to call Tommy's parents and the principal. “Dump the tub,” he said before he hurried away.

  The boys turned the metal tub over so the water and ice covered the ground; it would melt and soak in quickly. This is what they always did. Another boy held out a plastic garbage bag and they tossed in their empty bottles. He threw the bag into the dumpster.

  The sheriff would later come by and get the bag of bottles and give them to the lab to be checked. Tommy's drinks would find to be tainted with anti-freeze, but none of the the rest were spiked, and the only prints on the bottles were those of the coach, Tommy, and the boy who iced the drinks.

  Two boys were dead.

  Wayne was nervous. Two of his friends were dead and both died mysteriously. He washed his hands in the restroom, still grimacing, and joined another person to go into the theater room. They weren't supposed to be there but he was always up for a little mischief and this was nothing big; they were just playing around and acting silly.

  “Does someone get hanged in the play?”

  “No...it's just a prop, you idiot.”

  “Oh. Well. Kind of a waste, huh?”

  No,” The other person said, “It adds to the play. Props are very important. Did you know I tied this noose?”

  “No way.”

  “I did. Another unused, irrelevant talent, but I did tie it. I'm proud of it. I wonder how real it would look on stage with a real person?”

  Wayne laughed, “Let's see.” He slid the noose over his head and around his neck.

  The other person adjusted it and stepped back to look, “That looks so real. I wonder if it would look real to an audience. Hang on a second....”

  Wayne waited. He wondered if it did look real and even mimicked sticking his tongue out.

  There was a noise, a bang and a plunk of noise; Wayne thought for sure they were busted for being in the theater He reached for the rose to remove it so he could run and maybe get away without being seen but instead, the noose tightened around his throat and the big tight end of the football team was jerked off his feet.

  For a second, Wayne was confused and disoriented to find himself hanging a few feet above the wooden floor off the stage. Quickly, he felt the pain of bearing all of his weight on his neck ad he reached for the rope, clawing at it. It was so tight that it was like digging at steal strands. They didn't budge.

  Wayne realized he couldn't draw a breath. He gasped and strained, but no air came in. Immediately, he panicked, kicking and reaching for the rope. There was no oxygen. The blood supply to his brain was cut off.

  Petechiae formed in throat in patches and then all over his eyes as blood vessels popped from the pressure. His tongue protruded as he fought the rope. Wayne kicked so hard that ligaments in his legs tore, but the rope was strong and the weights let it taut and kept Wayne off the ground. He shredded his fingertips on the rough hemp.

  It was a full four minutes before he sagged. Four minutes isn't a very long time, but as Wayne choked, it was forever, and a violent, brutal end to his life. The panic never let up until he passed out.

  The person with him didn't come out from backstage, but left by a side door, never looking back.

  The Medical Examiner would later shake his head, sympathetic to the absolute torture that Wayne was subjected to.

  When Sheriff Briggs read the reports, he slumped in his chair, alone in his office, and rubbed his jaw. Outside, his deputies took call after call, none of the calls helpful. People demanded answers; they demanded to know why this was happening and who was to blame. He questioned everyone and they shrugged and said, “he was a good boy” each time and little else.

  Principal Hoffman canceled high school classes for Juniors and seniors three times for three terrible, heartbreaking funerals, Teachers, the school administrators, Hoffman and his staff, almost the entire senior class and half the junior class, and another hundred kids from lover grades stood back behind the family. Parents and siblings covered the front row, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and grand parents lined the second and third rows. The boys' girlfriends sat either with the immediate family or on the forth row with their parents. Next sat the football team in crisp dark suits, eyes wet and haunted, and the cheerleaders in black, conservative dresses. Townspeople filled any gaps left and so at each service, the churches were filled to the limit and most people had to squeeze in and stand at the back.

  There were so many plants and flowers, that the local florist did most with only a fifty percent mark-up instead of the usual one hundred percentage. But they were on stands, in vases, in pots, draped the caskets, Yellow mostly for Michael who loved that color, reds for Tommy, and blues for Wayne. Not all of them matched, of course but it was close and the cloying, sweet scents was too much and doors had to be opened.

  Sheriff Briggs watched the mourners carefully for clues of guilt.

  Nothing.

  Porch lights went on a little earlier in the evening and stayed on; so did kitchen lights. The high school kids carpooled ad they went places with their parents or stayed home. Football games were canceled. Thirty three guns were sold within a week and fifteen new dead bolt locks. Twenty baseball bats were purchased.

  Briggs spent time brushing off strange theories, denied some ridiculous rumors, and promised he was awaiting lab reports and was working twenty hours a day on the cases.

  The sheriff's breaking point came when he and Deputy Cannon answered a call from some townspeople who claimed they had the killer.

  Willie Lourdes and Jim-Ed Yow paced around a dirt clearing, their rifles at the ready and side arms in holsters. Some other men carried the recently bought b
aseball bats, ad other carried ropes and pikes. A few women were there, armed as well.

  “Whatcha got, Willie?”

  “I got him that killed my nephew and the other two kids.”

  “We did your job, Briggs,” Yow said. He was the grandfather of the little girl, Lisa Marie who had dated Tommy Neal.

  Briggs saw tow men lying in the dirt, their hands and feet hogtied. Both men were moaning, were covered in blood, bruises, cuts, and mud. Both had broken bones, broken teeth, and blackened, swollen eyes. “Get that shit off them,” Briggs ordered.

  “Now wait a minute....”

  “Guilty or not, we don't hog tie s man and beat him almost to death, before he's been questioned and given a trial. What the flipping hell is wrong with you men? What's wrong with all of ya?”

  “Sheriff...they're rail bums. They came in here...killed the boys...and were about to escape. We caught them.”

  “How do you know they did it?”

  “Lookit. The one had a rope belt. Rope. And the other one had Michael's class ring. He stole it after he killed him.”

  “It's a rope belt. Do you think all rope is part of the one that killed Wayne? How much rope do you have down to your farm, Jim-Ed? Lookit the rope you all had to tie him with. You all might be guilty if that were even the clue we are looking at. Rope? Shit fire, you idiots.”

  Deputy Cannon gently looked at the man's hand and shook his head, “That's his own class ring. Michael's ring wasn't even missing. Where in the shit did you get this man had Michael's ring?”

  “Someone said it....”Willie was still angry and defensive.

  “We're gonna get them to the hospital and get prints and statements and we'll check alibis, but I will say right now, these boys didn't kill anyone. They're half starved, don't know the town or who is who, and have no motive at all. If this don't beat all...you dumb asses come out here and assault two innocent men.”

  “Maybe they ain't innocent,” Willie growled.

  Brigs stood up straight, “”I'd bet my last penny they are. You are gonna pay the medical bills for these men, apologize like ya mean it, and then I will think on charging you for assault or maybe attempted murder!”

  “Awe Sheriff..”

  “Get their names, Cannon, so we know who will be paying the bills.” Briggs heard the wail of an ambulance. “And you folks better hope they make it. If one of them dies...well...it'll be okay...they'll let me be there so I can wave at ya before they fry your asses for murder. Ya stupid bastards. Go give Cannon your names and get the hell out of my sight.”

  The ground was blotched all over with blood and Briggs figured a knife might have been used as well, and he did what he could while awaiting the ambulance. It was all he could do to not shoot everyone standing around. He dimly considered that had the men been Mexican or black, the gang would have lynched them, beaten them to death, or dragged them to death.

  “Willie Jim Ed? Come here.” Briggs was still smoking hot. He handcuffed both despite their whining and blustering. “Frank?”

  Frank Smith was the town's game warden and like a few others. Had come out to see the action after hearing it on the police radio.

  “Yeah Sheriff?”

  “Do me a favor. Grab a few of those who aren't involved and ya like and...deputize them or some shit. You game wardens have some helluva power and I do think that besides beating men to death, those boys were maybe hunting out of season.”

  “Hunting?” Frank was confused.

  “Well sure..all the guns and I would swear I saw some dead squirrels....”

  “That was them Wright brothers wearing those stupid fur caps,” Frank laughed.

  “Naw. I think it was something else. So as GW, can you do a neat trick and confiscated this shit? Take the guns that they won't ever get back....we'll sell them...and go ahead and take every car and truck too.”

  Frank suddenly chuckled. “Will. Hunting out of season is a serious thing. I'll take everything but their underwear, Sheriff. Let 'em walk home. I may need some of them boots for evidence, huh?”

  Sheriff Briggs winked. He yelled, “Put every gun and knife and ball bat on the ground. I mean every single one. Then you hand the Game Warden, Frank, your keys. You know he has the authority....” There were groans and curses. Briggs stomped a foot, next time, don't try to do my job or to kill people...ya hear?”

  The men lived, but Briggs knew he needed help. His town was a powder keg now and the danger wasn't just from a serial killer; the townspeople were turning ugly.

  Jasper Creek, fast running back as he was, wasn't able to outrun a bullet put into his head when he was in his own yard. One was left to be found by his coach, one was killed in front of the entire team and cheerleader squad, one died alone and only accidentally located, and Jasper...he was killed in the most humane way but left to be found by his family. Someone was a real sick person to do all that.

  Unlike the townspeople Briggs and his department knew one thing: it had to be someone who lived there, in town. They knew how to get to the boys and they knew how to cause horror; they were hiding in plain sight.

  Chapter Three: Facts, Jack

  The town looked as if it were locked thirty years in the past, with clean buildings that were old and cozy-looking, benches along the sidewalks, and large, old trees that reached and stretched into the sky. Flower boxes were full of bright yellow and pink blossoms. A library, several churches, and an old hotel dwarfed the smaller buildings, but fit in perfectly with their old-timey designs, fresh white washes, and new roofs.

  It was something from a black and white television program: a perfect little town of happy people, strong morality, and where a good time was a community picnic with lemonade and fried chicken. Only that was a false as the red brick facades on a few of the buildings. The people could walk the walk and talk it up, but the truth was, there were four dead boys.

  Several people walked along clean, wide sidewalks, window shopping, running into the discount store or into the soda shop, or sat and watched the others. Windows were freshly polished and were like large eyes looking out to see what was happening in the streets. The downtown had survived and now thrived as a mainstay for the town. At either end, more modern buildings were in view: a movie theater, a burger joint, and farther along, an old school building that had been partially refurbished.

  The school was decorated with bushes and flowers under the giant tree and had a fairly new football field. Tables and benches, a newly paved parking lot, and new sidewalks looked inviting. It was inconceivable that anything violent happened there; it was too picturesque and down-home.

  When they parked and before they went into the station, Vivian smoothed her slacks and buttoned her jacket. She was glad she got to wear boots in the field, but she remembered how her best friend, Tina, had trained her, and so she checked her hair, making sure it was carefully pinned up. Her face was free of cosmetics, she didn’t wear perfume, and she held her head up. As one of the first dozen females accepted, she was conscious of having to compete and work in a male-dominated occupation.

  Despite what she wished for, it was her duty to look and act professional, and to break the barriers. When she glanced at Marcus, she saw the same thing on his face as he straightened his jacket and brushed away a smudge on one of his boots. He also was aware of preconceived notions and knew that they couldn’t change public opinion, but could make sure they always looked capable.

  Virgil winked and gave her a loving glance. He understood. He knew she worried with good reason. Pretty cops were never taken seriously and she was very attractive; people noticed her looks before realizing she was smart and brave. He could almost read her mind right then and saw Marcus making sure his boots shined. Marcus once told Virgil “They see I am black, and then they see I am FBI. I can’t fix that.”

  Sheriff Owen Briggs welcomed them into his office, shaking hands and repeating their names. If he were surprised by the diversity of the team, he didn’t show it. Smiling as they sat down wi
th him, he pulled out his folders and notes and opened them all on his desk. “I know you are eager to get into the case and I’m eager for a solve. Just seeing you all gives me a sense of relief...I know you’ll find what I simply can’t see.”

  He was older than most sheriffs generally were, probably around seventy or close to it, but he was physically fit, and he had intelligent, twinkling eyes. He spoke in a grandfatherly way: slowly, mildly, and kindly, but he also had a spirit to him that showed he would be tough if needed. Numerous awards hung on the walls. It was easy to see that this man commanded respect and that if he had to raise his voice, it meant he was deadly serious.

  “Thank you for inviting us, Sheriff,” Virgil said.

  “I’m glad to have the help, agents.”

  “Glad to offer it. Do you see much violence in town? It’s a beautiful place and everything feels like it’s set back a few decades. ”

  “Never. I mean we have a few bar fights and an occasional burglary that gets solved fast: always a family member. We get a few domestic violence calls, and that sort of stuff, but mostly, it’s quiet. Parents keep the kids on the right track, and they’re cautious but trusting of everyone else. Few outsiders come here... and most everyone around here goes to church, works steady and hard, and they raise the kids. They go to football games and talent shows...we’re school-oriented and have some of the best school scores in the state. We’re focused on school, God, work, and family...in varying orders,” the sheriff grinned.

  “Do neighbors argue much?” Marcus asked.

  “No, most people here are medium income. We have a number who are at the bottom of the medium, but they work hard and get along fine with the rest. We have a few wealthier families…a tiny bit of snobbery…but not enough to count. People generally focus on the kids and don’t care too much about fussing between themselves.”

  “Racial issues?” Marcus asked.

  “Never. Anyone spouting hatred is likely to find one of the preachers on his doorstep. Our churches are unusually diverse and...prone to butting in, when needed. If anything, people here mind their own business and get along.” There was another grin.