A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  I figured Bettye for mid- to late-thirties and thought her face showed more than one person’s share of character.

  But her frown suggested that something was troubling her. I used plenty of deodorant that morning. Couldn’t be me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” I offered her a smile most girls can’t resist.

  “That’s okay.” She returned a little grin, but a weak one.

  “Are you having a bad day?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered quickly. “Oh, well, yes, I guess. But I’m okay, Chief. It’s just that your predecessor came in on Monday, learned his retirement would be effective on Thursday and took sick time for the rest of the week. He left me in charge.” She rolled her eyes at the word ‘retirement’. “I’m just trying to clean things up and get ready for you on Monday. But…you’re here today.” She made it sound like I had rained on her parade.

  “Can I assume Buck left you with at least a few things unfinished?”

  “Yes, sir, he surely did.”

  She had a lovely voice, an accent that would make Scarlett O’Hara jealous.

  “Look, they’re not paying you to act as the police chief,” I said. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix whatever is necessary together.”

  A flicker of relief showed. Her shoulders dropped half-an-inch, and some of the stress left her face.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Let’s talk about what’s happening.”

  She sat in her swivel chair and tossed the granny glasses onto her blotter. I took the side chair next to her desk, spun it round and rested my forearms on the seatback.

  “Okay, let’s start over. Hi, I’m Sam Jenkins, your new boss.”

  She cracked a smile, one more genuine than her previous attempt.

  “And it’s Sam. Sir, Chief or Your Highness isn’t necessary. If you’re going to be formal, I’ll have to call you Officer Lambert, and I don’t want to do that.”

  My wit and charm got a big, beautiful smile from Bettye. Sir Galahad could take lessons from me.

  I told her about the mayor’s plans. She explained what work she wanted to clear up. None of it sounded critical.

  “Relax, Bettye. Nothing there involves preserving world peace. Work on it when you can, or save some for me.”

  The radio crackled, and one of the patrol cops asked to be taken out of service for a meal period.

  “I’ll let you get back to being the desk officer, and I’ll take a look around,” I said. “Is anyone else here?”

  “No, sir, I mean, Sam. Three men are on the road. I’m here alone.”

  “Well, not anymore. Excuse me while I wander around.”

  Beyond the glass divider behind Bettye’s desk, I saw rows of file cabinets and some computer gear, a rack of portable radios and some other gadgets necessary to the modern police department. Bettye’s desk held a big telephone console, a radio transceiver and microphone to speak with the patrol cars and several computer components.

  To her right, a visitor’s left, I found the chief’s office. Farther back and down the hall on the left, the overnight detention cells and a combination interrogation and juvenile offender room extended to the back wall. On the right, what cops call the ID room—the place to fingerprint and photograph defendants, came first. Behind that, the uniformed officers’ squad room. The only squad room because we had no detectives. It occupied the largest space in the floor plan. Prospect PD in a nutshell.

  When I finished my self-guided tour, I entered my new office. Not bad, I thought, as I heard my stomach growl. I looked at my watch: 12:15.

  Back in the lobby, I asked Bettye, “What time do you usually take lunch?”

  “Usually at one, but I didn’t plan on going out today. I brought a container of yogurt.”

  I made a face at the thought. “That’s not much to eat. I’ll never make it until dinner without eating lunch. I’ll go out and pick up something—my treat. Anything good close by?”

  “There’s Hardee’s across the street.” She shrugged and wrinkled her nose, as though not convinced they were good.

  “How’s the Chinese place on the square,” I asked.

  “Wah Lum? They’re good,” she said with more conviction.

  “Wah Lum it is. You need a menu?”

  “No, I’ll just have sweet and sour pork, but I’ll pay.” She opened a desk drawer and reached for a purse.

  “Not necessary. Old cop tradition—new guy buys lunch on the first day. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Thirty minutes later, we sat around her desk, her with sweet and sour pork and me with Hunan chicken.

  “Mr. Lum seems like a nice guy,” I said. “He told me he escaped from Communist China over the Canton border and lived in Kowloon before coming to the US. And like me, he came here from New York.”

  “You learned all that in just a few minutes?”

  “Sure. He likes to talk. I ask questions.”

  “Well.”

  “So, how long have you been a cop?” I asked, as I popped another piece of spicy chicken into my mouth.

  Before I finished lunch, I learned that Bettye started her career in Prospect as the magistrate’s court officer.

  Thirteen years earlier, her first husband, Walter Hitchens, a Prospect police officer, died one night after being run down by a drunk driver. That left Bettye a widow with two young daughters. She asked to fill Walt’s spot at the PD, needing the extra salary to help make ends meet. Ronnie Shield’s predecessor ordered a reluctant Buck Webbster to hire her as a cop.

  “I’m sorry to hear what happened to Walt, but you’re not Bettye Hitchens any longer.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “My second husband, Donnie, is an electrical contractor. We have a son, Donald Junior.” She sounded proud of them.

  We spoke more, mostly of personal things. She didn’t hesitate to admit being forty-two-years-old. I wouldn’t either if I looked as good as her.

  During lunch, a few routine calls came in on our 9-1-1 line, a minor first aid case, a stolen car report and a neighbor dispute. Bettye dispatched the cars like a real pro. I knew I’d like working with her.

  At quarter-to-two, I was impatient and ready to hike up to the mayor’s office on the second floor. Before I left, I gave Bettye an assignment.

  “I don’t know how long the Maharaja will have me upstairs,” I said, “but I’d like to meet the street cops before they go home. Is anything exciting going on that would keep you from calling the cars in so we can all have a powwow?”

  She gave me a big smile. “Sam, it’s two o’clock on a Friday afternoon in Prospect, Tennessee. The sun is shinin’. There are no wrecks on the roads—‘course I can call in the cars. You want them here about 3:30? That way when the four o’clock shift comes in a little early, as they usually do, we’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”

  “Lady, with ideas like that you’ll be the first sergeant here in no time. You’re doing a fine job being a cop. I hope I can remember how it’s done.”

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  A Role to Kill For

  A Matt Murphy Mystery

  by H. Paul Doucette

  When the mutilated body of a young man is found in an alley in the early hours of a winter's day, events would be set in motion that would lead Matt Murphy into the world of a young woman's twisted desire to find a love that could never be had and the betrayal of a father.

  As the bodies pile up, he is drawn into the delusional mind of a serial killer who is obsessed with young, handsome actors working the Off Broadway circuit of the Village. Why these men? And, why the mutilations? As Murphy delves further into the case, he knows he is moving closer to a confrontation: a confrontation that will stay with him for the rest of his life.

  Enjoy a sneak peek of

  Chapter One

  I was sitting in my office when I got the call at eleven thirty. My contact had called to tell me she was there but by the
time I arrived she'd already left with someone. It took a half hour to find out who it was she left with and where he lived. Before I left, I called Abe Goldman and gave him the address then went out and hailed a cab.

  The three story brownstone was quiet. It was typical—one of many in most of New York's neighborhoods. They were part of the character of the city, resonating with history. I stood on the opposite side of the street looking at the fourth building in the row of eight that ran the length of the block. Almost all of them were dark: their occupants long gone to bed for the night. There were a few with the odd light on but it was the fourth one that interested me. That's where I traced her to. She was there now.

  Lights were on in two of the apartments, one on the first floor, and one on the second. She was in the one on the second. I took out my .45, released the safety and held it down beside my leg and crossed the street. The stone steps lead up to the glass paned doors set in under the arched facade. One of the doors was slightly ajar. I slowly pushed it in with my foot and stepped in. Music was coming from the second floor. Melancholy. Moody.

  Moving to the carpeted stairs, I made my way up. The music was coming from the room on the left down the corridor. The one facing the street. I approached the door and braced myself then placed a solid kick at the area around the door knob. The door burst in with a loud crash.She sat at a small desk with her back to me writing in a book. The knife sat on the desktop to her right. I saw that it had blood on it. Looking quickly around the room, I saw the bed and the body of a man laying on it with one leg hanging over the side. It wasn't hard to see the massive amount of blood that stained the sheets or his exposed and mutilated groin. I raised the gun and centered my aim on the middle of her back.

  “I knew it would be you that would find me,” she said without turning.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  “It wasn't me, you know. It was her fault. She ruined them. All I wanted was love, you know. Was that too much to hope for?”

  “No. It wasn’t. But they didn’t have to die.”

  “Oh, but they did. They promised so much then lied.” She continued to write something.

  “They were actors. They were acting for chrissake.”

  “Doesn't matter.” She sat there for a moment not moving then she stiffened in the chair, dropped the pen, and reached for the knife.

  “Don’t.” I thumbed the hammer back. The clicking of the hammer locking in the firing position sounded loud.

  She ignored my warning and turned and started to stand.

  “Don’t do it. Drop the knife.” I saw the look of sadness in her eyes and knew without a doubt that she was going to attack.

  “It's got to be this way, don't you see. I can't live with the lies anymore. I can't live with her.” She raised the knife in an overhand striking position, then, with a shriek, she flew at me. I squeezed the trigger.

  The room reverberated with the roar of the gunshot. Cordite filled the air. The bullet struck her in the chest lifting her off her feet and driving her body back against the desk sending everything flying as it upended. She slid to the floor, her body lying crumpled against the desk from the impact of a .45 bullet fired at close range. Blood had started to pool around her body from the wound. The look of sadness frozen on her face. No surprise. No shock. Just sadness. It had to end this way. She knew it. I knew it.

  I noticed the book she was writing in sitting on the floor under the window. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. It was her diary and listed everything. The murders and references to someone named, Karen. Flipping to the front of the book, I noted the references to her father, nothing explicit but enough to leave no doubts of her relationship and experiences with him. She was one screwed up young woman.

  The sirens were drawing closer. I went and laid my gun on the seat of the chair and took out my wallet, opened it exposing my license.

  The first squad car pulled to stop in front of the building. I heard running feet on the stairs then saw two uniforms at the open door, both with their service pistols drawn.

  “Hands up,” ordered the first cop that entered the room. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

  I raised my arms and turned to face the wall. The other cop came and patted me down.

  “Gun and license are on the chair,” I said as he carefully patted me down. His partner went to the chair and picked up my wallet all the while keeping his gun leveled on me.

  “You got him, Pete?” asked the cop who just patted me down.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I’ll check out the woman.”

  “She’s dead,” I said.

  “A private dick, eh?” the second cop said as he glanced at my license. “So. What happened here?”

  “She’s the one been killing all them actors.”

  “Oh yeah? Sez who?”

  “Me. I called it in to Abe Goldman earlier tonight. Check with him.”

  “So you know Goldman, eh?”

  “Yeah.” Then I saw another man come to the door.

  “That’s okay, Pete. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Huh? yeah, okay Sarge.” He stepped away, holstered his gun, and passed my wallet and gun to the detective. “He sez he knows you.”

  “Abe,” I said.

  “Jesus, Murph. What the hell happened?”

  * * *

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