The Lovers' Lane Murders

by Cynthia Hickey

  “He’s not our man.”

  Gonzales shook his head. “No, he isn’t. We’re back to square one. If The Phantom strikes again, we won’t be able to hold back the panic.”

  “It’s already high.” Clyde slid into the driver’s seat of the squad car. In the ten years Clyde had worked on the force, he’d never run into a situation of this magnitude. With the return of soldiers from the second war, things had definitely changed in Texarkana. “What’s our next step?”

  “Curfew. Reward.”

  “Already done.”

  Gonzales gave a grim smile. “We set a trap.”

  May 3, 1946

  “Hank, you want a drink while I’m in the kitchen?” Molly Simpson peered around the corner to where her husband sat in his favorite chair.

  “Nah, I’m good. It’s almost time for bed. Just giving the heating pad a chance to ease the crick in my back.” He returned his attention to the newspaper in his hands.

  Molly carried her drink into the living room but froze. A man wearing a pillowcase over his head stood outlined in the window. He raised a gun.

  Molly’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open as he fired twice into the back of Hank’s head. She screamed and raced for the phone on the wall, cranked it twice, then yelled police into the receiver.

  The man fired again, striking her in the face, then again. She sagged against the wall, blood staining the house robe she wore. Her hand lifted to her face. “Hank?” Sobs and blood threatened to choke her as the shooter headed for the front door and tore through the screen.

  Molly stumbled toward the back where Hank kept their pistol, her hand leaving a trail of smeared blood on the walls. Hearing the man, she switched direction and headed for the back door. Her hands slipped on the door handle. She sobbed and fumbled to open the door as footsteps fell behind her. Finally, she lumbered outside and staggered across the street to her sister’s house. When no one answered, she raced to the next neighbor.

  Drawing on strength she didn’t know she had, Molly continued on, praying, crying—the pain in her face unbearable. She fell onto the Wilson’s lawn. “Help me! Hank’s dead.”

  A light flickered on. Mr. Wilson stepped onto the porch. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me. Molly.” She held up a hand and glanced back, screaming as the masked man stopped across the street.

  Mr. Wilson darted into the house, re-emerging with a shotgun. “You there! Get out of here or I’ll shoot.” He fired, kicking up dirt at the man’s feet.

  The shooter turned and disappeared into the cornfield behind Molly’s house.

  ~

  “Got another one.” Clyde grabbed his hat and raced from the police station. In the car, he turned to Gonzales. “Not a lovers’ lane murder this time. He attacked a middle-aged couple in their home. The woman escaped and made it to a neighbor’s house.”

  “That’s not his usual.” Gonzales frowned. “Why change things up now?”

  Clyde shrugged and turned on the siren, speeding toward the Wilson home. “Maybe he was bored.”

  “No, he’s planning his next move.”

  Clyde drove to the Simpson home, leaving Mr. Wilson to be questioned by other officers. The body of Hank lay on the floor near his chair where he’d fallen. The front door hung open, the screen cut and peeled to the side. The faint odor of burnt fabric rose from a heating pad on the man’s chair.

  Blood marked Molly’s desperate flight from the house. A husband reading the newspaper, a wife getting ready for bed. It didn’t make sense. Was the killer so desperate for victims that he broke into people’s houses because no one visited the lovers’ lanes anymore? Was the dusk curfew what sent the killer into these people’s home?

  Clyde moved outside the window where the killer had stood. A flashlight lay at the base of a bush.

  “Bloody footprints look like they match prints found at the other murders,” Gonzales called through the window. “How much is the reward up to now?”

  “Over seven thousand, last I heard.” Clyde picked up the flashlight and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Mrs. Simpson’s purse and jewelry were left untouched.” Gonzales joined him outside. “Robbery isn’t a motive. It’s bloodlust plain and simple. That or the man is sex-crazed.”

  “We don’t have proof that any of the female victims were sexually assaulted.” Clyde took one more look around the area. Not finding any other clues, he headed for the car. “Might want to raise the reward. Maybe folks will donate money.” He told the ranger about the flashlight.

  “Send that to Washington ASAP. Tomorrow, I’ll have a press conference. Let’s flush this bastard out.”

  Present Day

  Pressley spent the rest of the afternoon printing out and poring over newspaper articles from the spring of 1946. The police had very little to go on back then.

  Tips had poured into the station, all of them leading nowhere. She glanced at her grandmother’s journal. What secrets were still left to be revealed? Any? Obviously, Grandma had run up against a dead end, too, or she would have turned over her notes to the authorities.

  The newspapers mentioned a petty car thief as the murder suspect because the killing stopped when the man was arrested for his crimes. No way it could be that easy. Besides, stealing cars and killing people were two different things.

  A glance at the clock had her gathering her things and rushing to meet Jackson. She slid into a seat across the round table from him. “Who is Beckett?”

  “The local eccentric.” He tilted his head to the side. “His family owns a lot of land around here and has lived in the area for over a hundred years. Why?”

  “Because I was told he knew a lot about what happened that spring.” She set her briefcase on the floor and pulled out the folder of duplicate copies. “Here you go. It makes for excellent reading.”

  “What do you think happened?” Jackson’s mouth quirked.

  “I don’t go along with the original assumption of someone passing through once a month. No, I’m certain it was a resident of Texarkana. Fueled by…that’s what I’m here to find out. A returned soldier suffering from PTSD seems the most likely.” She opened the laminated menu. “Soldiers returning home, new people moving to town, jobs opening up. Yep, The Phantom lived here, chose his victims, and followed them. He had to have been a big man, strong enough to pull those men from their cars. When he no longer had anyone to follow in the nighttime hours, he attacked a couple in their home.”

  “You should be a cop the way your mind works. Have you read the interview of Mrs. Simpson?”

  “Not in any detail. It’s in my bag to read tonight.”

  He laughed. “Great reading right before bed.”

  “I’m not scared. That particular killer is long dead.” She chose a French dip sandwich with fries and a diet soda. From the shadow in Jackson’s eyes, she could tell he was worried she’d bring someone to light who didn’t want new information found.

  He ordered a double cheeseburger and handed the waitress their menus. “I’m off tomorrow, so I’ll go through all you’ve brought me tonight. Once I know what we have, we can make a plan.”

  “I’d like to speak with your grandfather tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

  He sighed. “I’d rather you didn’t go alone, so yes.”

  “What about Beckett? Do you know him?”

  “Not really. The man stays to himself. Owns the hardware store.”

  Pressley suddenly needed a box of nails. Questioning the man at work might be easier if she seemed like a curious tourist rather than someone writing a book. She also didn’t want Jackson with her when she asked Beckett questions. The man was bound to know the local police and would put his guard up.

  “If my grandfather is coherent tomorrow,” Jackson said as the waitress set his food in front of him, “he’ll remember your grandmother very well.”

  “I guess she made a nuisance of herself.” Pressley sniffed the savory jus that came with her sandwich, then gla
nced up with a smile. “Kind of like me.”

  “It’s obvious you two share the same bloodline.” He laughed and bit into his burger.

  At least he smiled at her now instead of frowned. His smile could make the saddest person feel better. Dark hair, thick lashes around hazel eyes, and a dimple that revealed itself only when he truly smiled made the officer appealing to the senses.

  “Why aren’t you married?” she said between bites.

  “Never found the right girl, I guess. Not many want to date a police officer, even in small towns. Do you ever stop asking questions? Why aren’t you married?”

  “Never met anyone I cared to spend much time with.” Plus, she’d been obsessed with The Phantom since finding her grandmother’s diary and didn’t have time to date. “I’ve got time before the old clock starts ticking. Right now, I have this story to finish.”

  He shrugged. “I feel the same way about my work. I’m busy, I have a dog, and I own my on home. Life is fine.” He narrowed his eyes. “That’s why I’m not excited about digging all this up.”

  “But I’ve found enough reason to reopen a cold case.” She dunked her sandwich into the broth.

  “I doubt it will ever be reopened.”

  “Maybe not, but I will find out the identity of The Phantom, open case or not.”

  Chapter Five

  1946

  Mary Ann Warren stood off to the side as Ranger Gonzales approached the podium in front of the police station. To his left, looking very serious, was Officer Hudson. She couldn’t imagine the pressure law enforcement must be under. Earlier that morning, she’d heard that over forty officers were trying to catch The Phantom, and they’d gathered from four different states!

  “Please refrain from spreading rumors,” Gonzales said. “These only take our officers from the main route of the investigation. It’s so important that we capture this man that we cannot afford to overlook any lead, no matter how fantastic it may seem. That is how you can best help the authorities.”

  What had Mary Ann missed while focusing on her own thoughts? She listened as news reporters blurted out questions. She glanced around the crowd. “Wow. The whole country must be represented here.”

  “Well, sure.” Mark Clark grinned, stopping next to her. “The ranger said on the radio last night that every citizen should keep their guns oiled and at the ready. Some of the guys and I are heading out to Lovers’ Lane to try and trap this fiend. Wanna come?”

  She frowned. “That’s dangerous.”

  “But we’re all armed. Those poor other people weren’t. The jerk won’t know what hit him.”

  Gonzales cleared his throat at the podium and raised his hand to quiet the reporters’ questions. “Someone knows someone who wasn’t where they belonged on the night of the murders. We want every man and woman in Bowie and Miller counties to recall if they know of someone out of pocket on those nights. Persons who have such information and have been withholding it when they should report it are interfering in an investigation. Come forward. All information will be kept confidential. This maniac must be captured. We believe that we are justified in going to any ends to halt this chain of murder. This killer may strike anyone…anywhere. Come forward in the interest of self-preservation.”

  “See?” Mark nodded. “That’s why me and the guys are taking the initiative. The police need our help.” He pulled a page ripped from a newspaper from his pocket. “Look what they found at the Simpson house.”

  She glanced at the photo of a two-cell flashlight. “That’s a clue.” She’d have to get a copy of that newspaper to add to her notes.

  “No fingerprints.” He returned the page to his pocket. “So, you comin’ tonight or what? Billy’s going to wear a dress and pretend to be a dame.”

  She laughed. “That I gotta see, but I’m staying hidden.”

  “Don’t be a chicken. I’ll pick you up at ten.” He flashed another grin and loped to where a group of boys stood.

  Mary Ann wrapped her arms around the notebook she carried and strolled toward the library. She had some things to think through…possibilities of who the killer might be. A man wearing soldier fatigues passed her, and she smiled at him. His head was down, and one hand was shoved into his pocket, while the other clutched a duffel bag. A few yards away, Mary Ann turned to see him staring after her. She shuddered and increased her pace. He wasn’t the first man to watch her—she was pretty, people told her. But the look in his eyes left her chilled.

  ~

  “Got a tip,” the receptionist, Marge, called out. “Mrs. Russell said someone is lurking outside her window.

  “On my way.” Clyde grabbed his hat and dashed out the door, Gonzales on his heels. Lord, don’t let it be another wild goose chase. Those kind of tips had been flooding the station all day. They needed to be out patrolling the streets at night, not wasting their time.

  Mrs. Russell peered between a slit in the curtains when they pulled up. When she made a move to open the door, Clyde motioned her back. If The Phantom was on the property, which he doubted, he didn’t need to worry about her coming between him and the killer.

  The bushes to his right rustled. With his hand on the butt of the gun on his hip, he parted the branches. A cat sprang out and dashed across the street. Clyde stumbled back, knocking over a trashcan and sending debris across the sidewalk.

  Gonzales cursed. “Another false alarm.” He waved for Mrs. Russell to step out of the house. “Ma’am, it was a cat. Please. Only call when there’s real danger.”

  “I wasn’t going to go out and investigate.” Her eyes widened. “I’m here alone. My husband is out of town on business. What did you expect me to do?” She pulled a gun from the pocket of her robe. “I’m armed but not a very good shot.”

  Clyde rolled his eyes. “Maybe there’s someone you can stay with until your husband returns?”

  “No one.”

  The police radio called in another spotting of a strange man standing on someone’s porch as rain dumped from heavy clouds. The good thing about the downpour is it might keep the young bucks wanting to trap the killer at home.

  Clyde and Gonzales approached the house of the next call. “Hands up. Stay right where you are.” They pulled their weapons and aimed them at the suspect.

  “I’m not doing anything except getting out of the rain,” the man said. “The bus is late.”

  The man’s small stature ruled him out as The Phantom. “You frightened the home’s occupants. Sir, there’s a curfew.”

  “I had to work late, I swear.” His hands trembled. “Is that why there’s no bus?”

  Clyde sighed. “We’ll find someone to give you a lift home.” He called the station for a volunteer.

  “Received a report of someone wearing a mask over on Roosevelt,” Marge said. “Someone knocking on the door on Olive, and gunshots over on County.”

  “Aren’t there any other officers available?”

  “They’re all busy. These are the ones left without responders.”

  “On our way.” Leaving the man on the porch and letting the homeowners know about his reason for being there, Clyde drove with Gonzales to the other calls.

  A loose white-faced calf explained the masked man, gunshots were fired because someone thought they saw someone running through their yard, and the knock on the door was a special delivery forgotten about during the day. Hours of work that resulted in no new leads.

  “Officer Hudson, would you mind letting me in on what all happened tonight?” Mary Ann Taylor, hair dripping from the rain, stepped from behind a bush. Behind her stood Mark and his gang. “I’m writing it all down so future generations will know what happened here.”

  Could the night get any worse?

  “Wonderful.” Gonzales stood right behind her. “I’m recruiting you to be a decoy.”

  ~

  Jackson picked Pressley up after breakfast the next morning. “My grandfather is lucid today, but we’d better hurry. Sometimes, he slips fast.”

&
nbsp; “I appreciate this.” Pressley slid into the passenger seat and clicked on her seatbelt. Hopefully, Mr. Hudson would have something new to tell her, and she’d also have another opportunity to speak with the other men and Mrs. Oglesby.

  They signed in at the front desk before Pressley followed Jackson to a room at the end of the hall. He knocked, then opened the door. “Grandpa?”

  “Come in, boy. It’s been a while.” An elderly man in a wheelchair turned from the window, a smile gracing his wrinkled face. “Who’s your pretty friend?”

  “This is Pressley Taylor. I believe you knew her grandmother, Mary Ann.”

  “Ah, yes. An intelligent but nosy young lady. How is she?”

  Pressley held out her hand. “She passed recently, sir.”

  A cloud shadowed his features. “Too bad. She was a pesky young thing but had a good head on her shoulders. I already said that, didn’t I? Sit, please.” He motioned toward a small love seat across from him. “I’m guessing you’re here to ask me some questions, and my grandson is here to make sure you don’t tire me out, am I right?”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled, then glanced up at Jackson.

  “Why do you think The Phantom was never caught? Did he leave town?”

  Mr. Hudson rubbed his chin. “The murders stopped after the shooting of Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. A man stole a car, went to jail, and the murders stopped. After three months, the case was closed. We’d gotten our man, or so it seemed.”

  Pressley leaned forward, her gaze intent on the old man’s face. “You don’t think so?”

  “No. I think the killer simply got scared and stopped. The town was overrun with law enforcement, folks were more vigilant, carried weapons…it became too dangerous for even a serial killer in the town of Texarkana. Whatever drove him to kill had eased. I always thought him a local man.”

  “I do too.” Pressley tapped her foot. Finally, someone who believed as she and her grandmother did. “Any ideas?”

  He grinned, clicking his false teeth. “If I did, I would have arrested the man. Whoever it was, had too much to lose by getting caught. He killed for the thrill of it, then backed off. That’s my opinion at least.”