Whisper Creek

By James Glass

When a young girl is found strangled in a small clearing along Whisper Creek in Charleston, South Carolina, Lieutenant Mark Wheeler must use all his resources to find a sadistic killer. As he digs deeper into the investigation, the case stirs up old wounds from his past. Soon he discovers there may be a connection between human trafficking and his Janie Doe. Suddenly, all of Charleston is in an uproar for the police to find the girl’s killer. As the case takes a few hard turns, nothing can prepare him for the world he’s about to encounter, the past that haunts him, and a city on the brink of destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Glass
• Release date: May 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463335802

James Glass

James Glass retired from the United States Navy after 22 years of service. After retiring, he exchanged his rifle for a pen. He and his family moved back to the Florida Panhandle. He’s married and has two children. James is also the President of the Panhandle Writer's Group.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sunday, July 8, 9:30 p.m.

Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tells children that dragons can be killed.

G. K. Chesterton

Lieutenant Mark Wheeler of the South Carolina Police Department sat at Virginia’s study. This had been his wife’s sanctuary for so many years. His fingers traced the smooth edge of the laptop, where her romance novels came to life. Ten in all. Each one a national best seller.

Then Alzheimer’s settled in. The last five years had been a nightmare as her mind slowly disappeared.

He shoved the barrel of the 9mm Berretta under his chin. The cold steel pressed against the soft skin.

There was no shaking or sweating palms. A calmness took over as he squeezed the trigger.

The hammer slammed forward, followed by a click.

Mark set the pistol on the desk between two pictures. The first depicted him in green Army fatigues during his first tour of Vietnam, an M16 rifle slung over his shoulder and a cigar in his mouth. His wife loved the photo, because she said he resembled Clint Eastwood. The picture reminded him of a haunted past.

The second photo was of Virginia taken during their twenty-fifth anniversary at Myrtle Beach. The sun reflected off her long, blonde hair, the Atlantic Ocean in the background. Her bare feet sank into the wet sand. The white sundress hugged her trim body.

He picked up the picture frame and stared at her for a long moment. She stared back at him with radiant, green eyes and a thin smile.

Then he saw his reflection in the glass and questioned his sanity.

He lay the frame face down as not to see her, picked up the pistol, inserted a magazine, and chambered a round.

Death isn’t pretty. It’s a reality. A finality. In the end, death finds us all.

His cell chirped, and he flinched.

He read the text from his partner, Jonathan Sachs. Murder at Whisper Creek.

This was their first homicide in two weeks.

He contemplated his next move.

Chapter 2

Sunday, July 8, 10:30 p.m.

Mark’s thoughts turned to the homicide as he drove. A new case would keep his mind off Virginia, which he found both welcoming and remorseful. The rush of catching murderers rejuvenated his spirit but felt guilty for not thinking of her.

He turned onto a grassy trail. Tree branches scraped along the outside of his unmarked cruiser. The narrow path opened onto a clearing on the edge of Whisper Creek, and he parked behind several other official vehicles. His partner, Jonathan, stood near the embankment along with the Medical Examiner, Dr. Christy Wilkes. They both had black crime scene bags slung over their shoulders.

Mark exited the Ford Crown Victoria and made his way over to them. A swarm of mosquitoes circled his head. He swatted a few but this didn’t seem to make a difference.

Christy handed him a can of repellant, and he sprayed a healthy dose across his face, neck, and arms.

The evening was warm and humid, and the starry sky, which resembled a million fireflies, was crystal-clear. The half-moon reflected off the calm water of the river.

What do we got? Mark asked.

His young partner rubbed his nearly bald scalp. His eyes were bloodshot.

Before Jonathan could reply, Mark added, You look like shit.

Jonathan yawned. I haven’t gotten much sleep with the new baby. He’s got colic and thrush. If I’m able to close my eyes for an hour without interruption I call it a miracle.

Christy tucked several strands of shoulder length blonde hair behind an ear. The colic should be gone by month three.

That’s what our pediatrician said. I just hope we last that long.

Christy smiled. Give him yogurt. That’ll clear it up the thrush in no time.

Jonathan arched a brow. Really?

She rolled her eyes. Yes, really.

Mark liked Dr. Wilkes. After working together for fifteen years, she’d never lost her sassiness. On the other hand, he was just getting used to Jonathan whom he’d stolen from the cyber-crime group ten months earlier. All right, now that we solved the thrush mystery, let’s get to work. What do we have?

It’s awful, Jonathan said, his voice thick with distress. The twenty-nine-year old hadn’t worked many homicides.

Then let’s get started, Mark said. He wondered how bad, bad could be through the eyes of his partner.

Jonathan reached into his bag and fished out a flashlight and they began their trek to the crime scene.

Further down the embankment, a small gust flit through the cattails. Crickets chirped. Several birch trees had fallen, their branches bare, resembling telephone poles. On the ground lay a thick layer of pine needles. As they headed up a slight incline, Mark’s shoes lost traction on the slippery slope. The earth suddenly gave way into a hidden pothole and he fell.

Jonathan, unaware of what happened, continued down the path.

Christy yelped and bent to help.

Jonathan rushed back. Hey, old man, you okay?

Mark lay there for several seconds. Pine straw poked his palms. Nothing hurt except his pride. I’ll be fine, he grumbled, and slowly got to his feet. He brushed the pine needles from his backside. They trudged on in silence.

The ark shapes of the trees and in the scant light of the moon, the terrain looked foreign and foreboding. A moment later they arrived at the crime scene. Portable lights were set up around its perimeter. The area lit-up like a night game.

A patrolman lifted the yellow police tape, allowing the three to duck under. Mark stretched latex gloves over his hands and assessed the scene.

A pit in the middle of the clearing contained charred remains of paper, wood, and other rubbish. Mark noticed the absence of smoke or embers. Empty beer bottles, some smashed, littered the area. He thought the place had been used for camping or more likely, sex. A well-worm mattress lay on the ground about ten feet from the pit.

Splotches of green and black mold covered the twin mattress like a blanket. The naked body of a young girl was displayed on top. She looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen. Dead children were never easy for Mark. His only sister was murdered the day she turned twelve, her killer never caught. He stared at the girl for a long moment before realizing he hadn’t taken a breath.

Anger churned his stomach, causing a fire to begin deep within him. The burn would carry him through the entire investigation.

Christy stood next to the body.

Hello Janie Doe, she said in almost a whisper, then her voice strengthened. The marks around her neck and petechial hemorrhage in the eyes are consistent with ligature strangulation. I don’t see any signs of the murder weapon here, but the two single impressions around her neck were made by a stiff wire, possibly a metal coat hanger. She took pictures of the body with a camera.

Mark counted a dozen condoms scattered along the ground next to the mattress. Are we looking at rape here?

I won’t know until I conduct a rape kit back at the morgue. But there’s bite marks around the left nipple. She took several photos of the marks. I’ll contact a forensic OD.

Forensic OD? Jonathan asked.

Not been in homicide very long, eh? she said. Odonatologist. They’re specially trained dentists used in identifying unknown remains through exemplars. I’ll have one with me at the autopsy. Maybe they can identify who left the impression behind.

Mark nodded. Bite marks are as unique as fingerprints. He looked at Jonathan. Who found the body?

A troop leader with a group of Tiger Scouts.

Mark shook his head. He was saddened by the idea of the kids discovering the dead body.

What’s the name of the troop leader?

Jonathan retrieved a small notebook from his bag and flipped through several pages. Edgar Tobias.

We’ll need to talk to him later.

Mark thought of the pain this little girl must’ve endured, and the fear of knowing nobody would come to her rescue. Kids often believed the boogieman hid in the closet or under their bed. In the end, Janie Doe’s fears became a reality.

Help me roll her over, Christy said to no one in particular.

Mark helped roll the victim onto her stomach. As she took snapshots of the body, he noticed an impression on Janie Doe’s left buttock. He gestured with a finger. Any thoughts, Doc?

She took several photos of the small, circular outline. Could be a bruise or a birthmark. Sometimes when a body lies on an object after death, it will leave an imprint on the skin.

Mark shook his head. I don’t think so.

Why not? Jonathan asked.

Mark pointed toward Janie Doe’s feet. There aren’t any scuff marks or dirt on her heels indicative with a body being dragged. The killer bound her wrists and ankles, but I don’t see anything to suggest she was tied here. I’m thinking she was killed somewhere else and dumped here. He saw a number of shoeprints around the mattress. I’m guessing she was carried.

Let’s flip her over again, Christy said.

Once Janie Doe was on her back, Christy took a small comb from her crime scene kit and combed through the victim’s hair, collecting any trace evidence on a thin sheet of paper. She folded the paper and placed it inside an envelope. She continued this process several more times.

Next, she swabbed the fingernails, mouth, and inside the thighs, near the pubic region, placing each swab in its own envelope. She moved back to the victim’s mouth.

There’s ten-point petechial hemorrhages on inside of the victim’s lips, also consistent with strangulation.

Mark searched for any evidence near the mattress and picked up a set of tire tracks. Careful not to disturb the dirt, he walked around the area and followed the trail. When he came back to where he started, he realized a vehicle had been back here. He tried to find a clearing big enough for one to enter. Jonathan must’ve read his thoughts and said, Whoever dumped the victim drove, but the only place to enter is where we came in. It would’ve been tight, but doable.

Mark moved to the edge of the clearing. We need to cast a mold of the tire tracks.

Will do.

As Mark began to walk back to the mattress, something caught his eye next to the base of a pine tree. He crouched to get a better view without touching it. It was small, shiny, and red in color.

We may have something here. He reached down with a gloved hand lifting the potential evidence by the edges.

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder. What is it?

Not sure, but it might be a piece of taillight. Bring me an evidence bag. He stood on a tree stump to get a bird’s eye view of the area. Several tracks overlapped each other. Although they wouldn’t be good for getting prints, they told a story.

Whoever dumped the body backed the vehicle into this tree, breaking off a piece of the taillight.

They searched the area for more evidence. When they returned to the body. Mark saw a horizontal scar above the pubic bone he hadn’t noticed earlier.

Did she have her appendix removed? Mark asked.

Christy moved next to him. When she leaned over to get a better look, he caught the scent of her shampoo—lilac.

I’m not a hundred percent certain, but it looks like the victim had a cesarean.

You mean, she had a baby, Jonathan squeaked, his voice rising an octave.

Mark looked at his partner who was ashen-faced. Knowing his thoughts were on his infant son, he decided to throw him a lifeline.

Why don’t you speak with the scoutmaster, Mr. Tobias? Maybe he can identify our victim.

Jonathan walked away, shoulders slumped.

After his partner was out of sight he turned to Christy. How long you think she’s been here?

Hard to say since she’s been outside—weather can play havoc on time of death. Maggots only lay eggs during the day. Since we have the presence of blowflies and maggots, I’d say about forty-eight hours.

Mark groped his pocket for a cigarette.

Damn it! he said to himself for quitting the nasty habit three weeks ago. He wouldn’t be allowed to smoke at a crime scene anyway. When do you think you’ll be done with the autopsy?

I have a full house waiting for me as we speak. Probably three days, four tops.

He took a deep breath and instantly regretted the strong odor. The smell of death, feces, stale beer, and salty air made for a bad mixture. He wanted to a shower and scrub away this filth, but knew this little girl deserved to have her killer caught.

She needed to rest in peace.

Chapter 3

Mark cleared the scene at 3:45 a.m. As he drove to the office, his thoughts turned from the case to Virginia. He missed his wife. Those who suffered from Alzheimer’s weren’t the only victims.

Since being diagnosed five years earlier, he believed she had developed two distinct personalities: the woman he loved for thirty years and the bitch who didn’t know him and crabbed about everything. For a moment, he thought of calling her, but he didn’t know if his little angel or the other one would answer.

Mark decided to stop feeling sorry for himself. The case would eat up most of his time, which could be a blessing. His thoughts never ventured too far from his wife. He always felt he had betrayed the love of his life for the case at hand. But Virginia had long forgiven him when she said, Evil never takes a day off. Vietnam had been an experience he wouldn’t have wished on his worst enemy, yet, if not for the conflict, he never would have found his soul mate.

The streets were deserted at this hour. Mark parked the Crown Vic in the back-parking lot of the police station, grabbed his briefcase, and walked to the building. The long, narrow passageway seemed longer than usual as he passed by empty darkened office spaces on either side. His stomach rumbled, so he stopped by the vending machine and decided breakfast would consist of whatever he could find. He put in a dollar and looked at the choices.

Like his belly, most of the inside was bare, but he finally decided on peanut butter crackers. After retrieving the crackers, he continued down the hallway toward the homicide division. The lights were on but the office was empty. He set his briefcase on the floor. The cushion farted as he plopped down in the chair. His first break since going to the crime scene.

A manila folder with Interview of Edgar Tobias written in black ink lay on top of the desk calendar. He rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to sooth the redness.

Mark stood, stretched, and stumbled to the break room. Annoyed, he realized someone had forgotten to empty the day-old coffee. He did so, rinsed the container and filled it with fresh water. He opened the can of coffee. Ugh, he groaned. Empty. Really people. Feeling a bit deflated, he decided to reuse the old grinds.

As a kid, his mother told him stories including her parent’s reused grinds because they hadn’t the money to buy fresh coffee during the depression. In fact, they reused them three times before discarding. He always wondered if the story were true or just a fable.

Time to find out.

Back in his chair, he opened the crackers and bit into one. Startled, his mouth fell open in disgust. His nose crinkled from the revolting snack.

He spit the food into a trashcan next to his desk. Without thinking, he used his sleeve as a towel, smacking his lips in a vain attempt to rid himself of the rancid taste. The date stamped on the cellophane indicated the expiration date expired two years earlier. Just great, he muttered and tossed the remainder of the crackers into the trash.

Mark walked back to the break room and filled a styrofoam cup with black liquid, hoping to neutralize the bad after-taste. Wisps of vapor rose from the cup. He opened the miniature fridge and added liquid creamer from a small carton and took a sip. It tasted bitter, but he took another sip.

He pressed his lips together and made a smart decision. He would go home, get a shower and a few winks of sleep before coming back into work. Mark placed the manila folder with Tobias’s statement in his briefcase.

With any luck, he wouldn’t be tempted to eat his gun.

Chapter 4

Monday, July 9, 4:45 a.m.

Flying bullets narrowly missed him. They reminded him of swarms of mosquitos buzzing his head all at once. His body quivered—not with fear, but anger. Mark clenched his teeth, clipping the side of his tongue. He tasted the salty flavor of blood.

If you’re going to shoot me, do it already.

The night was black, except for intermittent muzzle flashes from somewhere ahead. Mark squeezed off several rounds from his M16. The acrid odor of gunpowder drifted past his nostrils. The receiver slammed forward. He winced, the click sounded like it could’ve been heard a mile away.

He pushed the magazine release with his thumb, inserted another twenty-round mag, and pressed the slide release. Locked and loaded.

He saw a flash of light, followed by another. Mark steadied the weapon on the meaty part of his shoulder, checked his aim, and waited. He focused his attention on what lay ahead—his need to shoot the enemy—Charlie—the Vietcong.

Another flash flared, and he fired several rounds. His platoon was like all Marines, they persisted … no matter the outcome, they must push forward.

Wounded men yelled and cursed, adding to the pandemonium, but the unit continued to move through the jungle. A twig snapped under his boot. Fire erupted into his right thigh, searing through the flesh.

The warm liquid snaked down his leg, but Mark refused to stop. If he did, he might never get started again. They all knew what happened to Prisoners of War.

Light began to penetrate the blackness in the distance. The gunfire faded. The pain in his leg subsided.

Mark drifted toward the light. Am I dying?

Chapter 5

Monday, July 9, 5:00 a.m.

Mark awoke to the shrill of the alarm clock. His heartbeat pounded his chest. Beads of sweat streaked his brow. He swung his feet off the couch as the alarm continued to beep. He snatched the irritating gizmo off the coffee table and shut it off.

He got up from the sofa—his bed since Virginia went to live in a private home in Charleston, twelve miles away. Eastern Shore Community had great doctors and nurses who could give her better care than living at home. They could afford the best since Virginia had been a successful Romance writer. At first, he insisted she stay at home with a live-in Nurse, but in the end, they both realized Eastern Shore Community would be best.

After she left, he couldn’t bear sleeping in the marital bed alone. He’d considered selling the mansion but couldn’t go through with it. Now he slept on an extra-long leather couch in the den. It was surprisingly comfortable. He hid the alarm on the bookshelf between the Spanish versions of his wife’s books, then folded the blanket, with the pillow on top, and stored them in the linen closet.

Mark took a long, hot shower, holding his head directly under the spray to rinse off his dreams. He let the water rush into his mouth, then spit it out. Shutting off the water, he stepped onto the rug next to the tub.

The ordeal of shaving, forced him to take a closer look at himself. The effects of so little sleep had left dark circles under his eyes but fit nicely with the bloodshot eyes. He looked beaten—more dead than alive. Had thirty-two years on the force finally caught up with him?

The few old salts like him in the department were mostly getting round in the middle, some already survived their first heart attack. He pinched the small wedges of his love muscles. They seemed to sag a bit more each year. But for a 61-year-old, his stomach was still flat.

He ran a hand through his hair. The black was losing its battle against time as it gave way to gray.

Getting old sucks.

Mark splashed his face with cold water in an effort to wash away his foul mood but knew it would take more than water. He grabbed the Visine from the medicine cabinet and put a heavy dose into each eye, feeling relief as the fire was extinguished. He wiped the spilled drops from his face with fingertips and left the cabinet door open so he wouldn’t have to look at himself.

On the way into work, he decided to treat himself to a nice breakfast, even though he’d skipped his exercise. The five-mile run would have to wait. He drove into the parking lot of the Early Bird Diner. He wrestled with the idea of taking his briefcase inside but opted to leave it on the front passenger seat.

Although for most people the day hadn’t even begun, the café bustled with activity. He sat on a stool at the counter and ordered his favorite breakfast, pancakes. As he drank coffee, a measure of control returned. The server set his plate down and Mark grabbed maple syrup from the bar.

He scarfed the flapjacks in large bites washing it down with coffee. Soon he felt good and whole. The headache gone—his stomach full, he paid the tab, leaving a hefty tip. He stood, ready to go out into the world, whether or not it was ready for him.

Mark stopped the car at a red light on Savannah Highway. On the corner stood a man wearing a blue T-shirt blotted with ketchup and mustard stains that could almost pass for abstract art. He glanced at Mark with sad eyes, holding up a sign made from cardboard that read, Vietnam Vet. Need money for food.

He lowered his window and the guy walked over in ragged blue jeans—his stride quick and jerky. He grabbed the five-dollar-bill from the center console and handed it to the guy. The man stunk of sour body, booze, and cigarettes. As he walked away, cash in hand, Mark wondered if the man really needed food or another drink. If he only helped one of the many drifters he gave money to, it would be worthwhile—although, of course, he’d never know. The light turned green and he pressed the accelerator. When he glanced in the rearview mirror, the man was gone.

Chapter 6

En route to the station, Mark decided to stop at Starbucks. After thirty-two years on the force, coffee had been the one constant needed to get his blood flowing every day.

The homicide cubicles, empty only a few hours ago, were now filled with bustling staff. Fluorescent lights seeped a yellow pseudo-dawn. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air.

Someone bought a new can.

Across the room, he saw his partner, Sergeant Jonathan Sachs, chatting with the lovely Detective Lizzie Gordon. Lizzie wore khaki pants and a navy-blue polo like other detectives, but on her slender form, they looked superb.

As he sipped coffee, he noticed the captain’s lights were off. He wasn’t surprised, the man in charge of the department rarely came in before eight. In fact, he didn’t know why he’d glanced at the office. Maybe he thought the man would have come in early for an update on the Janie Doe case. Though they didn’t have much in the way of evidence so far. Maybe they’d catch a break in the investigation and have something to report by the time the captain arrived.

Mark walked to his cubicle, set his briefcase on the desk and sank into the chair. There didn’t seem to be any particular direction in which to proceed in this case, he thought, but that was always how each homicide investigation began. Go to the crime scene, collect the evidence, conduct interviews, and go where the evidence leads you. Find a suspect and begin building a case—Homicide 101.

Did you find the statement I left on your desk? Jonathan asked. Edgar Tobias, Scoutmaster.

Yes, but I haven’t read it yet. Why don’t you bring me up to speed? He lied. He’d read Jonathan’s interview of the guy who found the girl’s body before walking into the station this morning.

Before joining the homicide division, Sergeant Jonathan Sachs had worked cyber-crime. The two met during a murder-for-hire investigation. Mark believed the husband killed his wife for the insurance money but didn’t have any proof. A request to the cyber unit for someone to hack into the suspect’s laptop resulted in Jonathan. In one hour, Jonathan accessed the computer and found several emails linking the husband to the killer. By the end of the case, Mark was so impressed with Jonathan’s thought process he wanted him in Homicide. Although the lieutenant in the cyber unit fought to keep him, Captain Tony LaRue reluctantly agreed to the transfer, only because the homicide department had lost two of its detectives—one to retirement, the other to a heart attack. Mark was glad he snagged the young man when he did, even if it meant stepping on a few toes. Partners for nine months, he wanted to know what Jonathan’s instincts told him about the scoutmaster during their interview.

Good morning, Mark.

Morning, Lizzie, he said dryly. He hadn’t seen anything good about today, yet.

Tucking a strand of very long, chestnut brown hair behind an ear, she walked away.

Mark liked Lizzie Gordon. A very capable detective, they were partners years ago. She ate many Sunday dinners at the Wheeler household before Virginia was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Although the dinners became more and more sparse, Lizzie still found time to visit her at Eastern Shore Community.

Mark tapped a finger on the report. Tell me about the scoutmaster.

Even before I began speaking to Mr. Tobias, he seemed very nervous. Could be attributed to the fact he discovered a dead body. Or that he found Janie Doe while he was supervising a group of young boys. There was something definitely off about the whole thing. His demeanor just didn’t sit well with me.

How so?

The more he spoke about the victim, the more it seemed he got off on it. He had this smirk on his face, but I don’t think he realized it. The man kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. His shoes kept tapping the floor.

What do you think it means?

It seemed to me like he was in a rush to be somewhere else.

Mark nodded. Over the years, I’ve learned murderers usually come back to the scene. As though it’s engrained in their DNA. Many killers need to relive their crimes.

Jonathan scratched his chin. So why bring the kids?

"Because if he is our killer, bringing the kids would give him an excuse to find the body. The kids would also provide an alibi. Have