Needful Murder

By Andy Wilkinson

Tom, the successful CEO of Global, an international paper company, had a mid-life melt down that caused him to kill his adulterous lovers. His inner demon, locked away in his mind since a childhood trauma, surfaced without warning and transformed him into a serial killer of young women. Now the act of lovemaking triggers in Tom an insuppressible urge to take the lives of his lovers.
Detectives David Grant and Paula Wilson struggle to find a common thread with the women, and to discover Tom’s true identity as his list of victims grows. Their task becomes more complicated and their lives are put in danger when they become the targets of two hit men hired by a member of Global’s board of directors.
As the story draws to a close David Grant is in a race against the clock to save Paula Wilson’s life. She has been abducted by Tom, who intends to make her his final victim.
Note: This novel has been professionally edited.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Wilkinson
• Release date: Nov 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781370713370

Andy Wilkinson

Andy Wilkinson is a home improvement contractor. He has degrees in electronics and theology.

Book preview

Needful Murder

by

Andy Wilkinson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2011 by Andy Wilkinson

Avery special thanks to my friend and editor, Rick Ready.

And to cover designer, Justin King

PROLOGUE

Pensacola, Florida

Five Years Earlier

Father John McCowin remained in the confessional booth after Shirley Justice confessed her sins. Someone took Shirley’s place, but the last thing the priest wanted right now was another litany of personal weaknesses. He needed to clear the images left in his mind from Shirley’s story. Twenty-seven years of confessions by nymphs, cheating spouses, and prostitutes, but nobody gave erotic confessions like Shirley Justice. Delivered with energy and passion, they always left the celibate priest drained and frustrated. He rubbed his neck and swiveled his head to ward off the tiredness rushing toward his soul.

Shirley’s problem: she loved married men. The lure of forbidden fruit burned inside her. None of Father McCowin’s recommendations had helped, so he endured her confessions month after month, year after year.

Shirley and her husband, Calvin, worked at Global Paper Mill on opposing rotating shifts, which gave Shirley lots of free time to identify the married men who were willing to take a shot at satisfying her sexual appetite.

In tonight’s confession Shirley told about a late-night picnic with Chuck Bruntz, manager of the wood yard. Chuck rented a pontoon boat and took Shirley on a cruise up the Blackwater River to an isolated sand bar. There, in the soft glow of a full moon, Shirley Justice smeared Smucker’s grape jelly on various parts of her body and told Chuck Bruntz to lick it off. Chuck did as he was told with great enthusiasm. From that time on Shirley was known to the men in the paper mill as the Smucker’s fucker.

Father McCowin sat in his booth with an erection, trying to prepare himself to hear the next confession. He removed a small silver flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a swallow. The vodka warmed his throat and flushed his cheeks. He exhaled a long, tired breath and returned the flask to his pocket.

Father … Father?

Oh … um … yes. Sorry, I was lost in meditation for a moment. I will hear your confession now. Please continue.

I’m not a member of your parish. Actually I’m not a member of any parish. I haven’t been to church in years, but I have to get something off my chest. His voice was tense. I’m thirty-nine years old. I have a wife and three children, a good job, and up ‘til now I’ve had a normal happy life. The stranger fell silent for a moment. But then something started happening to me—a … um … change, sort of down deep inside. It’s hard to explain. I have this really powerful urge to do something that’s very wrong, and it’s almost like it’s always been there, you know, like a part of me I didn’t know about … a bad part, and now it’s trying to come to the surface. I can sense that it wants to take over.

This is all perfectly normal, my son, interrupted the priest, ready to end the session. You mentioned you were thirty-nine years old. Almost everybody goes through changes when they approach middle age. Your mind is probably unlocking suppressed feelings or desires. Sometimes events that happened in your early childhood—possibly unpleasant events—don’t become part of your conscious memory until later in life. This can be a little scary, and it makes these things seem bigger than they really are. I’m sure that’s all it is. You must learn to accept and deal with them, and everything will be fine.

That’s the problem, Father. I don’t think everything will be fine. I think everything is getting worse. It’s becoming bigger than I am.

Take a deep breath and relax. We’ll work through this together, the priest said, and took another hit from the flask. What’s your name?

Call me Tom, the man said. I told you I’m married, but I also have a girlfriend. When I’m with her I sometimes get these … I don’t know … feelings … terrible feelings.

Take your time and try to describe these feelings, Father McCowin said. He could see the man’s shoulders begin to hitch up and down. He was crying. You can do this, son. I’ll be here as long as you need me.

As the priest waited, a cold dread swept over him, and goose bumps covered his arms and the back of his neck. He felt the presence of evil, the kind of spiritual awareness that happens maybe once every decade. He shuddered, craved another drink, but reached for his Bible instead.

The priest’s instincts told him that Tom was at a crossroads. Father McCowin summoned all his strength.

Tom, I think this would be a good time for you to go ahead and get it all out.

I can’t, Tom said, almost in a whisper. I know it’s why I came here, but I just can’t.

But you must, the priest said, You need to do this.

Tom stood abruptly, bolted from the booth and fled the church.

CHAPTER 1

Pensacola, Florida

Present Day

Detective David Grant pulled up to the Slingerland home at a quarter of eight in an unmarked Dodge Charger. The hot June morning was heavy with humidity and his shirt was already sticking to his back.

When Pensacola Police Chief Ray Hinson phoned Grant at home that morning and assigned him to the case, Grant tried to turn it down. The chief’s description sounded ugly, the kind of case that could drag on for a long time. With just three months before his forty-first birthday, and four months from leaving the force, he would rather ease into retirement. The chief had insisted, had become quite adamant in fact, saying the case was sure to get a lot of attention from the press, and Grant was the best the department had for dealing with them. End of conversation.

Grant’s, partner, Bill Smathers, a short stocky man, sixty, balding, whose energy level contradicted his physique, greeted him when he arrived. Grant noted the left hand clutching a fat cigar, a Leon Jimenes, just lit with the band still on. Grant looked at his watch, looked at the cigar, and grinned at Smathers.

Morning, Dave. Smathers blew out a cloud of gray-white smoke. You know, I’ve already outlived one doctor who told me these things are bad for me.

Morning. Bill. Got anything?

I had a chance to check out most of the house. That is, until the lab boys ran me off. They should be done any time.

Smathers looked at the Slingerland house. You’re not going to believe this one, Dave. It’s gruesome, and it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

Grant raised an eyebrow. Pretty amazing words coming from you.

Yeah, guess so. You know I wouldn’t say a thing like that lightly. When you look inside, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Grant stared at his partner of five years. He knew the mentality of murderers intrigued the veteran cop. Bill considered killers the most vicious, yet most interesting, creatures society produced. He relished gathering and following the clues until he caught them and put them away. For him, the challenge ended and justice was served when the needle punctured the killer’s arm and the Cocktail of Death flowed through deserving veins. Many of his coworkers thought him calloused and unforgiving, but he didn’t believe in breaks for bad guys. In his own words, capital punishment was mankind’s way of aiding nature, and bad people had no place in his world.

Grant lifted the crime scene tape so he and Smathers could walk under. He scanned the outside of the house, noting the cookie-cutter sameness evident in all subdivisions. Several neighbors had gathered around a mailbox across the street, talking and gesturing.

Who discovered the body? Grant asked, as they walked the manicured lawn toward the house.

Her husband. Found her when he came home from the mill. Works the night shift.

Have you talked to him?

They’d already taken him to the hospital when I got here.

Grant stopped and looked at Smathers. Hospital?

Yeah. I spoke to one of their neighbors. Smathers jerked a thumb toward the house on the left. They said he knocked on their door about seven o’clock. Said he was babbling something about his wife. Finally collapsed on their porch. Poor bastard’s brain must have shut down just like that. Smathers snapped his fingers. They called an ambulance, then the police. We have a few uniforms fanned out in the neighborhood, but the only thing we have at this point is the physical evidence here on the property.

They reached the Slingerland’s front door. Grant and Smathers slipped on latex gloves and paper booties. Grant reached for the doorknob. Smathers reached out and grabbed Grant’s arm.

Dave, when you open that door, you’re going to see what the victim’s husband saw.

Grant pushed the door open and stopped, stunned. For a few seconds he forgot to breathe.

The strategic placement of three mirrors reflected the nude, decapitated victim lying on the living room floor. Like a movie director, the killer staged the murder scene so the focus was on the star. In this scene, two mirrors showed splayed legs and the right foot cocked backward at an unnatural angle. The focal point of the two mirrors centered on the large kitchen knife buried to the handle in the middle of the chest. A small pool of blood gathered around her navel with a much larger pool coagulating beneath her left arm.

A third mirror hung from the ceiling in a corner, tilted down at an angle to reveal Carla Slingerland’s head sitting on top of the television set. The TV had been left on, illuminating bold red stripes of Carla’s blood running down the screen. Lifeless eyes stared back at David Grant from the mirror. The hair on his arms prickled atop goose flesh.

Dave, Smathers said softly. Buddy … hey, Dave. Grant turned to his friend and partner. You okay? Smathers asked. Looked like you were in a trance.

I’m fine. Grant exhaled, then swallowed.

The detectives moved toward the victim, stepping as if trying to walk on rice paper, careful not to disturb even the tiniest bit of evidence. Both scanned the scene, their experience cataloging and absorbing details as they made their way to the center of the room and stooped over the body.

Looks like the knife in the chest is the only wound … except the decapitation, Grant said.

Besides she was already dead when he cut off her head. Not the amount of blood I’d expect. Smathers said. It looks like he did it after the fact, for emphasis, like putting an exclamation mark after a sentence. Guess he was really angry.

Grant turned toward the woman’s head and stared into dead eyes that looked back but saw nothing. The irises had already turned a dull, frozen green. The TV, tuned to one of those all-religious programming stations, showed a network preacher praising God through the red streaks of Carla Slingerland’s blood. A crucifix hung on the wall over the television set, the sad face of Jesus surveying the gruesome scene.

Goose bumps appeared on Grant’s arms again. Seeing Carla’s blood run down the TV reminded him of how Old Testament priests made blood sacrifices on a rectangular stone altar in the presence of the faithful. The altar dominated their thinking, and their meager existence revolved around pleasing God. People gathered at the altar and the High Priest passed along messages from God, gave instructions for living their daily lives, and sacrificed an animal as a symbol of asking for God’s forgiveness for their transgressions. The blood running down the sides of the altar carried the sins of the people and pleased the All Knowing, All Seeing One.

Damn, Grant murmured.

What’ve you got, Dave? Smathers asked, looking up from examining Carla Slingerland’s body.

Look at this, Grant said, moving the crucifix up with his pen. See the paint under here? He lifted a painting which hung on an adjacent wall. See the difference? You can tell where the picture has been by the faded paint. You can’t with the crucifix.

Like it was put there recently, Smathers said. Maybe put there last night.

Yeah. We may be dealing with a religious nut. Grant explained his theory of the religious slant to Smathers. Now, let’s go over what few facts we have. Do you think there was forced entry of any kind?

No forced entry. In fact, the husband’s keys were still in the front door when the officers got here this morning. Evidently the perp locked the door on his way out. And as you can see, there’s no sign of a struggle.

Someone she knew? Grant said.

Most likely. I’d say she not only knew the killer, but was romantically involved, at least for last night. The evidence speaks for itself. Two wine glasses and two dinner plates, and the CDs provide the perfect background music for a little adult playtime. Looks like they were getting ready for some serious sex right there on the sofa.

Grant and Smathers made their way to the kitchen, which was modest but efficient and decorated in a country motif with lacy checkerboard curtains tied back to look like square-dancers’ skirts. Old coffee grinders, scrub boards, and various-sized black iron frying pans hung from the walls. The stove, counters, and sink were littered with the utensils, pots, and pans used to prepare last night’s meal. The dining room table displayed fine china and silverware, a candlestick centerpiece, and a silver bucket containing a half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon sitting in lukewarm water.

Grant appraised the room, spotted the Dom Perignon, and turned to Smathers. She was expecting this guy.

So, Smathers said, They had a romantic dinner, went into the living room, put on a Lou Rawls CD, and he cut her head off.

Yeah … but not quite that simple. Maybe the lover is a psycho. Maybe for this guy sex and violence go together, you know, and it gets all mixed up in his head. Maybe he didn’t come here to kill her, but something set him off.

Maybe he didn’t like the music. I’m not that big a fan of Lou Rawls either. Grant cut his eyes at his partner and Smathers grinned.

Or maybe she had a second lover. He found out about it, planned to kill her, and took her by surprise after a nice romantic dinner.

Maybe, Grant said, let’s look at some other possibilities. What if she had made dinner for her husband? He eats, goes to work, and the killer comes in later.

Not likely. For one thing, they’d been having trouble according to neighbors. And another thing, the neighbor said he was a grouch on the late-night shift and didn’t want to be bothered by anything or anybody.

Grant thought about Smathers’ scenarios. What if the husband came home early, found them together, and killed her? Grant knew that sounded stupid as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but the possibility had to be considered.

Nope, her husband was accounted for all night at work. Besides, you know this is not the kind of killing done when a jealous husband surprises a cheating wife. People killing out of anger don’t do this kind of stuff with mirrors. And again, there was no struggle, and there’s no body of a dead lover.

They searched the rest of the house inspecting bedrooms, closets, hallways, and bathrooms. All appeared normal and undisturbed. An alarm radio played beside a bed which had not been slept in. Clothes were thrown over the back of a chair illuminated by a reading lamp. In the bathroom Grant caught a scent of his favorite after-shave and thought how odd such a familiar smell seemed in a strange place, mixed with unfamiliar and unrecognizable odors.

Okay, Grant said. Let’s look at one more theory: a stalker, a wacko, a junky lets himself in an unlocked door or window.

No sign of entry anywhere, nothing was disturbed. I walked around the house and there were no footprints around the windows. Nothing was taken as far as we can tell, and, like I said, there was no struggle.

All right, Inspector, you got me, Grant said, turning his attention to a hall closet door which was slightly ajar. With two fingers, he pulled it open. In the center of the framework of the louvered door were the letters MOT about four inches high in what appeared to be the victim’s blood.

Hey, Bill, check this out. What do you think?

Smathers stepped around Grant to get a better view of the inside of the door. "MOT . . . What the hell does that mean?"

Maybe the initials stand for somebody’s name. Maybe it’s a clue. I don’t know.

He’s taunting us, Smathers said. This guy wants to play mind games.

Grant pushed the door all the way open. In the reflection in one of the mirrors placed by the killer, they saw the name TOM.

CHAPTER 2

Calvin Justice had showed a lot of promise in his twenties. Tall, trim, and handsome with a winning smile. People were drawn to his charismatic personality, and everyone loved to be around him. Now, at forty-nine, he was a shallow, bitter man, a hundred pounds overweight and still growing. Three decades of bad habits and compulsive behavior had transformed the former athlete into an ungraceful toad.

He sat at his work station stewing over the renewed romance between his wife Shirley and his boss Chuck Bruntz, his mood as hot and sweltering as the weather outside the mill. Sweat stains formed large half moons peeking out from under his massive arms.

A warning bell jarred his mind away from Shirley and Chuck. Calvin stood and adjusted a large control knob under a flashing red light to increase water flow into the hydropulper to prevent the pasty pulp from becoming too thick. The hydropulper, a large metal vat, fifteen feet in diameter and twenty-feet deep with a motorized propeller-like blade in the bottom acted like a ten-thousand-gallon high-powered blender. Every day, tons of unused rolls and scraps of white paper were re-cycled through the machine, re-pulped, piped to the football-field-sized paper machine, and then remade into usable white paper. First-time observers of the white slush being whipped around in the massive tank likened it to the world’s largest vanilla milkshake.

Calvin finished the adjustments and began preparing to re-heat some Church’s Fried Chicken. He removed the cold chicken from the cardboard box, placed it into a wire basket and lowered it into the gurgling hot grease of a Frybaby. The extra grease from the Frybaby gave chicken that nice rich flavor he loved so much.

When the red light on the Frybaby indicated the temperature had reached the proper level, he lifted the basket, let it drain a few seconds, and dumped the leg and breast back into the cardboard box. He stared into space as he chewed, allowing his mind to feed on his anger and frustration as his body fed on the chicken. Small drops of grease formed a yellow picket fence on his shirt next to the sweat stains.

After he finished his meal, he licked his fingers, gathered the bones, and tossed everything into the hydropulper. Recycle that, motherfuckers.

Calvin propped his feet up on his desk and took a small round tin of Skoal from his shirt pocket. He removed the lid, took a small pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and placed it behind his lower lip. He closed his eyes and sighed; the familiar wintergreen taste and smell and the nicotine rush were comforting, and comfort was something Calvin could use right now. His nerves were stretched like a banjo string, wound to the breaking point.

Calvin opened his eyes, stared at the hydropulper, and allowed his anger to focus. I’ll be the laughing stock of the mill, he thought. And why did it have to be a nigger? Jesus Christ! Of all the people she could have picked to fuck around with!

The black sumbitch, he said, and spat into a nearby trash can. A bead of dark brown tobacco juice trailed down his chin. He wiped the juice with the sleeve of his shirt. One of these days, Chuck, you gonna get yours. Calvin pressed the switch to the guillotine. The massive blade lowered, splitting a three ton roll of paper as if it were a watermelon. You got yours comin’, Chucky.

* * * * *

For David Grant, stepping into Renee Rollins’ office was like entering a world where a perpetual mist of morphine permeated the air. The unrelenting strain and weariness of dealing with society’s underbelly was lifted from his shoulders. She had this wonderful calming effect on him, and he loved her for it. He stood motionless at her door for a moment, waiting for her to realize she was being watched. When she caught his reflection in her computer monitor, she swiveled around in her chair.

David Grant! I haven’t seen you in weeks. I thought you might have given me up for a younger woman. And just look at you, you’ve lost weight. A good north wind would blow you right out into the bay. If I’d known you were starving yourself to death I would’ve sent you some of my home cooking.

That’s why I keep coming back. Just when I start thinking nobody cares, I can always count on a good lecture from you. Grant grinned at her. How you doing, Renee?

Renee beamed at him, a broad smile revealing perfect teeth. Good to see you, David. Come on in, have a seat, and let’s catch up.

Renee was a chubby but attractive woman in her late fifties with short-cropped gray hair and warm brown eyes. A soft and nurturing side lay below her crusty exterior. Sometimes he felt like she was his mother, and sometimes she was one of the boys. She made him feel good about himself and his work, and he would rather spend time with her than with anyone else on the force.

Grant hugged Renee and kissed her cheek before sitting down next to her. They sat in front of a work station with a bank of monitors and three computers she called her babies.

"What