The Blood of Saints

By Keith Spence

Two men dead, one a respected investigative journalist, the other a member of the White House legal staff. Both deaths are quickly pronounced suicides, but FBI special agent Mike Saville and US Park Police Sergeant Lowri Pritchard aren’t so sure. Seems there are a few too many “coincidences” that link the dead men together. As the two investigations merge in the Nation’s Capital, and the bodies and conspiracy theories pile up like DC traffic, Saville and Pritchard will soon discover that the truth is more shocking than anything they could have ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: Oct 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781581245639

Book preview

Author

Chapter 1

Just another hombre muerto, Magdalena Rodriguez thought as she sloshed carelessly through the bloody bath water spilling over the sides of the tub in room 157. The corpse meant extra cleaning duty once the police were finished with the crime scene; her boss was too cheap to hire outside professionals like the ones she’d seen on Court TV who specialized in that sort of thing. On the bright side, it also meant a few hours of overtime pay, which she  definitely needed.

She’d seen hundreds of dead bodies before, innocent men, women, and children slaughtered on the streets of San Pedro Sula, including her father and twelve-year-old brother, abducted by the Fuerza de Seguridad Pública, interrogated and tortured as possible subversives, and then dumped in an alleyway two days later with their remains burned, beheaded and castrated.

All because her father and brother had attended a rally for an opposition Presidential candidate.

Nothing quite so dreadful had befallen the man in room 157. She didn’t know his name or anything else about him, only that he’d been gracious enough to leave a five-dollar tip on the TV stand the morning before. Today, nothing, but she now she understood why.

She assumed he was naked, although the turbid water mostly covered him from the waist down. Other than his head and part of his bulging, hairy chest, all that was visible were his the two white kneecaps, which jutted out of the water like bleached headlamps, ghostly and pale.

Such a shame because he’d been a handsome man in life. His blond, wavy hair was soaking wet as innocently as if he’d gone for a relaxing swim, and she couldn’t help but be aroused by his muscular physique, barely visible above the water line. His eyes were closed, but his face seemed soft and wide, almost cherubic in death.

Were it not for the blood, she would have guessed he’d died in peace. So much blood, on the floor, the walls, the sink and commode. A half-empty bottle of wine and two bloody, rumpled towels lay carelessly on the floor next to the toilet.

Still, the scene was mild compared to the atrocities she’d witnessed back home in Honduras. There, the bodies would often pile up in the streets—left to rot by the regime as a reminder of what could happen to those like her father who disagreed with government policy—until family members came to haul their loved ones away. The mutilated bodies sometimes remained on the streets for weeks, the worse ones unidentifiable to even their own families, who would sometimes claim a corpse, any corpse, just for closure. The stench in the streets was often unimaginable.

The smell in room 157 was not so strong. Either the body in the bathtub hadn’t been dead very long, or the bloody bath water had somehow diluted the odor. Whatever the reason, there was no need to hurry. No one could help the dead man now. She finished her cleaning as best she could, then quietly retreated from the bathroom, tiptoeing so as not to further ruin her already blood-soaked running shoes.

Outside a welcome July breeze funneled through her jet black hair. She thought again with sorrow of her father and brother butchered in the street, and then left to report her findings to Belinda Chatwyn, assistant manager in charge of the weekend shift at the Kendall County Country Inn.

* * *

She the one who found the stiff? asked the tall, portly man with the hooded eyes who wore the chocolate brown uniform of the Kendall County Sheriff’s Department. He pointed to the attractive, blue-eyed Latino with the maid’s outfit seated in the corner of room 157. She reminded him of a girl he’d seen doing nasty things in a maid’s uniform on the Internet.

Sheriff Helm, please. She’s new. She doesn’t have a—

A green card? Helm shook his head. Don’t worry, Belinda. You should know better than anybody. I’m always gentle with the pretty ones.

Magdalena Rodriguez sat upright in the ladder-back chair located between the heating and air conditioning unit and the single queen bed in the middle of the room. The dead man’s belongings were strewn all over the carpet and bedspread as two uniformed officers rifled through them in search of evidence. She’d been waiting almost twenty minutes for the sheriff to arrive. One of the other officers had begun questioning her earlier but had ceased when informed that Sheriff Helm wanted to conduct the interview personally. She wasn’t looking forward to the inquiry, had already been warned about Helm’s standard boorishness by Belinda Chatwyn.

Haven’t seen you around her before, Sheriff Helm said, plumping his two-hundred-seventy pound frame down on the bed next to Rodriguez’s chair. How did I miss a looker like you?

I only been working here a month. I know nobody in America.

Maybe you can get to know me, Helm said. I’ll give you some English lessons. Or maybe you’re better at French.

Rodriguez said nothing. She fixed her gaze on the scar that covered the left side of Helm’s face from the hairline to the cheek. A knife slash. She’d seen them before. The Fuerza de Seguridad Pública disfigured those enemies they didn’t murder, also to intimidate. But she couldn’t be intimidated, not by the Honduran Public Security Forces, and certainly not by this ugly, potbellied sexist pig. What had Belinda Chatwyn called him? A grotesque prick?

I have boyfriend in Honduras, she said flatly. He come to America soon and we get married.

Helm’s expression quickly darkened. Yeah, well, only if INS doesn’t ship your ass out of here first. He produced a small notebook and fountain pen from his uniform pocket and flipped to an unused page. So what do you know about the dead guy anyway?

Nothing. I come to clean his room, and I knock but I get no answer so I go in. I find him in bathtub and there’s blood everywhere.

Yeah, yeah. We already know all that. So basically you don’t know shit, that right?

The man’s name was Davy Clough, Belinda Chatwyn chimed in from across the room. She had heard enough of Helm’s badgering. He checked in yesterday afternoon and was supposed to check out tomorrow morning. She began reading from Clough’s hotel registration card. Says here he’s from Arlington, Virginia. Drives a red Lincoln Navigator. Plate number—

Navigator huh? From Arlington? said one of the officers searching the room, short and lean with floppy hair. Big city rich boy. Long way from home.

Probably a drug dealer, said the other officer, who was taller and older with receding hair. Got what he deserved. Just the way The Duke would’ve done it.

Since when did John Wayne commit suicide? Helm said.

Suicide? asked the older deputy. What you talking about, Sheriff? All that blood in there? Looks like somebody tried to wipe it up with those towels on the floor. I do believe somebody done wasted Mr. Davy Clough here.

Maybe he was one of those neat freaks. Helm laughed and shook his head. Sorry, Alfred, but we ain’t had a murder in Kendall County in over a year, and we ain’t about to have one now. Did you see the slice marks on his wrists? No drug dealers killed Mr. Davy Clough, and neither did his ex-wife or a jealous lover. As much as you’d like a murder case to investigate, I do believe Mr. Davy Clough done killed himself.

Helm cackled like a hyena in heat. Alfred knew better than to argue with the sheriff so he simply returned to his investigation. Not that whatever evidence he uncovered would be considered important. The sheriff had already made up his mind, and when Sheriff Dwight Helm made up his mind, everyone and everything else could be damned.

At least Alfred could count on the medical examiner to be open-minded about the case.

* * *

Dr. Samantha Burton could not remember having analyzed a bloodier scene. A private practice general practitioner and the county’s appointed medical examiner for the past three years–ever since Old Dr. Bailey stepped off the curb in front of that cement mixer–she dealt with death and suffering every day, mostly senior citizens in the final throes of cancer or Alzheimer’s.

There had been three murders in Kendall County in the past three years, and all had been gunshot victims resulting from domestic disturbances. The worst of those by far had been Willis Drake, who’d been shot five times in his genitalia at point blank range by his estranged wife Dorothy, a sure sigh of overkill, but given that Willis had been caught molesting Dorothy’s nine-year-old daughter with a spatula, who could blame her?

Only Samantha wasn’t so sure she had a murder on her hands this time. The tub had already been drained, and underneath Davy Clough’s body she’d found a Michelob beer bottle, a paper glass coaster, and, most telling of all, a single edge razor blade, the kind used to scrape windows. Two plastic garbage bags had been found floating in the bloody water by the first EMT’s on the scene.. A pair of shoelaces were also discovered tied around Clough’s neck, leading Samantha to believe that the victim had tried to asphyxiate himself by binding the garbage bags over his head. At some point he’d obviously changed his mind, either before or after slashing his wrists.

The wrists. Their mangled condition didn’t support the argument for murder, either. She counted eight distinct cuts on the right wrist, four others on the left. And while the cuts were deep, they didn’t appear to be anything but self-inflicted. She couldn’t fully explain the amount of blood sprayed all over the bathroom; perhaps Clough had panicked during the act, which was common with wrist slashers, who often freaked out when confronted with the vast quantities of blood loss and physical pain.

Deputy Alfred Rhodes may have wanted a murder investigation to help spice up his mundane existence, but she saw no clear evidence to give him one.

So what you think, Sammy? Sheriff Helm said, slapping Burton across the back like one of his drinking buddies down at the Silver Saloon. We got a serial killer running loose in Kendall County like Alfred says? He glared through the bathroom door at Deputy Rhodes, who quickly turned away.

I think you need to keep your hands to yourself, Samantha said. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished my examination.

Unlike the majority of people in the county, Samantha Burton didn’t fear the sheriff, nor was she disgusted by him. Her husband Ken was Chairman of the Kendall County Board of Commissioners and one of the richest men in the state. He’d made millions in the software industry and wielded a tremendous amount of power over the populace come election time.

Despite their cultural differences, Ken Burton willingly used his wealth and influence to make sure Helm returned to office every four years. Despite his admittedly crude methods, the sheriff had actually done a good job of lowering Kendall County’s crime rate, and he also took special care of Burton’s business interests, both legal and illegal.

Samantha suspected that the sheriff and her husband had formed some type of unholy alliance, but she wasn’t bothered by her suppositions. Her silence in the matter made her just as complicit, and then there was the little matter of her relationship with her husband; she’d stopped loving him for more than his money years ago.

Think I found the mother lode, shouted a voice from the outer room. Hey, Sheriff, look what I got here! It was the younger deputy, and he held a crumpled piece of paper in his right hand.

Billy, let me see that, Helm said, snatching the paper away. Slowly, he began to read aloud the words, written in large, block letters with a Sharpie® or some other type of magic marker:

TO ALL THOSE I LOVE. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. I AM WITH GOD NOW AND ALL IS WELL.

Suicide note, Helm said, folding the paper and sliding it down into his shirt pocket. So now what you think, Sammy?

Samantha rubbed her chin. I think the Medical Examiner of Kendall County officially declares the cause of death as blood loss from multiple self-inflicted wounds. Call Barlow’s Mortuary. I’ll try to run down the next-of-kin tomorrow morning.

Chapter 2

Mac Barlow couldn’t believe he’d been called in to work at six p. m. on a Friday evening. This was the first weekend he’d had off in over two months, and the damned coroner had the audacity to request that he pick up a body this late at the Kendall County Country Inn over on State Road 35. He should have told her to kiss his ass, let the body rot, but Samantha and Ken Burton steered a lot of business toward Barlow’s Mortuary; he couldn’t afford to offend the goose that laid the golden egg. Besides, The Old Man would have ravaged his hide for turning away a dollar.

Barlow couldn’t help but think of The Old Man as he massaged facial cream into the naked cadaver lying on the porcelain embalming table in the preparation room. He’d already washed the corpse, swabbed the insides of the nose and mouth with germicide, and sutured the mouth shut. Rigor mortis had been so severe that he’d been forced to cut several tendons to return the arms to their natural state. Next he would inject the formaldehyde-based embalming fluid into the right common carotid artery while the blood drained from the right jugular vein, although truthfully there couldn’t have been much blood left in the body considering the amount of spatter at the scene.

If only this were The Old Man on the slab, Barlow would have gladly surrendered his weekend. But it wasn’t, and Barlow wondered if it ever would be. He’d been waiting over five years for The Old Man to die, for the family business to finally become his. Five agonizing years since the doctors had first given The Old Man just six months to live. If anything, the old fart’s health had actually improved since the original diagnosis, his body stronger, his mind more lucid. Wasn’t senile dementia supposed to cause degeneration of the brain cells and not a re-formation? Barlow didn’t understand it. The Old Man was a Phoenix who had somehow risen from the ashes of the health care system.

Barlow tried to envision The Old Man’s rutted face and body on the table, but all he kept seeing were the handsome, lifeless features of 29-year-old Davy Clough, Caucasian male from Arlington, Va. God, what was it going to take for The Old Man to finally waste away? Why couldn’t he possess Davy Clough’s courage and simply slash his wrists and be done with it? Was Barlow going to have to kill The Old Man himself to finally claim what was rightfully his?

Barlow had given his heart and soul to the business, and for what reward? He’d earned his degree in Mortuary Science and joined the firm as Chief Embalmer at age twenty-four. The Old Man was sixty-two at the time and had promised Barlow a piece of the business within two years and full control within five. Ten years later Barlow was still waiting. Not only was The Old Man still sole proprietor, he hadn’t even offered Barlow the title of Funeral Director, a perfunctory carrot to be sure, but one which would have provided Barlow the prestige among his peers he so craved. The Old Man was the face and essence of the business and Barlow the dutiful prole. One hell of a sorry arrangement, to be sure.

But Barlow’s weekend plans were one arrangement he refused to let The Old Man spoil. Barlow had been promised the time off, and damned if this time he was going to capitulate. His clothes were already packed, he’d gassed up the Porsche, and Bridgette was waiting for him at the cottage in Atlantic Beach, her naked body sparkling on the bed like a sapphire.

She was the only woman Barlow had ever known who didn’t mind giving a rimjob, and she especially liked to role play, pretending she was dead while Barlow raped her cadaver. No amount of money could make him miss out on the sexual exhilaration she so eagerly provided.

And he definitely wasn’t in the mood to hear Bridgette’s bitching and moaning, the way she always did whenever Barlow caved in to The Old Man’s unjust demands and expectations.

His arousal grew as he imagined Bridgette’s tongue in his ass. The sooner he finished the autopsy, the sooner they could be together. With renewed inspiration, he began to work quickly, straightening the flexible, L-shaped cannula and pulling it away from the electric aspirator. He positioned himself directly behind Davy Clough’s face, which Barlow had already restored to its original appearance.

He took the sharp metal trocar into his gloved hands and punctured the abdomen just above the navel. He listened intently for a moment, deftly manipulated the trocar in to the stomach and intestines, and then smiled with satisfaction as the machine went to work on Davy Clough’s viscera.

Embalming was not required by the state of North Carolina; however, any corpse transported across state lines had to be embalmed first so as to decelerate decay. Davy Clough was from Virginia, which certainly meant his body would be shipped home for burial. By the time Samantha Burton located the next-of-kin and received permission to embalm the body, Barlow planned to be neck deep in Bridgette’s carnal juices. Under no circumstances did he intend to cut short such a well-deserved respite, return early Saturday night or Sunday morning simply to embalm a body that he already knew had to be embalmed anyway.

And although embalming was illegal in North Carolina without the permission of the deceased’s family, Barlow wasn’t at all worried about the consequences of what he was about to do. The ultimate blame would fall upon the Funeral Director. The Old Man could take the heat this time. Barlow had his own heat to generate with Bridgette in just a few short hours, as soon as the aspirator finished sucking out Davy Clough’s guts.

* * *

Samantha Burton dialed the number slowly. At 7:27 a. m., it was a little too early on a Saturday morning for her liking, but she had a job to do and she took her work seriously. The Sheriff’s Department had spent the previous evening researching a contact number for Davy Clough’s family; he’d left that entry blank on his hotel registration, and no Davy Cloughs were listed in the Arlington, Virginia phone directory. Research through the Accurint online database had finally produced a number for a Cynthia Orphal Clough, an Arlington resident whose name linked back to Davy Clough, no relationship given.

At six this morning Sheriff Helm had been gracious enough to call and wake Samantha with the information. Notifying the next-of-kin was never easy, and Samantha was still trying to formulate the right words when a soft, sophisticated female voice appeared on the other end of the line.

Samantha cleared her throat and said uneasily, Yes, ma’am, I’m trying to reach Cynthia Clough or a member of the family of David Daniel Clough of Arlington, Virginia.

There was a long pause before the soft voice said, Who’s calling?

Is this Mrs. Clough? When there was no answer, she continued, My name’s Samantha Burton and I’m with the coroner’s office in Kendall County, North Carolina.

What’s happened to my son? Cool, purposeful, no hint of emotion.

The chilly tone befuddled Samantha. Mrs. Clough, I regret to inform you that your son committed suicide yesterday afternoon in his motel room—

Did you find his notebook, his personal papers?

Excuse me?

I asked if you found his notes.

Samantha rubbed her chin, not comprehending the question. Was such incoherence Cynthia Clough’s way of dealing with the tragedy of her son’s death? She decided to tread lightly. Mrs. Clough, perhaps you didn’t understand—

I understand perfectly. My son is dead and you think he killed himself, which is utterly ridiculous. Did you know he had been receiving threatening phone calls for over two weeks, the last of which said that he would be ‘cut into little pieces and fed to the sharks.’

Samantha didn’t know what to say or what to believe. Was this woman speaking the truth, or were these the lunatic ravings of a grieving mother in denial?

Was he, Mrs. Burton? Cut into little pieces and fed to the sharks?

Samantha couldn’t believe her ears. No, ma’am. He slit his wrists, she said simply.

Many times I’ve insisted that Davy get a medical check-up, but I never could get him to go. Do you know why, Mrs. Burton?

No, ma’am, I don’t. Samantha was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her professionalism. She felt certain now that Cynthia Clough’s mind was gone, and she didn’t know whether to feel compassion or pity.

My son wouldn’t go to the doctor because he’s afraid of needles and grows nauseous at the sight of blood. Please tell me, Ms. Burton, how someone like that summons the courage to slit his wrists.

Samantha’s exasperation had reached its limit. Perhaps it would be better if I put you in touch with local law enforcement. You can tell them—

Oh, I’ll be in touch with local law enforcement, all right. And the state police, the FBI, and anyone else who can help prove that my son was murdered and that the authorities in Kendall County, North Carolina are a bunch of incompetent, idiot rednecks.

* * *

The woman’s a crackpot, Samantha Burton said. She called us a bunch of rednecks and said she was going to involve the SBI, the FBI, hell, maybe even the CIA for all I know. I’d watch my back if I were you."

She hated the inside of Sheriff Helm’s office. The look, the smell, the photograph of the sheriff surrounded by the local Hooters Girls, the mounted six-point buck head prominently displayed over his desk. Even worse was the stench of musty cigar smoke, half-eaten Mexican food, and stale farts. Even the morgue was a more pleasant environment.

Well, if she thinks she’s gonna come down here and stir up a bucket of shit, she’s got another thing coming, Helm said, chomping into an enchilada.

Take it easy. She may be crazy, but she’s still a grieving mother. Samantha could only imagine Mrs. Clough’s pain. She and Ken had two sons, a sophomore at East Carolina University and a junior at Kendall County High School, and the thought of losing one of them so tragically sent her spiraling into unimaginable despair.

I don’t care who or what she is, Helm said, leaning back in his chair. He set the enchilada down on his desk and some green mole sauce spilled out and stained the front of his uniform.  She ain’t gonna tell me how to run my investigation.

What investigation? I ruled the death a suicide.

He lit a cigar, and Samantha knew he had done it simply to agitate her. Her brother had died of lung cancer, and everyone in town knew how much she abhorred smoking.

Then I got nothing to worry about, Helm said, puffing on the cigar and inhaling the aroma, which sickened Samantha. Sounds like you’re the one who better watch your back.

She tried not to breathe in the smoke. I can tell you right now that Cynthia Clough will call into question every aspect of the investigation. She’s got money and connections and no one will be immune to criticism or scrutiny, including you.

I ain’t got nothing to hide. The sheriff was smiling but Samantha thought she detected a hint of concern underneath. Helm may not have had anything to hide in the Davy Clough case, but he definitely had plenty of other skeletons in his closet should someone with Cynthia Clough’s resources go digging around.

You like being sheriff, don’t you? Samantha pointed a finger at Helm’s chest. You’ve got just as much to hide as the rest of us, so I suggest you drop the ‘he-man’ routine.

Hey, ain’t no goddamned woman gonna come in here and threaten me! the sheriff roared. I ain’t your husband. You don’t tell me when to get on my knees and beg! But then it occurred to him that he wouldn’t have been sheriff without Ken and Samantha Burton’s help. He took a deep breath and said quietly, So what are we gonna do?

We’re going to cooperate fully with Mrs. Clough and wait for the storm to blow over. After all, we have the truth on our side.

Sheriff Helm nodded.

And we’re going to make sure Mrs. Clough gets her son’s notebook back.

His what?

His notebook, notes, personal papers. Mrs. Clough was very concerned about them.

We didn’t find a notebook or any personal papers. Just his clothes and wallet.

Samantha could feel sweat forming on her brow. Nothing? No notes, anything like that?

Just the suicide note.

Jesus. Samantha closed her eyes and tried to visualize what a ton of shit looked like when it hit a fan.

Chapter 3

Michael Saville was sampling his morning coffee with one eye glued to Sports Center, paying such scant attention to the Sunday edition of the Kendall County Courier that he almost missed the fourteen-point italic headline hidden in the bottom right-hand corner of page six: Virginia Man Commits Suicide in Local Motel.

His interest peaked, he lowered the volume on the television and carefully began to read the modest, one-paragraph account:

Davy Clough, 29, of Arlington, Va., was found dead in his room Saturday afternoon at the Kendall County Country Inn. A housekeeper discovered the body in the bathtub when she attempted to clean the room and received no response after knocking repeatedly. Medical Examiner Samantha Burton has ruled the death a suicide. No further details were available at press time.

Saville couldn’t believe his eyes. He flicked the television into darkness, folded the newspaper, and reached for the telephone. The unmistakable drone of Jack Mayfield, senior agent at