Stranglehold: A Tale from Champion City

By J. Walt Layne

Rage! Frustration! Anger! Grief! Pain! Loss! A storm gathers around Thurman Dicke in his relentless pursuit of The Quiet Man. A previously ignored calling card comes to light and he's one step closer to nailing the strangler. The killer strikes close when Thurman uncovers the murder of a missing friend and almost takes his heart when the reckless killer in flight nearly kills someone dear. Headlong pursuit, Thurman Dicke and Bill Davis get too close and the killer lashes out. As the young gumshoe gets closer the killer becomes more unstable. Can Dwayne Rivers help put the last piece in place? There's a cost to pursuing a psychopath who holds Champion City in a Stranglehold. Stranglehold: A Tale of Champion City by Author J. Walt Layne (A Week in Hell, Breathless). From Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2016

Book preview

STRANGLEHOLD

A TALE OF CHAMPION CITY

by J. Walt Layne

Published by Pro Se Press

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2016 J. Walt Layne

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Preface

Thurman sat in the car contemplating the revisions he’d had to make to the crime scene reports for the bus station victims. Nearly every measurement, the cardinal directions, the entire lay of the scene was wrong. It frustrated him. Concerning these cases, lackluster work was in some instances the standard and not the exception. It frustrated him further that whoever had done the investigation hadn’t bothered to sign any of the reports. He tucked the new reports into the top record jacket and flipped angrily through the photos.

He closed the John Doe folder and opened the file for Jane. As he placed the corrected addendums in their proper locations, he flipped through the photos and his eyes landed on an odd half-moon shaped impression on the front right of the victim’s throat. He looked at it for a long moment and laid the two related files aside.

The third file was that of the Jane Doe found in the vacant lot adjacent to Crowell, Collier & Sons Publishing. She was approximately twenty-five years of age, emaciated, and a drug addict. The narrative stated that she hadn’t been noticed by any of the officers who regularly worked the downtown beat. She’d had several psychotropic medications in her system but it was the strangulation that killed her. Thurman started to turn to the photos but paused when thunder rolled across the sky.

Better get moving.

He pulled away from the curb and drove east on Main Street and turned right on Plum Street. He headed south to High Street and made a left. He pulled up in front of the vacant lot near the corner of High Street and Lowry Avenue.

He got out of the car and walked a short distance into the vacant lot. He flipped to the sketch of the area and walked to the place where he estimated that the body had been found. In this case there were no complex angles, no moving debris, and no orientation problem. The crime scene was exactly where the report said it was, still much the same as the day the body was found.

Thunder rumbled and lightning tore the sky open as Thurman turned to the photo of the unidentified victim.

Air left his lungs and Thurman felt as if someone had walked over his grave. He knew the young woman in the photo. They’d grown up together. He’d taken her to the junior prom. Her name was Jessica Allen. Tears rolled down his cheeks and icy rain poured from the sky.

Chapter 1

When Thurman arrived at the Medical Examiner’s office some time later he felt as if he were watching a bizarre movie of his life play out. He felt detached. He walked past Melissa Marsden’s desk without speaking and let himself through the security door. She’d gasped as he walked by. He was soaking wet, the case file which he clutched close to his chest was likewise drenched.

He went directly to Dr. Poe’s office and stood there in front of the empty desk. He stood there for a long while until Melissa finally discovered him.

Detective? she asked softly. He didn’t respond. She cleared he throat and asked him again. Thurman, can I help you?

I need the Doc, he said slowly.

I’m sorry Doctor Poe is at the Attorney General’s office today. I can get Micki or Timmons, she offered.

This thing just got personal, he growled at her and he stalked off toward Micki’s lab.

Thurman entered the lab to find Micki drinking coffee and reviewing the photos he’d taken in Cliff Park. D’you have any more of that?

She glanced up at him and her pallid complexion went from white to gray. Whoa, you look like you just saw a ghost. Then she really looked at him. You’re wringing wet, Thurman. What happened? She guided him into a chair and tried to take the file but he wouldn’t let it go. She went to the coffee pot in the break room and poured a cup of coffee.

When she returned to the lab, Thurman was still in the chair where she’d put him but the file lay open on the desk. On her way around to her chair, she sat the coffee mug in front of him on the desk. Before she sat down, he’d drunk nearly half of the steaming liquid.

You’re going to boil your innards.

Might help, he said, dejected.

D’you want to talk about it?

We can close this one. She was Jessica Marie Allen. I know, err… knew her. I know her parents will want to know. I’ll tell them. She was… The words caught in his throat and he dislodged them with the bottom half of the coffee.

She was a good girl. I don’t know what happened to her after we graduated.

Sometimes things happen. This file is soaking wet. You better leave it with me. I can take care of it. You can just do an addendum with notice of identification. Take the portrait to show the family. We don’t ever show them anything from the post unless they specifically ask, and then they have to come and the chief handles it.

Thurman nodded. This is going to be hard. Afterward, I’m done for a while. He got up slowly. Micki took his hand and squeezed it. Her hand was much warmer than he would have thought. The gesture in no way comforted him.

Call Davis. He’ll want to know you closed this. Dr. Poe will be very pleased.

So that’s it, then? Thurman shrugged.

No, but that’s all of your part of it. You’ll take the photo when you notify the family. If it’s their girl they’ll tell you, if not, they’ll tell you that also. That is, of course, a bit less uncomfortable.

Thurman took the photo she’d laid beside the case file and looked at it. There was no question in his mind that he was looking at Jessica Marie Allen. He tucked the photo into a manila folder. Thanks Micki. This one just kinda hit home.

Believe me, I know.

He left the lab and went upstairs on his way to the parking lot. When he passed Melissa Marsden’s desk, she averted her eyes and he paused. I’m sorry. I just found something that caught me flatfooted. I meant no disrespect.

She tried to smile. Her eyes were glassy, and her voice caught. Thank you, was all she said and again averted her eyes.

Thurman went on. He thought it best to leave her to her thoughts. He pushed open the door and walked out into the drizzle. Behind him, still seated at her desk, Melissa Marsden let a tight lipped smile spread across her face as she watched him go.

Thurman was halfway to his car and looked back over his shoulder. Everything in him told him he was inadequate to the task ahead. His eyes traced their way over the dingy facade of dirty enameled brick and concrete. He felt the manila folder tucked under his arm and its weight seemed to multiply. He remembered the vivacity that Jessica had possessed in life. He remembered the day his grandfather had died, she tried to comfort him and he’d lost his temper with her and that was that. There were years and hard miles between that hot afternoon on the concrete steps behind his mother’s house and that cold rainy day in the parking lot at the CCME.

I’m gonna make this right, then I’m gonna get that sumbitch. He got in the car and headed into West End. The turbid sky had gone from smoky gray to gunmetal. The rain redoubled its efforts as he turned onto Henry Street.

Thurman pulled up in front of the Allen residence at 1432 Henry Street and sighed deeply as he turned off the engine. He took the manila folder off the seat and got out of the car. He counted twenty four linear steps across the sidewalk and up the walk to the front porch. Thurman swallowed hard and raised a finger to the bell. After a moment’s pause, he withdrew from the button and gave three sharp knocks on the aluminum screen door.

Several moments passed and Thurman turned around to watch the rainwater running off the gutters. It pounded the street. He heard the deadbolt scrape and wheeled around as the door opened. Thurman stood up straight as he recognized the kindly face of Bob Allen, Jessica’s Father.

Thurman? The old fellow asked, pushing the screen door wide and beckoning him to come in.

Thurman gave him a thin, forced smile. How are you Mr. Allen? It’s been a long time.

Lorna, come down. Thurman Dicke is here, Mr. Allen called after he pushed the door shut. Lorna will be down in a minute. She spends all her time up in the sewing room.

Thurman noticed the walls were over decorated with hand-sewn decorations on his walk toward the once familiar living room.

So, we saved your clippings. He pulled a drug store variety scrapbook off a shelf and opened it to a photo of Thurman from The Champion City News-Sun. Your folks would have been so proud.

Thurman’s next breath caught in his throat when Lorna Allen walked in and settled onto the couch.

Thurman, it is so good to see you. We missed you so when you stopped coming around. Our Jessie was just heartbroken over your Granddad. She trailed off.

All eyes settled on the manila folder Thurman was unconsciously fidgeting with.

You know something about Jessie or you wouldn’t be here, Mr. Allen said, his eyes not leaving the folder as if he could stare it into not being.

I hate to be the one who has to do this, but I knew the minute I saw the photo that it was her. I didn’t want it to be some stuffed shirt from the detective bureau telling you how hard they’d worked the case.

Lorna went to tears, and Bob sat forward reaching for the folder. Thurman opened it and turned it around so that he could see it. He looked at it for as long as he could stand it and averted his gaze. The next time his eyes met Thurman’s they were moist. The tears and the truth of his daughter’s whereabouts were causing him great pain.

When… When did they find her?

January, but they couldn’t identify her. I was transferred to the Medical Examiner’s office as a special investigator. I’ve been working these unsolved cases. We have a lot of reason to believe they’re connected. I’m going to find out who did this, you have my word.

January, Lorna melted into a round of fresh tears.

I’d rather you not go into a lot of detail right now about what happened to her but I will come downtown and take care of things. We had figured something happened. Jessie was spending a lot of time downtown, trying to help those women. She started keeping odd hours, then all night some nights. We knew she was getting into some things. She always thought she could help. You know she was such a kindly girl.

Thurman was sweating and he felt out of place. Like a caged animal. He was overwhelmed with the urge to get up and leave them to their grief, but he stayed planted on the sofa. I’m putting a case together. I wish I could tell you exactly when and where this was going to end. I’m doing everything I can.

Everything you can? Lorna shrieked. If anyone was doing anything, what the hell difference would it make? My baby is gone. Nothing can make a difference. My sweet little girl became wild and strange because of you, Thurman Dicke. She heard you’d become a cop and she decided that to be close to you she’d live on the streets.

The woman’s hysterics were Thurman’s cue and he recognized it when Mr. Allen stood up. His smile was genuine enough but Thurman sensed both his grief and relief. Bob Allen had never been a hard man to read. They’d loved their daughter. Closure would come for them when they read about the arrest of the killer and they finally were able to give their girl a proper memorial. Thurman wrote the main number for the CCME on the message pad Mr. Allen offered and left them to grieve.

Thurman turned onto High Street and headed into downtown. He stopped