The Lovers’ Lane Murders
Secrets of the South, Book 1
Cynthia Hickey
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Copyright © 2020 Cynthia Hickey
Published by: Winged Publications
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No part of this book may be copied or distributed without the author’s consent.
All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Pressley Taylor pulled the stack of bound papers from her grandmother’s trunk. She couldn’t believe she’d found the notes about the murders from over seventy years ago. More surprising was the wooden box inside the trunk that held a small pistol. She’d heard stories, knew her grandmother had tried finding out who had killed her friend, but Pressley didn’t really think the notes had been kept. It surprised her more to know her sweet grandmother carried a weapon. It always seemed like an urban legend to her. Grandma was incapable of going after a cold-blooded serial killer as a young woman.
Clutching the papers to her chest, she headed down the stairs of the house she’d inherited. At the dining table where she’d shared many holiday meals, she sat down and started at the beginning, doing her best to decipher her grandmother’s scrawling cursive. She booted up her laptop and started typing the notes for easier reading.
February 22, 1946
“Come on, Jean. We’ve dated for a while. Stop stringing me along.” Danny Harrison put his arm around Jean Daley in hopes of stealing a kiss. “Why do you think I drove all the way out here?”
She placed both hands against his chest and shoved him away. “I’m not that kind of girl.” The smile on her face said otherwise, giving him hope.
A twig snapped outside. Her smile faded and her eyes widened. “Did you hear that?”
“Just the sound of my hearting beat.” He turned her to face him.
“Something’s out there,” she whispered.
He groaned and pulled away. “You’re killing me here.” He reached for the key in the ignition. “I might as well take you home if all you’re going to do is tease.”
The hood of the car slammed up, then down. A large man wearing tan pants, a baggy work shirt, and a pillowcase over his head with holes cut for the eyes, dangled cords in front of the window.
Jean screamed, fumbling for the lock on the door. “Drive, Danny!”
He turned the key over and over to no avail. “Just give him what he wants.” He dug for his wallet, tossing it out the window before rolling the window up and locking the door.
Jean’s screams vibrated in the car. Fear struck her senseless.
The masked man bent and peered through the window, tapping the glass with a thick stick. His eyes glittered in the light of the midnight moon. He raised his arm and slammed the wood hard against the windshield again and again. Jean shrieked with each hit, pressing her back against the seat.
The glass shattered. He reached inside and grabbed Danny by the shirt, pulling him across the jagged shards and across the hood, leaving a trail blood in his wake. Then he turned toward her and put his finger to his mouth, which only caused Jean to shriek louder. “I don’t want to kill you, so do as I say.”
He dropped the stick and pulled a gun from his pocket, smashing the weapon multiple times over Danny’s head and shoulders until the young man lay limp. Jean fought to open her door. When she succeeded, she fell to the ground, then scrambled for the woods.
A hand gripped her hair and yanked her back, dragging her toward Danny’s body. The attacker left her a limp heap beside her boyfriend.
“Please, don’t hurt me.” Tears blurred her vision. Her gaze locked on the gun swinging toward her head.
She woke, her body battered and bleeding. Gripping the grass around her, she painfully dragged herself away from Danny’s body. Her assailant watched from the edge of the trees, telling her to run. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet and staggered away.
A car sat at the end of the road. “Help me.” She limped forward and froze as the masked man stepped in front of her.
“Why are you running?”
“You told me to.” Her voice shook.
“Liar.” He backhanded her, knocking her to the ground.
Darkness overcame her again. When she opened her eyes the second time, the man and the car were gone. Jean raced down the road.
A farmhouse shone like a mirage in front of her. Sobs choking her, Jean pounded on the door until a man in a bathrobe answered. “Help me.” She collapsed at his feet.
Present Day
Pressley didn’t think she’d sleep easy that night. She glanced at a yellowed copy of the Texarkana Gazette stuck in among her grandmother’s notes. “Sex Maniac Hunted.” She flipped through the pages of notes. Where did it say Jean Daley had been assaulted?
Had the town dealt with not only a serial killer but a rapist? Not finding the answer to her question, she stood and placed her hands on her lower back. She leaned backward, sighing at the loosening pops of her spine.
Organizing these notes would take some time. Pressley couldn’t consider heading to Texarkana to investigate until any facts she found were in order. It would be a wild goose chase otherwise, and she’d receive no help from the local police unless she had solid information to give them.
Pressley couldn’t take too long, though. Her job had only given her three months to get her grandmother’s affairs in order. She planned on two weeks to go through the notes and formulate a plan to finish what Grandma had started. Could she do that in such a short time? Why not just quit her job and write that book she’d been thinking about? Grandma had left her a nice inheritance. She could take as long as needed.
She rolled her shoulders and poured herself a glass of wine. Hopefully, it would help clear the vision of the attack by the Phantom, the name given the killer by newspapers, so she could sleep.
His first two victims had survived their terrifying ordeal. History informed her those that followed wouldn’t be as lucky, one of them being Grandma’s friend. Still, Pressley didn’t think she would’ve summoned the bravery needed to discover a killer’s identity at the young age of twenty as Grandma had. Yet again, Pressley inherited some of that same backbone or she wouldn’t be digging into the murders at the age of twenty-five.
Having grown up on Grandma’s stories from childhood on, Pressley had always wanted to find out what really happened. During the reading of Grandma’s will, the lawyer had said that Pressley would find what she needed in an old trunk in the attic and that Grandma’s dying wish was that her granddaughter pick up where she’d left off.
Pressley smiled. She’d found it all right, and it was a doozy. Excitement coursed through her along with the drink. What if she succeeded where local law enforcement and Texas Rangers hadn’t? Imagine the book she could write!
Before she could change her mind, she booked a room in a local bed and breakfast in Texarkana. Pressley might as well leave as soon as possible and continue her research where it had all happened. She didn’t have much reason to stay in Applewood anyway.
~
The next morning, suitcases, notes, and laptop packed, Pressley made the three-hour drive to where it had all begun. After checking into the B & B, she unpacked and drove to the location of the first attacks just as the sun started to set.
She doubted things looked the same af
ter so long, but she hoped to get a “feel” of the place. Locking the car, she strolled the path described in the newspaper and tried to envision the fear of a sudden attack while parking with one’s sweetheart.
Parking. Pressley had stayed so busy with schoolwork in high school that she’d never gone parking. She hadn’t dated much in college either. Her grandmother had instilled such fear in her over the events in 1946 that even the thought of being in a car alone with a boy after dark had made her blood run cold. That fear left her missing out on a lot of teenage activities.
Now, she gripped that fear with both hands, fully intending to face and conquer what had imprisoned not only Pressley’s grandmother, but Pressley herself.
She strolled past the side of the road, immersing herself in the events of February 22, 1946. Tears blurred her vision as she heard the screams of Danny and Jean.
Headlights illuminated the area as a vehicle pulled behind her car. She shrank back into the shadows, unable to see the driver because of the lights in her eyes.
“Ma’am?” A flashlight replaced the headlights, then clicked off to reveal a police officer. “I received a report of a strange vehicle. May I ask what you’re doing out here alone?”
Pressley put a trembling hand to her heart. “Research.” She stepped from the shadows and closer to her car. “I thought you were… well—”
“The Phantom?” A hint of laughter mingled with his words. “You aren’t the first to come looking. This isn’t the spot. Follow me.” He led her a few yards down the road and off the asphalt. “I’ve heard it happened here. You do know he’s most likely dead by now?” He faced her. “Who are you?”
“Pressley Taylor. My grandmother was friends with one of the victims. She left me copious notes.”
He nodded. “I’m Officer Jackson Hudson. I’m familiar with the name from former officers, one of whom was my grandfather. Your grandmother interfered with their investigation a time or two. How’s she doing? She’d be what, in her nineties now? I lost my grandfather ten years ago.”
“Yes, she’d be around the same age as The Phantom if he’s still alive.”
“Nothing to say he is or isn’t.” He tilted his head. “Why are you digging this all up again?”
“My grandmother’s dying wish was that I find out what happened. I may write a book about it, using her notes. She left enough of an inheritance for me to spend plenty of time searching for the truth.” Pressley crossed her arms. “Am I breaking the law by being here?”
“No, just dredging up things best left buried. Go home, Ms. Taylor. Let the dead rest in peace.” He turned and marched to his car.
“May I come to the station and ask you questions in the morning?”
“Let it be.” He slammed his car door and backed up, turning around in the road before speeding off.
Pressley shrugged. The handsome officer hadn’t been pleased at all with her explanation for being in Texarkana. She didn’t care. Her goal was to fulfill Grandma’s dying wish with or without the help of local law enforcement.
The question was—why wouldn’t the police want to solve the murder, no matter how long ago it happened?
Chapter Two
March 24, 1946
Roger Johnson took Paula Wilson’s hand. “You don’t have to be home just yet, right?”
“What do you have in mind?” She pressed against his arm.
“A little smooching.” He grinned.
“I don’t know, Roger. What about the attacks a month ago? That guy’s still out there.” She shuddered, remembering the newspaper article she’d read. “He’s a pervert, too. I read he assaulted that girl.”
“We’ll stay close to the road. No one would dare bother us when someone could drive by at any time. Besides, I bet he was a vagrant traveling through and is long gone by now.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly, glancing around the deserted street. Folks had started staying out later when no murders followed close on the heels of the first one, but there still weren’t as many people out as usual. “Just for a little while, though. It’s Sunday night, and I have school in the morning.”
Roger opened the door for her, then hurried to the driver’s side. “I’ll make it worth the late hour.” He winked and started the car.
True to his word, Roger parked just off the main road, easing some of Paula’s worry. She turned sideways in the seat and smiled. “Remember, not too long.”
“Just a few kisses.” He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap.
They hadn’t been kissing long when someone tapped on the window. Paula pulled back and stared into eye holes of a pillowcase. She screamed and launched herself to the passenger side of the seat.
The stranger yanked open Roger’s door and dragged him out, forcing Roger to his knees. Paula’s fingers slipped on the door handle as tears blurred her vision. She closed her eyes as a shot rang out.
~
Hank Woodrow drove slowly past the parked car, craning to see anyone inside. Not being able to, he stopped and got out of his truck. With a cautious glance around the area, he approached the vehicle. “Hello?” He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the window. He shrieked and stumbled back.
A young woman lay dead in the front seat, her head against the far window. A man, wrapped in a blanket, lay dead in the backseat. Seconds later, he sped back toward town and the police.
“They’re dead.” He sagged against the desk of Officer Hudson.
“Slow down. Tell me what you saw.” Officer Clyde Hudson grabbed his hat and gun and stepped around the desk.
“Two young people shot dead.” Hank gave directions to the scene. “Right there on the side of the road.”
“Lead the way, Mr. Woodrow.” Clyde dashed for his car and followed the other man to where a dark Plymouth sat. “Stay in your car,” he told the other man as he pulled his weapon and approached the parked car.
He didn’t need to check for a pulse on either victim. The gunshot in the back of their heads told him they were dead. He stepped back and shined a flashlight around the ground finding the spot where the male had been killed execution-style before being placed in the backseat of the car.
The roar of an engine broke the night’s silence. Clyde stepped into the middle of the road in time to see a black Ford speed away. The killer had stayed to watch the aftermath. The officer returned to his car and called the station. “Be on the lookout for a black Ford, make 1941. Time to call in reinforcements. Get the Texas Rangers here. We’ve got a serial killer on our hands.”
“You sure? You don’t think it’s too soon?” his captain asked.
“Pretty sure. It’s been twenty-one days since the last attack, and this time he killed them. He’s escalating.” An icy fist gripped Clyde’s heart. Would the killer wait another twenty-one days or would he kill again sooner the next time? This crime was far more violent and daring than the previous one. “The victims are parked on the side of the road, Captain. The killer took a big chance at someone driving by and seeing while he killed them. The male victim isn’t a small man. His attacker would have to be on the large side to lift his body into the backseat.”
“That narrows it down.” The captain’s sarcasm dripped across the radio waves.
“It’s better than nothing. Over and out.” Clyde disconnected and went to secure the crime scene after telling Woodrow to go home and not tell anyone about what he’d seen.
~
Pressley sat at a table in the library and pored over old books that mentioned the murders in 1946. Very little was said that her grandmother hadn’t already written. Grandma had been as thorough as possible for a civilian. Very impressive for a young college graduate. She’d given up the search when she married and started having babies, but there was still more unknowns she’d left for Pressley to investigate.
The librarian strolled by pushing a cart full of books to be reshelved. “Need any help?”
Pressley rolled her shoulders. “Is there anyone al
ive that would remember The Phantom murders in 1946?”
“There’s a few who come to mind. They all live in the nursing home next to the highway. Mr. Carson, Mr. Marvin, and Mrs. Oglesby, but she has dementia. You’d have to catch her on a good day. Why are you so interested in something that happened so long ago?” Her brow furrowed.
“Just a project I’m working on.” Pressley smiled. “I’m fascinated with unsolved crimes.”
“Do you work in law enforcement?”
“No, I’m a journalist on vacation.” She thanked the woman and turned back to the books in front of her. The most popular assumption of the killer’s identity was the car thief. That didn’t make sense to Pressley, but the murders had stopped upon his arrest. But why go from stealing automobiles to serial killing?
She leaned toward the same conclusion her grandmother had, that the killer was a soldier who returned home from the war wounded enough in his head to turn to murder. She straightened in her chair. Maybe he’d returned home with a head injury that caused him to turn violent.
Closing the books and leaving them on the table as the librarian had instructed, she grabbed her purse and notes and headed toward the nursing home.
“I’m not sure how much they can tell you,” the woman at the front desk of the home said, “but if they’re willing to talk to you, I don’t see why you can’t ask a few questions. Mrs. Oglesby is having a good day. You might want to start there. But, if they say no, I don’t want you pestering them.”
“I won’t. Thank you.” She watched as the woman wrote down the names and room numbers on a sticky note.
“Just follow the signs. We have a fairly simple layout. Lunch will be served soon, and the residents don’t like to miss their meals.”
Mrs. Oglesby was the first room. She poked her head into her room to see a woman in a housedress watching a game show on television. “Ma’am?”
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