Runners Blues

By John Dover

A shot heard in the woods.

A nameless body left to die alone.

Steam wafted off me as the morning chill lapped at my hot skin. I breathed hard as I stared down at the cold figure protruding from the earth. A light dew of perspiration and tears clung to her round cheek, a cheek that would have been sweet and sup

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justice Served Neat Productions LLC
• Release date: Sep 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781792345647

John Dover

As the creator and writer of "Johnny Scotch", John Dover has built his Jazz Noir world from the music he is immersed in on a daily basis and from his travels across the US as a professional musician. John continues to build the "Johnny Scotch" library through short stories, and his comic book collaboration with Illustrator and story board artist Dan Schaefer. John's musical world and his writing world also collide with the "Johnny Scotch Vignettes", a series of musical pieces written by Thomas Barber, that incorporate high energy fusion with the spoken word. John Currently is working on Johnny Scotch #4 with Dan Schaefer as well as releasing the second Johnny Scotch novella, "A Song for Charlie". John continues to perform and teach as a clinician for Bach trumpets along with his role as the creator and writer of Johnny Scotch. Outside of the Johnny Scotch world, John has a number of short stories in the horror genre published. You can find his works in "Tales from the Braided Pony", "Monsters 'N' Things", "100 Word Horrors", and the upcoming "Carnival Tales", and "Tenebrous Tales". John has also been a regular contributor to Mythmachine.com as an entertainment writer.

Book preview

1

The Body

When I heard the sharp and unmistakable crack of gun fire, echoing through the valley, I bolted through the woods. It’d been close, but far enough that I wouldn’t be in time to help whoever was at the other end of the molten lead projectile hurtling towards its mark.

The trees parted for me. Guiding me to the woods’ anonymous occupant who lay beneath the evergreen canopy, their life ebbing away with every labored breath, listening to the fading footsteps of their killer. Their final gasp sighed away before they heard the quick footfalls of their would-be rescuer.

Blasting through the brush I came to a stop in a small clearing. I stood over the open-eyed sleeper. My heart quickened with the discovery. I Looked around the lush backdrop of the fresh murder, searching for the killer’s escape route. But they were too quick. All I heard was the forest coming back to life, back to its daily rhythm. The girl on the ground, having been robbed of her life, now called out to me through cold lifeless eyes asking, Why?

I wanted to answer. Instead, I went to work.

I knelt over the slight figure, outlined by leaves and twigs. The forest had opened its arms to its new occupant. Gathering around her. Hugging her close. Eager for the nutrient rich body to decompose and feed into the rich ecosystem. Sharing her essence with the trees, the birds, the bugs, all the creatures that would benefit from her passing.

I cataloged the scene to build the story of what brought her to this moment. Her blonde hair waved at me. It was well taken care of. Her daily beauty regimen had to consist of many levels of conditioning, moisturizing, drying, and primping or she was on a regular schedule with her local salon.

Her makeup was skillfully applied. Layered in such a way that it looked natural. So natural that it had to be expensive and well-practiced. Light rouge and a brush of smoke around the eyes. A delicate glossy sheen to her garnet-shaded lips. Lips that when she was alive, would have bounced with a full and natural pout. Had I met her in a bar I would have wished to spend an entire evening getting to know those lips. Now, I had to settle with punishing whoever stole from her from the life she was trying to live. Such careful detail to her makeup would not have been taken if she were out for a hard run. She had to have been out for a quick workout before her morning meetings, or possibly she was out to meet someone under the guise of a workout.

Her hands, like her hair, looked fresh from the salon. A French manicure highlighted the slender fingers that were hardened in the frigid morning, growing rigid and brittle from the lack of blood flow. Not in rigor mortis yet, being such a fresh kill, but well on the way to tightening her once graceful touch into a hag-like claw, clenched in the fight of the damned.

According to her clothes, she had gone out this morning much like I had, to take advantage of the early spring morning, either to hike or go for a trail run. From her form-fitting running pants to the bright-colored zip-up hoodie, she looked the part of a recreational runner

I took a moment to pay my respects to the lost beauty before I gave a light pat down to her pockets on the hoodie. Hopefully you ran with your ID. Any clue as to who she was would help.

Empty. Damn!

I unzipped her hoodie- searching for concealed pockets. I pulled the fabric back to reveal her trim figure and her blood-stained sports bra. The fabric beneath her left breast glistened from the flow of blood let loose by the bullet hole in her chest. From a quick glance it seemed to be a small-caliber weapon that took her down. I didn’t flip her over to check for an exit wound, but because she had gone so quickly, I figured the bullet was still in her, nestled into one of her organs after bouncing around inside her rib cage causing irreparable damage and a near instant demise.

I continued to search for any sort of pockets that might hide away any number of necessities for a runner who is not wanting to go out with a full backpack of gear. I almost gave up, then noticed a bit of fabric at her waist that didn’t match the fabric of her pants.

A spandex-like belt that could have been mistaken for the waistband of her pants caught my attention. The belt appeared to be a slip over, not a buckle or zippered contraption. Hoping for a clue as to who my Jane Doe was, I felt around her waist searching for an opening or any ominous bulges. Jackpot!

My fingers glanced upon a thin rectangular shape about four inches long and a few inches wide. A phone? I pulled more urgently, hunting for an escape hatch that I could guide the object towards so I could retrieve it.

I couldn’t be the only person that heard the shot. I maybe had another fifteen or twenty minutes before someone else happened upon the sight. Not much time to complete an investigation and get gone before I got caught up on an official level. What with my hot-and-cold relationship with Bridge City’s finest, I wasn’t looking for an excuse for them to place me at a murder scene. Again.

A separation in the fabric across her left side was the opening I was looking for. I slid the object towards the opening. Out popped the only clue she was going to yield. I hoped it would be enough to get started. Her sleek glass-front smartphone slid free and out onto the ground. I grabbed it up. I pawed at the screen to power it up. Fuck! Password protected.

I shoved the phone into my pocket and gave one more look to the girl, emblazoning her face into my mind. I wouldn’t get any more time with her today unless I wanted to try and explain what I was doing going through a dead girl’s pockets.

I zipped her hoodie back up to leave her in as close to her original state as I had found her. I gave a quick wipe to her zipper so none of my fingerprints were left and kicked away the markings my running shoes left around her body. I didn’t need the cops deciding I was a part of her demise, and anything that would lead them to me would certainly get a few of them excited to see me thrown down the river.

A quick look around and listen revealed I was still the only one near or even heading this way. I was pretty confident that someone would be coming along within the hour, and I wanted to be long gone by then. I headed off the same way that I came and back along my original path towards my house.

2

Phone Call with Detective Morgan

D etective Morgan, please.

May I say who's calling?

Johnny Scotch.

The empty sound of hold static tickled my ear as the gravelly voiced receptionist went in search of detective Morgan. It had been two days since I had found the girl in the woods, and I wanted to check in with the one man on the force I figured would give me the benefit of the doubt and not throw me in the clink at the mere mention of a dead body.

Detective Morgan and I had a love-hate relationship. He loved to hate me but still knew I could get stuff done that he found problematic with his procedural constraints of being a cop. Plus, he owed me a couple of favors from our last outing.

This better be good, Johnny. I'm not in the mood for your bullshit today.

Good to hear your voice too, Sunshine.

Bite me! What do you want?

I’m checking to see if you guys have any Jane Doe's that’ve popped into the system in the past couple days.

Why? You have a date that went south or something?

I have a buddy who’s worried about his little sister, and I said I’d call around to see if she was in any trouble.

What kind of trouble your buddy think she might be mixed up in?

I don't know. The usual stuff. I just wanna put his mind at ease before he starts calling all the morgues and taking up their time with frantic inquiries.

You know I'm not supposed to talk to you about this stuff.

I do, and yet….

Morgan paused. I could hear the annoyed rustle of paper on the other end as he begrudgingly paged through a pile of memos and bulletins scattered across his overrun desk.

Do you at least have a description you can give me to start with? Morgan asked as he continued shuffling through the wrinkled heap of papers cluttering his desk.

Yeah. About five-four, medium-length blond hair. Attractive, early twenties. He said she was headed out for a jog the other morning, and she hasn’t checked in since.

More shuffling and shifting of papers accompanied by the cursory mumbling that goes along with Morgan talking to himself under his breath.

He's a good cop. and I’m pretty sure he’s clean, or at least clean enough. Definitely jaded though. This city does that to good people. Too many years of being told that they can't actually do any of the good that they were promised they would be able to do. The idealism stripped away layer by layer, leaving a raw nerve where their heart used to be. Still does his job but doesn't let it take him down when he can't solve the random kidnapping or homicide that inevitably would have led him to the real problem in this city. The corrupt dark heart of the business district. More local politicians are on private, untraceable payrolls than there are unlicensed food carts, and in this city, that’s a lot.

Morgan cleared his throat. Yeah I got a possible one here for ya. We had a girl turn up two days ago in Oakwood Park. Some blue blood walking her shitzu nearly had a heart attack when Fluffy lifted its leg and almost pissed on the body. Buy me a coffee and I’ll let you take a look at the file. Maybe it's your girl.

Bingo. Can do. You free now? I can meet you at Roasters in about fifteen.

Yeah. I need to throw some things at the Desk Sergeant and I can be there right behind you.

Thanks Morgan. I owe you one.

I know you do.

Click.

3

Coffee and a Dead Body

The hipster-infused coffee craze has its positive side effects. It's not just about corporate profits and formulated caffeine and sugar-laced beverages with more calories than a Big Mac. It allows for true artists like my friend, Joshua, to thrive in his natural environment and carve out a living for himself and his family. He expresses his muse through the calculated heating of small-batch sourced beans from exotic locations, delivering an intense, bitter-sweet brew. Joshua is a warm man, all teeth and bright eyes when you walk in his door.

I entered Roasters, and my senses were blasted with the oily aroma of fresh-roasted beans. I’m pretty sure that some of his sourcing is not entirely above board. I also know that the smuggling of coffee beans by way of Bridge City's port is pretty much the least offensive thing that comes through that den of miscreants and greed. Plus, it allows me to enjoy some of the finest espresso this side of the world gets to experience. All in all, harmless and necessary to keep me properly caffeinated.

Johnny! Joshua's warm baritone voice and bright eyes greeted me.

Hey Joshua. You stayin’ outta the papers my friend?

Regrettably, yes. No fun being a productive member of society.

I wouldn't know.

Joshua's big laugh rang through the small corner coffee shop that he owns and operates with his sweet wife, Tula. Tula is all hips and sugar. Girl next door shyness with a sly sense of humor if she knows you. Joshua is a lucky man, and I’m sure her bright blue eyes keep him in check. Worst thing about disappointing someone like Tula is that the repercussions ring through your soul for the rest of your life. That and I’ve heard she carries quite the right hook when backed into a corner.

Tula looked up from the sun-bathed round table by the window she was wiping down with a bleach-soaked rag. Johnny. Just in time. Are you going to actually sit down and enjoy your coffee or are you off to cause trouble? Her knowing wide grin and mischievous wink almost made me blush.

I’m actually meeting someone.

That sounds intriguing. Does her father know you lured her off school grounds? Tula snapped