It's in the Blood

By Sheila Jecks

The sheriff drove like a crazy man to catch the car he was chasing down Coast Highway #101. It seemed the faster he went, the faster the other car went. Finally he lost patience and turned on the siren. Cars pulled over as the two cars raced down the road.
They were almost at Lincoln City, when the lead car gave in. The sheriff pulled up behind the Lexus, clutched the wheel and willed himself to be calm. He got out of the cruiser and stomped up to the front car ready to give her a good talking to about the rules of the road, and trying to outrun the law.
The business suit looked at him.
The sheriff looked back.
There was something awfully wrong here.
“You’re not that crazy reporter!” sputtered Sheriff Grant, what are you doing roaring down the highway like the devils after you? What happened to that city reporter? Who the heck are you?”
The business man took out his wallet and showed his I.D. and his driver’s license. He also took Cam’s ID number and the license number of the police cruiser.
“I don’t know who you thought you were chasing, but you better have a good explanation for that little fiasco back there. You could have gotten me killed. Why didn’t you turn on your siren earlier? I didn’t know who you were I thought you were a hijacker! You just came out of nowhere like a bat out of hell. Rest assured I’ll be speaking to your superiors.”
With those comforting words he grabbed his ID and license from a dumbfounded sheriff and sped away.
Cam stood on the side of the highway and scratched his head. How could he have gotten it so wrong? He was sure he had her in his sights when he pulled out of the parking lot by the police station. And now, he let a speeder fast talk him out of a ticket.
Just then his cell phone went off, and his beeper flashed.
Now what!
* * * *
“Yes sir, I know, everyone calls you when there are speeders on the highway... I was chasing a suspect... No, I didn’t catch him. Well, yes, I guess I did catch him, but he was the wrong one... I was chasing the girl... No, sir, I’m not chasing girls on the town’s dollar. I was chasing that reporter that came down from Portland...about the dead kids on the teeter-totter...yes, that one. I thought she was in the car and she knows something I don’t know...yes, sir, a lot of people know things I don’t know...yes, sir, I’ll certainly try my best to find her. She can’t have gotten far. I’ll let you know as soon as I find her. Yes sir...yes sir, I will sir.”
There was no way he was going to tell the mayor the reason she couldn’t get far is because she didn’t have a car. This realization came to him as he remembered that if she’d had a car, she wouldn’t have had to ride the bus to Chance. There was no explanation good enough to get him off the hook for this one.
He finally remembered his beeper. He looked at the number and knew it was Bert. He took out his cell phone again and called in.
“What’s going on, Bert? Did Kathe Morgan come back?”
“No, she didn’t come back. But, well, I called because I got this phone call that said he was the post office, Main Branch, and he realized a package was delivered to the wrong address. I said I didn’t know anything about that. He said he’d send a mailman over to pick up the package they gave me, I should have it ready by the door. So I said, O.K. But then I remembered we couldn’t find the box. I called the post office back, but they didn’t know what I was talking about, they don’t leave parcels for other people to deliver and they didn’t know who called me, so I just said, no problem, and hung up.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sheila Jecks
• Release date: Apr 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301009404

Sheila Jecks

Sheila Jecks is a compulsive writer who specializes in stories that are weird, odd and a little off. The unusual has always intrigued her and found its way into her writing. Her other interests are genealogy, old graveyards and stories told by the pioneers who opened up Canada.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

On a dark street in Portland, Oregon a young Mary Lou picked out the next customer. She squared her shoulders and threw out her ample chest, she knew exactly how to sell. She sauntered into the middle of the sidewalk with a walk that rippled under her tight skirt and made grown men whimper.

Say Mister, she cooed, Need a handbag for your honey?

Mary Lou rubbed her cheek seductively across the bag and looked up with bedroom eyes that promised more.

* * * *

Mary Lou Lafontaine and her grandmother, Lucy Jamiston, worked.

It wasn’t a 9:00 to 5:00 job, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t work.

This month they sold knock-off handbags and assorted leathers to the late night booze-it-up crowd. The merchandise came from Mexico the back way, they got it cheap.

Since Lucy didn’t have a permanent address, she didn’t qualify for a Vender’s License so they moved around a lot, usually one step ahead of the local law.

She relied on Mary Lou to sell, not so much to the women, but the men bought. Their storefront was the trunk of their old Robin’s Egg Blue 1976 Chrysler Le Baron, the big trunk made it easier to load when they had to leave in a hurry.

Swearing under her breath while trying to look humble, Lucy slammed her grimy hat on her greasy hair, and smiled invitingly at the potential customers coming out of the late night Brass Monkey Bar & Grill, on State Street.

The women kept to the building wall to avoid the old woman, the men went closer to the road to get a better look at the shapely ‘sales lady’.

Get yourself out there! Lucy ordered from behind her grimy hand. How do you expect us to sell this shit before dawn if you don’t shake it up?

Mary Lou Lafontaine looked at the old woman she thought of as grandmother and slid off the hood of the car where she’d been fanning herself with an old copy of ‘PEOPLE’ magazine. She touched her bleached blond hair with a practiced hand, smoothed down the bursting red T shirt and hitched up her black leather mini skirt. She turned to face the world teetering on four inch red heels.

* * * *

The mark, surprised at the obvious invitation extended by the young woman, stumbled and quickly righting himself said, Sure, I’ll take one. He stood on the sidewalk fumbling for his wallet, not taking his eyes off the female part of the bargain.

The old lady bustled up quickly and heaved herself between the man and girl. She took the money, put the handbag in a paper sack and gave it to him. With a practiced arm she maneuvered him around and sent him down the street with what passed for a smile, and a small wave of her hand.

After a few steps he turned and looked back. The offered young woman had somehow turned into a young teenager who watched him with guiles eyes.

He shook his head and looked at the handbag, what would his wife say? He couldn’t think of a good excuse and he knew he didn’t want to explain to his suspicious spouse why he happened to buy a handbag she wouldn’t want. He stopped at the dumpster at the end of the block and threw it in.

He could explain away $20.00 but there was no explanation good enough for the sleazy handbag.

At the end of the night Mary Lou and Lucy stood on the side of the street as the first rays of the sun crept up.

Well, said Lucy, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, guess we might as well get on home.

The young girl started to get into the car, but the older one grabbed her roughly by the arm and said, Not so fast young lady, who’s going to pack up all these leathers and handbags? Get your lazy self out there and start stacking ‘em in the trunk. I swear I don’t know what would happen to you if I wasn’t here to tell you what to do.

Why I got suckered into these handbags I’ll never know, Lucy grumbled as she sat down heavily on the dirty curb.

Now Lucy, you know we got them for next to nothing, said Mary Lou, if we’d sold them all we’d have more than enough money to pay. You know we need protection in this city. Fast Freddy said so.

"Don’t Fast Freddy me, he’s nothing but a fast talking shyster! Who wants to buy knock-off purses from the likes of us?

You know what they said last time we didn’t have enough money and tonight we have to pay.

CHAPTER 2

Just because the sun went down, didn’t mean the heat in the city of Portland, Oregon was any less.

May in the city was usually a soft month, warm in the day, cool and crisp at night. But this year was turning out to be unseasonably warm.

Three boys, two street smart and savvy, the other a fresh-faced clean looking kid stood under a street lamp.

It was the first day in the city for the kid. He just graduated from Ralph Morrison High School in Chance, OR, and wanted to show his folks he could look after himself when he went to University in fall. It was particularly important as he thought the Agriculture School in Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada, offered the best agronomy courses in both countries. But he was having a tough time convincing his mother he was old enough to go alone.

This week in the big city was to convince her he was grown up and didn’t need looking after.

The boys stood under the pool of light kicking pieces of cement from the crumbling curb. The city boys tried to outdo each other and impress the new kid with stories more lewd and less believable than the ones before. After a while they ran out of imagination and turned to other topics.

Say, did you hear about the babe that got killed the other night? the smaller of the two city boys asked?

Hell, yes, said the smooth talker, I’ve heard that story a thousand times.

You mean it isn’t true? said the new kid, it sure sounded true to me when I heard it this earlier this afternoon from a guy in front of the hot dog stand.

I didn’t say it wasn’t true, I just said I heard it a thousand times.

The two city boys looked knowingly at one another. This was going to easier than they thought.

The more times you hear a thing, the more likely it’s true, explained the taller, more sophisticated of the two.

That’s right, that’s right, agreed the smaller boy making his eyes big, hoping it would make the story sound truer. They needed money and this hick looked like he had a lot to spare.

Easy does it, thought the leader, don’t scare the sucker away, just keep it cool.

Taking his cue from the taller boy the smaller one called Squeaker sighed, and tried to look earnest.

She sure was sweet.

What do you mean, said the kid, was she pretty?

More’n pretty, said the leader. She was beautiful, and round in all the right places, he said, making voluptuous shapes with his hands. Say, you want to see where it happened?

Boy, would I! exclaimed the kid. We don’t have murder and stuff like that where I come from.

Well, just so’s you know, we wouldn’t take just anybody down there, confided the leader, you have to be clued in, y’ know?

The kid from the coast nodded his head and tried to look blasé, but didn’t have an inkling as to what ‘clued in’ meant.

* * * * *

The boy named Squeaker and the leader led the sucker up and down the city streets in the dark, making sure he didn’t know where he was until they came to the river front.

It was almost morning now and streetlamps struggled weakly to pierce the murky mist.

Here, the leader said, right here! That’s where I saw the body. He bent down drawing the mark with him, to peer at the sidewalk as though the bloodstains would miraculously still be on the cement.

I can’t see a thing, I think you’re making this up, said the mark, half bending.

Squeaker’d held back on the trip to the water front and retrieved the crow bar he’d stashed behind the dumpster earlier in the day. He was ready!

Two good whacks should do it, he thought, gives us lots of time to get away.

God’s truth, said the older boy, right here. I saw it all! The blood and guts hanging out, her dress pulled up to here, he said, drawing his hand up to his waist.

He kept his head down so the other boy would have to bend over too. They had to do this just right because the mark looked big and strong, and they didn’t want to take the chance that he would fight back.

The older boy kept talking, painting a more and more gruesome picture of the awful scene. Giving more details, bending closer to the pavement, drawing the teenager down; getting him into position.

Squeaker felt a chill and looked behind him, sure looked dark and spooky all of a sudden. He hugged the crow bar to his chest for courage and nerve, spread his feet to get better balance and prepared to swing.

* * * *

The tall boy, eyes glued to the sidewalk kept up a steady patter to keep the mark in the right position. Finally he looked up.

No Squeaker.

Damn that kid! Where’d he get to now? How long could he keep up this line of bullshit? There was no murder down here. It was just a story to get the sucker to this deserted street. This kid was going to give up his money.

Or else!

The leader kept talking, stalling, waiting for Squeaker to come back.

Where’d this cool wind come from? thought the new kid as he stood up and looked around at the tall buildings and the fast running river. The city was hot and humid during the day and now this? It didn’t feel right.

Then he looked around and saw he was all alone.

Dam it all, he said under his breath, they just ran off and left me here.

As he looked up, the morning sun peeked over the tops of the city towers and bathed the street in the first fresh rays of a new day.

CHAPTER 3

The early spring seashore, barren this time of year took no notice of the almost abandoned play station in the water front park of Chance, Oregon.

No shore birds chasing the waves trying to catch the tiny bits of food caught in the steel gray water.

No laughing children running up and down disturbing the wet perfection of the sand. Just the endless waves marching in time, up the dunes and down again.

The sun hung just above the horizon. In doing so, it saw the teenage boy on the teeter-totter.

Look at his eyes, whispered the clouds, there’s no one there.

CHAPTER 4

Shit, shit, shit, moaned the Sheriff, shoving his hands deeper in his rain-soaked windbreaker.

Another dead kid propped up in the rain and tied to the teeter-totter. There were no obvious signs of foul play.

Again!

But this kid was better dressed than the last one!

Sheriff Cameron Delaney Grant impatiently stood in the rainy gray dawn of morning waiting for Doc Speller to finish.

* * * *

The Village of Chance, Oregon advertised for an experienced Law Enforcement Officer. Cam knew his years as detective first class in the Police Bureau of Portland, Oregon and his time in the army would qualify him for the position

He finally found his home.

From a prosperous and thriving community in the 1950’s and 60’s, Chance became a depressed area when the local saw mill closed. The supply of logs ran out and no other industry felt the need to come and pollute the still pristine bay and its clean sandy beaches.

Now, years later the summer tourists came, dug clams, fished and generally financed the town. Small souvenir shops, Tee shirt stores and fast food sprang up and the Town Council encouraged them all. The entire town, although grateful for the tourists, heaved a collective sigh of relief when fall came and they all went home.

For the first five years Cam had it all. A beautiful wife, two smart kids and a good hunting dog, everything a man could ask for.

But nothing lasts forever.

Fate, in the form of an out-of-control semi, took his wife and left him trying frantically to keep life together for the sake of his two kids.

Tall, even beside his brother-in-law who was six foot one, he stretched and slid his blue Seattle Mariners baseball cap to the back of his head as he rubbed his big gray-green eyes with hands surprisingly adept for such a big man. Always needing a haircut, sandy brown curls threatened to tumble over his ears. Girls melted when he pulled them over to give them a speeding ticket. Every year there was always a sweet young thing from the city that decided she needed more thorough... Law Enforcement.

His wife used to consider these girls a bother not a threat. Now it didn’t matter anymore. How could he settle for a one night stand when he’d had the best?

His ordinary nose sat above a sandy moustache that wiggled when he laughed, but today his normally smiling mouth was held in a grim line that turned down at the corners.

The day old stubble on his cheeks was wet, and he would swear that it was the rain and not tears for the kids he kept finding on the town’s unused playground.

* * * * *

Hey, Doc, called the sheriff, what do you think, same as last time?

Hey, yourself, snapped Doc Speller, what’s wrong here, can’t people at least have the decency to do these things when it’s not raining? This is the second time I’ve been out here since Christmas and the rain still hasn’t let up. I’m telling you, get rid of this blasted teeter-totter, maybe the pervert that’s doing this will go someplace else!

Doc Speller blustered when he had to do undoable things. Like examine dead teenage boys tied to teeter-totters.

What was he supposed to do?

Doc Speller was past retirement age, but he stayed on. Where else was he to go? He gave his best years to helping the dead. After the shooting, after the stabbing, after the carnage on the highway, there wasn’t anyone who stood for the victim like Dr. Speller. He waged a personal war with the trappings of death, fought for the dignity of those who lost their lives on the dirty streets of Portland, Oregon, and gave self-respect to those who had none.

The old Doctor stood in the rain with his hands in his pockets and muttered under his breath, if you got closer you could hear he was swearing. He looked sadly at the body of the young man, waiting for them to cut the ropes and duct tape that held him on the teeter-totter and said to himself, I’m too old for this, I don’t have the stomach for it anymore.

Nothing was going to help this kid, not even when he got him to the morgue, there was still nothing. Nothing, that is because there was nothing to find, except the unforgiveable. He knew there would be no blood in this body either, just like the one they found last January.

These were just empty shells!

Cam squished through the puddles of water that hadn’t melted into the sand yet and stood by the teenager; it was the same as before...or was it? Was something different this time, maybe a little sloppy?

Cam, called the Doc over the wind and sound of the waves, did you get your pictures yet? I’d like to take him down now.

The Sheriff checked with Bert Dempsey his deputy and nodded to the doctor’s assistant.

Almost done, just the rope left, Bert said to Jason Bellimy, the Assistant Morgue Attendant that came out with Doc Speller.

Bert took pictures of the knots before undoing the yellow rope. You never knew at this point in the investigation just what kind of evidence you would need.

The rule of thumb was, get pictures of everything, figure out later if it was needed.

Cam and Doc Speller stood and watched as the attendants loaded the body into the waiting ambulance for transport to the morgue.

The small town of Chance didn’t have an autopsy room, let alone a morgue. They got by with a medical clinic, the hospital up the coast in Central City, and the morgue in Portland.

Actually, Central City wasn’t a great deal bigger than Chance but the bureaucrats in Salem, the state capital had to put the hospital somewhere and gave it to the town most central on the coast. The hospital and the ensuing jobs were encouraging Central City to grow fast. It was on its way to becoming one of the larger towns on Coast Highway #101.

Cam and Mayor Ira Jamiston hoped for the jobs that came with the hospital but were glad when it didn’t happen. They didn’t have to deal with the problems of the big city, but it looked like they were coming their way, anyway.

So, Doc, what do make of this one?

I’ll know more tomorrow, after the boys finish the autopsy. But from what I can see, it’s probably like the last one. No outward marks, but extensive bruising under the skin. I’m going to have them check very thoroughly, especially in out-of-the ordinary places to make sure there are no breaks in the skin. Even a small intrusion in an odd place could give us a lead as to how the blood was drained. I’ll call you when I know more.

Cam was grateful that Doc Speller came out on such a rainy day. He didn’t need to, as Chief Forensic Pathologist in the Portland Police Bureau, he didn’t need to attend these cases.

But because he had a summer cottage in Chance, and he liked that the sheriff took him fishing in the spring, he came when there was a call from Chance.

He knew this one made two since Christmas, was there going to be a third before summer? Did that mean the killer was escalating, his need to kill becoming more than he could control? Doc knew people expected miracles from him, and sometimes he could deliver, but not this time.

It bothered him no end.

Cam Grant pulled his sheriff’s jacket tighter around his shoulders, and looked at the offending teeter-totter again.

He knew by the time the rain stopped any evidence that was there would probably be washed away. Everything else was pounded into the sand from all the police techs and the paramedical people from the ambulance milling around.

I can’t see anything else we haven’t done, thought Cam, but I’ll get forensics here again tomorrow, maybe they’ll get lucky and find something that was missed because of the rain.

Bert, he called, you can get the yellow tape from the cruiser and put it up now. Make sure you give the teeter-totter lots of room, and make sure it stays put. Maybe we can keep some of the curiosity seekers off the crime scene this time. They touch everything and that means there won’t be a print of any sort worth keeping.

Bert Dempsey got the tape and the stanchions from the police cruiser and started to string it around the area. He was almost finished when he glanced down and saw something shiny in the sand. Didn’t look like much, but he picked it up anyway even though it was outside the yellow tape. He put it in his pocket and decided he’d show it to the boss later.

Meanwhile he was glad he was finished, the rain hadn’t let up for a moment and he was soaked to the skin.

He smiled when he remembered the last time he came home drenched and tired. His wife Kellie was still in her bubble bath when he came