Murder, Madness, and Mystery

By Feed the World With Words

Feed the World With Words
Authors combating hunger, one story at a time.

10 stories - 10 authors. 100% of proceeds go to The Hunger Project.

Have You Considered Voodoo by Wayne Zurl
Good Boy by Jonathon Kane
Accidents Will Happen by Maria Savva
Wish List by James Everington
Kellie Takes A Mulligan by Joe Schwartz
The Story by Julie Elizabeth Powell
The Waxed Jacket by Geoffrey West
Jane Doe’s Last Straw by Mitsuki Yoruichi and Max E. Stone
Wednesday’s Child by Jay Faulkner
True Colors by Darcia Helle

• Language: English
• Publisher: Feed the World With Words
• Release date: Jul 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301438747

Feed the World With Words

Feed the World With Words is the publishing project of Quiet Fury Books. All proceeds of each anthology go to The Hunger Project.

Book preview

51

MURDER

MADNESS

and

MYSTERY

A Feed the World With Words Anthology

All proceeds go to The Hunger Project

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Quiet Fury Books / Darcia Helle

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors. This book contains works of fiction. The characters and situations are products of each author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Rights to the individual works contained in this anthology are owned by the contributing authors. Each has permitted the story's use in this collection. Individual copyright information is listed with each work. All rights to each story are reserved by the authors.

Published by Quiet Fury Books

Edited by Robert Helle

www.QuietFuryBooks.com

www.facebook.com/feedtheworldwithwords

Contents:

Have You Considered Voodoo by Wayne Zurl

Good Boy by Jonathon Kane

Accidents Will Happen by Maria Savva

Wish List by James Everington

Kellie Takes A Mulligan by Joe Schwartz

The Story by Julie Elizabeth Powell

The Waxed Jacket by Geoffrey West

Jane Doe’s Last Straw by Mitsuki Yoruichi and Max E. Stone

Wednesday’s Child by Jay Faulkner

True Colors by Darcia Helle

HAVE YOU CONSIDERED VOODOO?

by Wayne Zurl

Copyright 2011

Long Island, New York, July 1977

At 3:30 p.m. on a hot and sunny Tuesday, a uniformed officer walked into the 5th Squad Detectives’ office. His blues were wrinkled and an eight-point cap sat on his head at a jaunty angle.

Detective Jenkins, he said, I understand you’re getting the squeals today.

Officer Thomas, aren’t we being dreadfully formal? I said.

Yeah, I know. Listen, Sam, I’m sorry, but the lieutenant said I should bring this over to you.

He waved a carbon copy of a field report for a moment before handing it to me. I skipped the heading and read the synopsis of the incident.

This is a dead cat, I said. I can see it was murdered, but it’s only a misdemeanor in the Agriculture and Markets Law. Why give it to me?

Read the top line. It’s a burglary. It happened in a house.

Great. House or not, you’d usually give something like this to Plainclothes as a misdemeanor investigation. Inside, outside, who cares? It’s still just a cat.

The L.T. said it’s the second similar event in forty-eight hours. Frampton and Leonard handled one the other day—dead chicken hanging on a front door. They gave it to PC. Marty Koenig is handling that.

And your boss thinks we have a serial animal killer?

I guess.

Thank him for me, the moron. I’ve got thirty-five open cases. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than investigate dead cats.

What can I tell you, buddy?

***

Twenty minutes later I stood in the kitchen of a house on River Avenue, in one of the flea-bag sections of town.

An evidence technician puttered around processing the crime scene and the homeowner, one Cedric Bromley, stood next to me.

Who would do this to my cat, mon? Cedric spoke with a Jamaican accent.

I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Bromley. Have you had a problem with any of the neighborhood kids lately or a major argument with someone?

No, sir, I don’t argue with no one.

Cedric’s dreadlocks were tucked under a black, yellow, red, and green knitted cap. The smell of cat blood, urine, and feces tainted the air in his home.

"This is not your average burglary, Cedric. Besides your cat having its throat cut and hung from the light above your sink, the person who did this took a dump on your kitchen table and left behind the remnants of a marijuana cigar behind. I’ve never seen a bomber that large before. Big-time ganja."

I tell you, mon, I got no enemies. I don’t bother nobody. And not every Jamaican does drugs. I don’t know who did this.

***

I left as the E.T. finished his work and Cedric stood there dumbfounded.

Back in my unmarked car, I switched on the ignition and picked up the microphone.

555 to headquarters, 10-33 with unit five-zero-one.

10-4, five-five-five, switch down.

501, copy.

I turned my radio to Frequency Two.

501, on.

Frampton or Leonard in the car?

10-4, that’s us.

Can you meet me at your relief point?

10-4, five minutes.

It took me three minutes to drive to the railroad station. I waited only a few moments.

A blue and white sector car with Officer Wayne Frampton driving pulled up next to my Plymouth. He rolled down the window and showed me a wolfish grin.

5th Squad needs help from the likes of us?

His partner gave me a wave. I returned it.

Yeah, one of the uniform lieutenants thinks we’ve got a serial killer in your sector.

Serial killer? Frampton’s salt-and-pepper hair fell across his forehead and covered the tops of his ears. Not exactly regulation. He drove the supervisors crazy.

A chicken and a cat, I said.

He laughed. We had the chicken. Who had the cat?

Thomas and Armstrong.

Where’d it happen?

Inside 215 River Avenue. Rastafarian named Cedric Bromley. Know him?

Yeah, Gary wrote him for a stop sign a couple months ago.

He into anything?

Not that we know of. He seemed okay. But all these Jamaicans like their ganja.

Tell me about the chicken.

There’s a Haitian family on West Street, just south of Main. We figured a neighbor didn’t like the smell of chicken shit from the coop they keep in the back yard. Cut one’s throat and hung it on the door knocker to bleed out. Weird thing was, somebody left a bag of human shit on the stoop and set it on fire.

Like a Halloween prank? Whoever comes out and stomps on the burning bag gets shit on his shoes?

Something like that.

Anything else?

Leonard spoke for the first time. Perp left behind a bomber roach with enough grass in it to roll another joint.

***

I walked back into the 5th Squad and tossed my keys and notebook on the desk.

Whaddaya know, kid? Detective Sergeant Louie Demarco asked.

I know I’ve got too many real burglaries and a new armed robbery to think about to be spending time on assassinated cats and chickens.

That stuff in 501 sector?

Louie was a small, middle-aged man with dark curly hair and an Errol Flynn mustache.

You got it, I said.

As Louie and I spoke, the squad commander, Lieutenant Harold York, walked out of his office.

You working on that 10-3 with the dead cat, Sam? he asked.

Yeah, boss. Kinda weird. Louie tell you about it?

Yeah.

York was tall and distinguished looking, with slicked-back hair and a three-piece brown suit.

Any connection between the complainants?

I don’t know. Got one Jamaican and a Haitian family. I’ll check for a connection.

Haitians and Jamaicans? Dead animals? Marijuana?

Right.

Have you considered Voodoo, Sam?

***

The detective whose desk faced mine had about 200 years on the job and was always a good guy to ask for a second opinion.

Hey, Dave, you ever handle anything involving Voodoo?

Voodoo? You got zombies doing stick-ups or what?

Gimme a break, huh? The L.T. brought up a good point.

I explained the possibly related cases.

Detective Browne sat back in his chair with his fingers intertwined over his large belly. His blue and red striped tie ended at three buttons above his waistline. A couple of soup stains on the tie added to its character.

Voodoo my ass, he said. There’s some connection the complainants aren’t telling you about. Nobody tells the whole truth.

Thanks, partner. You’ve been an immense help. My voice dripped with sarcasm.

Yeah, you’re so smart? Go out and look for some Voodoo mama with mojo.

***