One More

By Ron Barnette and Candy Barnette

Nothing really bad ever happens in Dunedin, the picturesque, eclectic village on Florida's Gulf Coast. But on a night long ago, along the Pinellas Trail, something happened which was very bad indeed. Now, two amateur sleuths have made it their mission to uncover the mystery, and bring the murderer of the trail Jane Doe to justice.

Through a close analysis of the murderer's profile the sleuths unearth clues that indicate a perpetrator who, while an enigma, could not be less a likely suspect. "One More" is the story of solving a crime through combined intellect and philosophical method.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098326821

Book preview

so…

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CHAPTER 1

(1992)

When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream, he comes a-runnin’, but not to help.

Thomas Harris, Hannibal

The girl was sitting on a bar stool with a beer in her hand when I walked into Frenchy’s Saltwater Cafe on Clearwater Beach. She turned her head and her eyes traveled over me with a flicker of interest before she glanced away, returning her attention to the frothy mug she held clasped in one sun-browned hand. Earthy, was my first thought. Too short, ill-proportioned, were my second and third. I could tell that even from a distance. She had a long torso, and stubby legs. Her lips were full, fat might be a better description, and stringy, greasy blonde hair framed her unremarkable, but not altogether unattractive face. She wore a  bikini—-despite the slight chill in the evening air—-and a loosely wrapped sarong which only partially covered her navel, but did a wonderful job of accentuating the broadness of her hips in a less than flattering manner. Generally speaking, she looked sweaty. An oilslick foot dangled from the rail of the stool, and an expanse of its dirty sole was exposed where her Flip Flop broke away. A poor excuse for a tattoo of something undistinguishable—-was it a butterfly?—-was visible just above one ankle, and a half-burned cigarette wafted smoke from the ashtray on the bar into her face. She didn’t seem to notice or to be bothered by it, and in my mind, the scene suited her perfectly. She looked like a beach hooker on the make, but bored. And why wouldn’t she be? Who’d hit on that? In sum, she looked unkempt, unclean and altogether nasty. She also looked like the girl of my dreams, ideal for my purposes. How I should enjoy removing her! The problem would be getting close enough to her to do it. She repulsed me in every sense of the word.

I pretended to ignore her and made my way to the opposite end of the bar and ordered a Budweiser on tap. When it was set before me less than thirty seconds later, I took a couple of gulps, then turned on the stool and, propping my elbows on the bar, cast my eyes around the dimly lit room. 

The place was all but empty. A man and a woman, obviously tourists, sat at one table eating their dinner of grouper sandwiches and fries. Soft drinks were their poison of choice. How tame. Two guys wearing ball caps, one with ‘Cat’ and the other with ‘Hooters’ stitched on them looked as though they had been at Frenchy’s since the night before, or else had just returned from two days of fishing in the Gulf. The only other occupant of the place, besides the barkeep, the girl, and myself, looked like a businessman, enjoying a libation before going home to his dull existence, wife, children, middle class home on a middle class street in his middle class world. His suit jacket was thrown over a bar stool adjacent to the one on which he was sitting at the other end of the bar. Probably last year’s Christmas gift from his abysmally dull little wife. No Brooks Brothers label, but not too shabby. His eyes focused straight ahead seeing nothing. Seeing everything…? I wondered. Could he be a cop? I let my eyes wander over him. He looked a little disheveled like a cop, a detective, might look at the end of his shift. But no, I didn’t think so. Hair wasn’t right. Looked more like he worked at a bank or maybe in an accounting firm. Besides, although it wasn’t Brooks Brothers, the suit was still too nice for any cop. Could have been an undertaker, too. Should I ask for his card…?

No need. I would see to the burial myself.

Having familiarized myself with my surroundings, I again glanced at the girl, and wasn’t terribly surprised to see that she was regarding me also. A toothy half smile flitted across her lips, and she sent a slight nod in my direction. An invitation? I nodded back, tentatively, and stayed where I was. I finished the beer, ordered another, then ducked into the men’s room. When I returned a minute later, she was draped over a stool at my end of the bar. Both of us had fresh beers.

Hi, she said.

Hello.

Mind if I sit here?

No problem.

Do you live here? she asked.

Not all the time. I have a place across the way. 

Really? Where? Noticing the direction that I’d indicated. Dunedin? Tarpon?

Dunedin.

So, where do you live when you’re not in Dunedin?

You ask a lot of questions, I said rather too curtly, I thought afterwards.

Just making conversation. A slight pout on her fat lips.

I’m a student, I replied more amiably. 

Oh. Are you at USF? she asked.

No. I just graduated, but I’ll start graduate school abroad in the spring, I’ll be going to school in France. The Sorbonne, I added. No reason not to share. She’d never be able to tell anyone anything I’d said.

She looked completely at sea. I could just imagine her musings: Why would someone go all the way to France to go to school? And why would anybody keep going to school once they’d graduated? She’d probably bailed out of Largo High, if she’d ever even gotten that far in her education, to come to the nearby big city of Clearwater and make her mark on the world. Well, if putting dirty footprints on Frenchy’s marred floor was making one’s mark, then certainly she had arrived. As my mind rambled, I looked about the room again. A few more people had straggled in. They all looked like regulars. I didn’t know any of them, and they didn’t know me. Still, I mustn’t speak too loudly, or be overheard saying something that might be remembered later, I reminded myself. Then: Probably wouldn’t really matter, though. What if somebody did know her and what if they did remember seeing her with me? Her body would never be found, and she probably would never be missed.

Where? she asked, a stupid expression on her face.

The Sorbonne. It’s in Paris.

Her eyes glazed over, and I realized that she was incapable of processing this information. If I’d suddenly begun speaking in tongues, my dialogue would probably have made more sense to her. Time to change the subject.

So… tell me about yourself, I said, returning my attention to my quickly warming brew. The mug was already dripping with condensation.

Not much to tell. I grew up in Largo [BINGO!] but I’ve been gone from there almost a year now.

Really? And what did you do in Largo.

Not a damn thing! That’s why I got the hell outta there, which is kinda what I’d like to do now. Get the hell outta here.

And where would you like to go? I looked her over again. Where indeed! Dressed like that and in her, I was sure, natural, untidy state, I wondered where she thought she would possibly be welcomed.

I didn’t wait for an answer. Oh. Well okay. Nice talking to you. I stood, and reached for my beer, drank the little that remained, and turned away.

She recognized the sign and knew that what might be a possible meal ticket, if nothing else, was on the verge of escaping.

Hey, she cried. Where are you going?

I turned back. I thought you wanted to leave, so I’m saying goodbye, I said innocently.

"I was thinking that we could go somewhere together. You’re kinda funny. She lit another cigarette and regarded me thoughtfully for a few moments. When I said nothing, she prompted: Well?"

Well what? 

Do you wanna get outta here and go somewhere? She was becoming exasperated, I could tell, and my enjoyment of the moment escalated.

Like where?

I dunno. Maybe to your house, apartment, whatever…?

And do what?

She gave a huge sigh. Are you for real? she asked, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette.

I’m all that is real, I thought, but said instead: Last time I checked.

C’mon. Pay the bartender, and let’s go.

Like the naïve young man under the spell of the older wiser woman, I obeyed. Threw a twenty on the counter at which the bartender looked askance, nodded. The dirty, not quite ugly girl and I were about to embark on an exciting adventure, from which only one of us would return. 

It had begun.

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CHAPTER 2

Right or wrong, it’s very pleasant to break something from time to time.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

We left Frenchy’s separately. Hope you don’t mind, but I know a couple of people here who might recognize me, and I wouldn’t want them to say anything to my parents, I lied. She seemed okay with that. Yep. She was as dumb as I had imagined.

That’s fine with me. I don’t know anybody anywhere, she stupidly volunteered. So, I really don’t get it, your parents finding out things, but if that’s what you want, I’m cool.

I strolled to the door, and without a backward glance, left the bar. I hung around the parking lot for a few seconds before she emerged. Car’s this way, I said, glancing hurriedly in all directions. Not a soul in sight. So far, so good.

I quickly settled her into my car, ducked behind the wheel, and in no time, we were crossing eastward over Clearwater’s Memorial Causeway Bridge. We were cruising north on Fort Harrison not long afterwards, and soon it became Edgewater Drive. We were in Dunedin. I took a rambling route to the complex, avoiding major intersections where we might be observed by any passersby. Eventually our rambles brought us onto Bayshore Boulevard, and in less than a mile we had reached the complex.

It was dark and deserted, as it should be. I owned the entire complex of what once had been shops, a restaurant, and various other small businesses. They’d all received notices in the past year that their rental contracts would not be renewed. I was undertaking a major renovation of the property and would be going from one storefront to the next executing an extreme makeover, I explained. Yes, yes, I would let them know if I wanted their businesses to return once the project had been completed. Don’t hold your breath, I thought with an inward smirk. 

Almost everyone in downtown Dunedin was aware of my plans for the complex. I’d made certain of that. I’d procured all the necessary permits, and duly posted them outside, so that city officials and the police could clearly see them. I’d let it be known that I intended to divide one store into several different businesses under one roof. Because of this, I would want to have it soundproofed. I would be doing some of the work myself, and, due to my daily concerns, much of that work would be done in the evening, and I’d probably work late. As there were no residences nearby, machinery noises should not pose a problem for anyone. I’d made a special point of letting the police know the make and model of my car, so that if they saw it there at unusual hours, they’d know that it was only me, hard at work on the building’s renovation.

While it had all been extremely tedious, it had also been completely necessary. The last thing I wanted was some nosy parker police officer poking about, attempting a good deed by squelching a suspected break-in.

We’re here, I said to the girl, as I came to a stop, slipped out of the driver’s seat, and started toward the rear of the building. She hopped out, and quickly followed me, the slap, slap of her Flip Flops sounding annoyingly on the uneven pavement.

Where are we? she asked, readjusting the purse strap on her shoulder.

It’s just a place I… my family owns. We’re having it renovated. Can’t really take you home, but nobody will bother us here.

You got anything to drink inside? she asked as I unlocked the door.

Sure do. Just about anything you want.

Good. I think I’d like something stronger than beer. Got any Kentucky Gentleman?

The door was unlocked now, and I swiftly nudged her inside. One more furtive glance around—the coast was clear. I closed the door—what a wonderfully final ‘clank’—and relocked it from the inside, using my key.

Probably not, but I’m sure I have something kinda like it, I replied. What the hell was like Kentucky Gentleman, which was without question, the absolute worst whiskey ever produced in Bardstown? Not that it mattered, she wasn’t going to be drinking anything anyway.

I flicked on the light switch and a weak glow brightened the room just slightly. There were no windows, and only one other door broke the otherwise solid walls. Standing in the middle of the room, the girl turned in a slow circle as she took it all in. Nice, she said, a sarcastic edge to her tone. Maybe we shoulda stayed at Frenchy’s.

Why? We couldn’t be alone at Frenchy’s. Here we can be. I approached her and forced myself to touch her. With my hands resting gently on her moist, dirty shoulders, I said as reassuringly as I could manage: Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get you that drink.

She sauntered lazily, her face pouting, toward a chair nestled in one corner. She didn’t make it that far. When the Stun Gun made contact with her bare flesh, she jerked once, and her body twisted slowly toward the floor, then landed there, one arm above her head, the other straight out from her body.

Ah. That’s better. I scooped her up and quickly took her through the door to the ‘operating room,’ as I called it, and laid her on the gurney in the center of the room, beneath the bright overhead lights. She was moaning and starting to squirm, albeit still disoriented, but I needed time to strip her and tie her down without too much of a struggle. Another quick zap with the Stun Gun gave me the time I needed to properly sedate her. I watched as the propofol filled the syringe, then finding an eager vein, administered the drug directly into her bloodstream. She was quiet now, and would be for as long as I needed to complete the first part of  my work. I removed her clothing and secured her hands and feet with the restraints.

Next I stripped myself completely. I would perform the operation sans apparel. No clothes, no blood-spattered clothing, no forensic evidence. I took my clothing and laid it neatly on the chair in the antechamber, then returned to her.

Welcome to God Cinema Presents, I announced with a slight bow. Your role in tonight’s performance is extremely important, I continued with a nod to the table and the girl lying unconscious atop it.  "Without you, there would be no performance. Shall we begin?" I approached the gurney.

Did you know that in ancient Greek theater, the actors wore masks to portray their characters? I continued conversationally. I gave her a long, searching look, then shook my head. No, of course you didn’t. No matter. Happily, we are not in a vast amphitheater where the nuances of our performance might be otherwise lost to the audience. But, as there is no audience, apart from ourselves, we don’t need to bother with masks. I wear one every day, though. In fact, I was wearing one earlier tonight when we met at Frenchy’s. If I hadn’t been, I doubt that you’d be here with me now, I said as an aside.

I’m glad you’re getting a little nap in. You’ll want to be rested for what’s to come. So while you sleep allow me to fill you in on some of the finer points of our little drama.

I was enjoying myself now. Fully in my character as god. You are a pathetic excuse for humankind, but do not fear, I will soon alleviate your worldly suffering, just as that other, pretend god, the one that so many of the faithful, ignorant people of the world pray to, might take pity on a devotee, I told her. There is but one god, my dear, and I am he. I alone hold the power of life or death over you, pitiful, hapless creature that you are. I can show mercy and dispatch you quickly to the reward you no doubt believe exists in some other realm, or I can prolong it, and gain more personal satisfaction. 

But timing was everything. It was not a difficult decision. I would continue talking to her, expanding on my plans for her, and extend her life for as long as possible for my own enjoyment. I stepped into the antechamber and checked my wristwatch. I had plenty of time, two or three hours, maybe more, until I absolutely had to get her in the ground. I returned to the operating room to begin the ‘surgery.’

As I entered, I regarded her, almost ruefully, for a few moments, and for one tiny instant, I thought: I cannot do this only once. I must have this experience again and again! It’s too sweet, too perfect, the embodiment of my own perfection. But then, my rational side stepped in, and reminded me that the one-time rule was part of the plan. A perfect thing cannot be repeated. As Heraclitus said: [You could] not step twice into the same river. 

Reminding myself yet again that I was on a schedule, but that I didn’t need to rush unnecessarily, I began. Slowly. Very slowly. Bones first. Dislocations were all important if she was to be pliable. I recalled how Cook would butterfly entire chickens. They started out all whole and firm, but with just the right crack here, the right slice there, within a short time they were all limp, and, well, pliable.

The arms were easy. I removed one at a time from beneath the strap that held her bound to the table, and with a quick, powerful backward twist—-I was happy for my time spent in in the university gym; my arms were thickly muscled and more than equal to the task at hand—the shoulders were instantly and completely dislocated. The lower arms followed suit within minutes. The legs posed more of a challenge. Complete dislocation of the joint between the tibia and the femur required greater strength. I slipped her body down so that her legs were extended off the table, rolled over another table of equal height, and extended one foot to the second table, creating an upward leg bridge between the two. Turning her ankle slightly inward, I stood astride her outstretched leg, then with one deep breath, I released the entire weight of my body onto her knee. One satisfying, bone crunching snap and it was done. I repeated the procedure with her other leg, and a little out of breath, stepped back to regard my handiwork. My little Raggedy Ann doll just lay there. Per-fect! 

Had she been conscious, I could only imagine her screams of pain. No matter, she’d come to soon enough, and could experience the pain then. Time to wrap her up!

It took longer than expected, but I consoled myself with the old adage: ‘Any job worth doing is worth doing well.’ I started with her feet, and worked my way up her naked, dangling, disgusting body. Each turn of the shrink wrap was cinched snuggly. When I reached her waist with the wrapping and brought her limp arms up and folded them across her breasts, her eyes began to flicker open, and tears flowed from them.  Horrible moans escaped her lips. I ignored her. At her neck, I brought the wrap around behind her, and resumed it at the top of her head. Rather like wrapping a Christmas package. I had no one to give presents to, so I decided to make her my gift to myself. ‘Twas the season, after all.

When I had covered her forehead, I moved below her eyes to just below her nose, leaving only enough space so that she could still breathe nasally. Then under her chin, back around her head, and continuing much as I had before, except this time, I covered her nose. I removed the gag I had placed in her mouth early on. Now she could only take in air through that orifice, and she did so, through her moans of pain, in huge gulps, as though by sucking in deeply, she could somehow store air in her lungs for the time that she must know was fast approaching. The time when her mouth, too, would be completely enveloped in the plastic.

I wanted so much to pause here, have a glass of wine, and take my time, but I knew that time was running out. So, I simply stopped for a few moments, and looked down at the girl, let her breathe in all the fetid air—-the operating room already reeked with the stench of death —-that her lungs could hold. She wasn’t really ugly, but she wasn’t really attractive either, and that tattoo… I thought it was a butterfly, but it was very crudely done. She’d probably done it herself, I speculated. If I’d had time, I would have cut it from her ankle. I allowed myself a few more moments to consider removing the tattoo, and during those moments, for some inexplicable reason, I thought of Mozart’s requiem, and in particular the ‘Dies Irae,’ day of wrath, day of judgement. Hmm. As enjoyable as my contemplation was, however, I needed to move things along. I must be at the adjacent stretch, soon to be the Pinellas Trail, well before dawn, so I put aside my reveries, and got back to work. 

The beauty of the shrink wrap is that