The Write to Kill

By J Marshall Davis

People are dying the town of Leadville. The question is, what do an ancient retired professor, the drunken editor of the local newspaper, a mother, a sweet little old lady, a couple of selfish teenagers, a crusty farmer and a mean hardware shop owner have in common? The answer is simple: each has written something.

A lonely old man is found brutally slain and what appears to be an easily solved crime turns into a circus of deaths. Sheriff Dun Clark has too many murders on his hands and a town about to explode in panic.

Mark Bradfield, local editor and only reporter for the 8-page local newspaper covers the first crime scene as best as he can considering his stomach is revolting from too much alcohol and not enough experience with dead bodies and their aftermath. Chester Laundry was a retired professor, poor and not the most-likely prey for a robber. Chester is left to die with his throat slit and his rundown house burning. By the time the Sheriff and emergency crew arrive Chester has died. No one is certain if he died of smoke inhalation or bleeding to death.

When Mark works late at the newspaper several days later, he leaves himself wide open to be the second victim. He is surprised when the killer walks into the small shop and dead shortly after three bullets enter his chest.
Let the killing begin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465316493

J Marshall Davis

Davis lives with her horses, dogs and numerous cats on her 100-acre ranch in the St. Francois Mountains in Southeastern Missouri. She is a nurse and states she “…writes because she has to…” She wrote her first book at age 7 but readily admits “…it needed a lot of work.” Her interests include photography, horse-back riding, free-hand mountain climbing, archeology, paleontology and Egyptology and she loves to collect Rocks and study Animals. She says she would love to study Gorillas and would be happy to have one live with her.

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Copyright © 2008 by J Marshall Davis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

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14

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16

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39

Epilog

1

The body lay crumpled and lifeless, one leg splayed out at an impossible angle. The space between the face and the chest, the part that was once a human throat was now a mass of wasted cartilage and meat like a geyser spewing blood. The last of the air supply bubbled out of the wound in a stomach-churning gurgle like the gruesome aria that accompanied a death play.

The body jerked. A hand twitched in reflex. The smell of blood and urine permeated the area filling up all available breathing space and choking the air.

A soft scratchy sound and a sulfuric aroma lent themselves briefly to the collage . . .

The flames flickered and then caught. Traveling to the tattered curtains, white-turned-brown with age the yellow fingers of fire snaked their way upward licking out and reaching like so many tendrils for the next victim.

Footsteps sounded on the porch. A time worn board, gray and water-paled squealed under the weight as the trespasser scurried away from the heat and stench.

A faint sound, barely audible rasped through the smoke . . . finish . . . me . . .

*     *     *

Mark stood in what was left of the doorway. His head pounded. Bile rose burning his throat. He swallowed hard choking it down. Sweet-sickening odors of fire floated on the early morning mist swirling in and out of the currents. Tortured lungs heaved and racked as the crew of workers painstakingly inched their way through the ashes and debris searching for a clue. White masks obscured faces reminding him of the clean-up crew in a science fiction movie.

He ground his teeth.

A board fell from the remaining ceiling. He ducked reflexively.

The response crew had already covered the body by the time Mark arrived on the scene. A few shots of the charred ruins were his only trophies. He shoved the camera back into the car and pulled a pen out of his pocket. He swiped the pen tip down his pants leg ridding it of loose tobacco. He poised it over the rumpled sheet of notebook paper.

Sheriff Robert Evan Dun Clark was ready to make a statement.

So what happened, Dun? Mark stood, acutely aware of the sound his intestines made as they rumbled as they complained about emptiness insulted by nausea. He wished he could find a bathroom.

Well, what we know could be put in a thimble. Neighbors down the road, he paused as he shifted his weight and turned toward the run-down shanty one-quarter of a mile away. Nodding his head in the same direction, he spoke quietly, ". . . said his Godson was here last week. Thought somebody was with him.

He’s been stabbed numerous times and whoever did it finished him by burning the place down. The sheriff stressed the word finished.

Mark gagged. You mean he wasn’t dead when the house caught fire? He stared at the older man incredulously.

Yes. That’s the way it looks.

Mark jotted in the notebook as he stood with his back to the still smoking remains of the old house. He tried to forget the smell, the fumes and the body. He tried unsuccessfully to forget the old man, Chester Landry . . . a friend, a fellow member of the writer’s group that he and Melody Fenton had started.

Is that all you have for me, Dun? Mark cleared his burning throat and swallowed.

Yes. It looks like a cut and dry case. The godson probably did it.

Let me know if anything turns up. Mark choked out as he moved quickly toward his car.

*     *     *

He got back to town late. Late for this town at least. It was 10 PM and the only thing open was the Warbler’s General Store and Gas Station. They stayed open until 11 PM trying desperately to make up for the lost business of a dying town. With a population 1,100 what could you expect? All the kids grew up and moved away in search of decent paying employment. The only people here were the die-hards who drove the 100 miles to St. Louis to work and the retired folks. There were a few doctors and some nurses and older farmers. This town didn’t even have its’ own vet. They had to borrow one from a town 35 miles away and he only came on Fridays.

It was Saturday. He could write the story and the obit and still have time left over before he had to put the paper to bed.

He shook his head. Some paper. He was editor, typesetter and the only reporter they had. Two girls came in and tried to look overwhelmingly busy 5 days a week. At least he could live at home and still do what he loved. He couldn’t complain.

*     *     *

Melody Fenton tossed her long blond hair back from her face. She wiped the dirt from her hand on her jeans and lifted the mare’s other hoof.

Come on girl don’t give me a hard time. She steadied herself against the big mare. The horse leaned to the side almost kneeling and taking Melody down with her.

Shadey you’re headed for the glue factory.

Right Mom, Becky, her 16-year-old daughter teased as she walked into view. The girl went to the other side of the stubborn mare and gave her a shove.

She’s getting heavier every day. And more hard-headed.

Well, Becky laughed and ducked as the mare stood. She’s a lot like her owner isn’t she?

Melody raised the oval brush she held and faked a toss at the girl. Jumping back in mock fear, Becky aimed a final tease at her Mother before she ran toward the house. Both heavier, too!

Ten minutes later Becky called out the window, Hey! You want to go out to a movie tonight?

What’s the matter? Haven’t you got a date? Melody called back. Lowering the mare’s hoof she mumbled, Sure, why not? I haven’t got one either.

2

Mark chose to work late. Lighting another cigarette from the sparse end of the last one, he tossed the butt into the overflowing ashtray. He had edited the last page of Wednesday’s edition, so that job was out of the way.

Now, he had to try to find those missing back-copies they had been looking for.

He shook his head. No point in this. Who’s interested?

He checked his thoughts as he remembered the elderly lady who had come in three days ago.

Now, Mark I don’t mean for you to go to any trouble, she had insisted as she waggled her gnarled finger at him. But if you do happen to find that copy of July you let me know. It will have the obituary where my Robert died. But don’t you go to any trouble. She shuffled out smiling and nodding her white head. At least her hair wasn’t dyed pink.

He chuckled. Maybe I’ll do a story on pink hair. There aren’t any little pink-haired old ladies in this town. Wonder why?

As he mused knowing well he would not have time to devote to such an article he headed for the back room. The green-brown smell of dust and ancient newspapers prevailed here.

Tonight though, he sensed a different smell. He looked around and jumped at the shadowy form. The figure moved slowly from the darkness.

Blinking his eyes, he said, You scared me . . .

He knit his brows together and tilted his head to the side as he smiled a greeting. What can I do you for?

He didn’t get another chance to speak as the bullets of a 38 caliber pistol exploded three times into his chest.

*     *     *

The journalist sat sprawled spread-legged on the floor between two huge stacks of back papers. The bullet wounds, three neat holes in his chest were charred and black as was most of the rest of him. One eye still open and intact stared vacantly at the officers as they worked laboriously dusting every available surface for fingerprints and vacuuming even the most insignificant particles.

Willie’s voice rose as he walked toward the larger man standing in the middle of the room. Is that Mark?

What’s left of him at least, Dun said. Get a picture of him from the floor angle, Bill.

Yesser, Boss. No one called him Bill except Dun. He squatted on the floor a few feet away from the corpse of the reporter.

Cripes and to think he was taking these kind of shots just days ago down in Cateland. Now I know what he musta felt.

Just do it Billy-Boy and be done. I’d like to get home sometime tonight. the sheriff’s calm voice answered.

Dun, a young man barely out of his teens walked toward him. His face was black with soot. Yellow-brown pieces of newspaper clung to his dishwater blond hair. They got the fire all out. They’re trying to find the source. Looks like Mark was shot right where he stood. He just sorta sat down right there. The guy dumped gasoline all over him, set it on fire and then put it right out. Mark was already dead from the chest shots. Doesn’t make sense to me.

"Murder doesn’t make sense, Ralph."

Dun turned around the room slowly absorbing the scene not for the first time. As a former Highway Patrolman he had not had a lot of experience with deliberate killing.

But he had enough to know when it had occurred.

It looks like our guy just wanted to get rid of Mark. He wasn’t interested in destroying anything written. Mark’s office wasn’t touched and neither was anything else in the front. Dun spoke more to himself than to anyone in particular.

Do you think it was a jealous husband? Jesse, who was the oldest man on the small force asked. The wrinkles on his weathered face grew deeper with concentration.

It’s possible. I guess we’d better start making a list. Who was that gal he was seeing up until a couple of months ago? Get her name and that one he dated that was from Bonne Terre too.

Wasn’t he seeing Melody? Willie asked.

Melody? Melody who?

You know the lady rancher? Willie nodded his head, prodding Dun to recall.

Dun shook his head. Not that I know of. They started that writer’s club together.

Jesse stood leaning against the wall opposite Marks charred body. Worry lines crunched his face, aging him even more than his 63 years. He worked a stubby cigar in his mouth as he pondered the scene.

Something on your mind, Jesse? Dun asked.

Well, it just seems mighty strange to me. He takes the time to pour gasoline all over the body, light it and let it burn a little and then use the extinguisher to put it out. Like he didn’t want to take a chance on burning the whole place down. Or even burning Mark up.

No accounting for a killer’s thinking, Jesse. Dun answered as he stared at the remains of the editor.

*     *     *

Like most small towns Banner Creek buzzed with gossip constantly. The citizenry had little more to do considering most were either retired or members of the non-working ranks. Ambition wasn’t a prerequisite for living in the community.

Locals who gathered daily at Grady’s Hometown Grill were typical of the area. Mark’s death had become the most recent governing factor in determining who was and who was not a resident. Anyone not talking about Mark had not heard about his death, which made him, or her, a stranger who became an automatic target for gossip.

Mark’s death had nothing to do with the prevalent attitude of mistrust and animosity. All newcomers were treated with the same wariness no matter when they appeared in town. Now though, the unrecognized were viewed suspiciously as potential murderers.

The local writer’s group was slightly less suspicious. They were certainly less articulate about the deaths although they probably had a more legitimate reason to talk since both men had been valued members. Their meetings were shrouded in a code of unspoken reserve which left each member with their own thoughts about the situation. They were wrapped tightly within the boundaries of their own imaginations. Fantasy was much preferred over the harsh reality of murder or prospecting for the perpetrator.

The writer’s group continued meeting plodding steadily forward as they analyzed one another’s endeavors, congratulated each other’s tiny victories and still did not mention the deaths.

3

Melody looked up from the computer screen, listening. She heard the sound again.

She pulled her house robe tighter around her body and retied the belt. Something was wrong outside. She heard a sound she couldn’t identify; not the night sounds she had grown accustomed to. The owls, coyotes, wolves and other nocturnal creatures so active within the forest area surrounding her home sounded comfortable to her. The Dalmatian on the floor beside her lifted his head. His ears raised and he rolled his eyes at her.

The sound repeated and a horse whinnied loudly. The dog rose growling.

Oh, come on. She grabbed for the nearest pair of shoes and slipped them on, hopping first on one foot then the other as