The Wicked Shall Rot: A Robert Fontenot Thriller

By Allen T. Grimes

In The Wicked Shall Rot, Akron police detective Robert Fontenot and his partner, Lauren Reynolds, are back in the exciting sequel to The Face of the Deep. In this taut psychological thriller, the team must track down both a vicious vigilante intent on eradicating the citys narcotics trade and a sexy siren leaving a trail of headless bodies. Rob and Laurens relationship is strained to the breaking point as they deal with these dual threats, plus a clever mastermind who forces them to question their own memories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543410464

Allen T. Grimes

A graduate of The University of Akron, Allen Grimes is a retired Special Agent and Supervisor with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and former Akron police officer with over twenty-six years in law enforcement. His previous works, The Face of the Deep and The Ghosts of Lake Hope are available where most books are sold. Allen Grimes lives in Yuma Arizona with his wife, Deltrina and their two children.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Allen T. Grimes.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017904521

ISBN:      Hardcover           978-1-5434-1048-8

                Softcover             978-1-5434-1047-1

                eBook                  978-1-5434-1046-4

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/29/2017

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

The memory of the just is blessed, but the name of the wicked shall rot.

—Proverbs 10:7

Prologue

The techniques discussed in this work are based on science available today. Researchers have made great strides in the area of memory research. In the 1950s and 1960s, the Central Intelligence Agency did attempt to create a programed assassin under Project MK Ultra and Operation Artichoke. Investigation into CIA abuses by a select committee headed by Sen. Frank Church in 1975 led to the conviction of former CIA Director Richard Helms for perjury.

Chapter One

In a booth meant to look like a railroad dining car, Akron Police Detective Robert Fontenot drained his second glass of ice water. His date, Tracie, was late, but he was pretty sure that she would show. Her e-mails seemed eager, though not Fatal Attraction eager. He looked around furtively, hoping he would not see someone he recognized, an irrational fear he knew. Even if someone did recognize him, they would have no way of knowing that he had arranged the date through an online service. Even if they did, they would not think less of him. Online dating no longer carried the stigma as a place for losers and weirdos. Still, if someone had told him a year ago, hell, even six months ago, that he would try online dating, he would have laughed in their face. Yet here he was in a restaurant waiting for a woman he had never met. In the past few weeks, he had asked himself that very question and was disturbed, not by the question, but by his inability to answer it. He wasn’t a loser; he had accomplished too much in his lifetime to wear that label, and Father Time, along with regular strength training, had been kind to him. But did the mere fact that he was here make him a weirdo? Why couldn’t he go into a bar and meet a lady like everyone else? Well, one reason was that he didn’t like to drink, and after fifteen years on the force, the chances of running into someone he had arrested and who was pissed about it was high. Besides, he had tried more conventional methods: friends of friends, chance meetings in the Wal-Mart checkout line, and even calling up old flames. None of it had panned out, and at some point, he simply stopped trying. Online dating had come to him by accident, a spam e-mail that said something like Someone wants to meet you. When he clicked on it, it brought up the alliterative though not catchy site Sensual Singles. When Rob had satisfied himself that it wasn’t porn, he signed up. In his profile, the site had encouraged him to be honest. He thought about writing desperate middle-aged man who hasn’t had sex in a year looking for hottie but decided against it. Instead, he went with the standard professional man looking for a serious relationship. He had to alter it somewhat when he had just as many men responding as women. Not that he was a homophobe, he just liked women. Then Tracie responded. She was thirty-seven, never married and looking for a serious relationship. She liked his photograph, saying that he had kind eyes. Rob often wondered what that meant, kind eyes. Hadn’t Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors said the same thing about him? Oh, he was such a nice fellow, but there were always funny smells coming from his apartment. After a few e-mails, they agreed to meet. He couldn’t tell much from her photograph, just that she was pretty and very petite, somewhat reminiscent of the actress Nicole Behaire, but a few inches trimmer and more muscular.

The restaurant was laid out with wooden tables, wagon wheels, train-crossing signals, and yellow traffic-controls signs. An authentic-looking poster with a nubile blonde in a short sailor uniform advertised Lucky Strike cigarettes. The restaurant was full but not crowded, mostly people on their lunch break from Downtown Akron businesses. From the elevated position of his dining car/booth, Rob had a bird’s eye view, and he could surreptitiously observe his date as she walked in. Not that he would run or anything if she had posted a photograph of a friend online and was butt-ugly. He liked beautiful women, but he didn’t think of himself as shallow. In fact, she probably did post an old picture of herself because the coy-looking woman online, with her hand on her hip and a teasing finger held to her lips, did not look thirty-seven.

The hostess emerged from behind what was supposed to look like a steel girder complete with rivets. In fact, it probably was a girder as the restaurant had been converted from a building owned by the BF Goodrich Tire Company, when Akron was still the rubber capital of the world. With her was a young woman wearing a black skirt and sleeveless top, meant to show her remarkable lack of body fat. If she stood on her toes, she might have been five-foot-one. Her long dark straight hair bounced as she swiveled her head looking for her date. She did have to get on her toes to make eye contact with Rob. When she did, she flashed a smile of such brilliance and joie de vivre that it brought an audible gasp from Rob. An older gentleman looked at Rob then Tracie and shook his head slowly. Rob suddenly felt self-conscious, like a pedophile waiting for his prey and constantly on the lookout for anyone who would rat him out. She was young; it would be at least five, maybe seven, years before she saw her thirtieth birthday. Maybe she was an obsessed wacko that saw him in the paper after one of his cases. Or worse, maybe he had made a mistake—did her profile say thirty-seven? The number had stuck in his mind for some reason; maybe she would be the one who would feel tricked. At forty-four, the tall and athletic, Fontenot was often told that he looked younger, but if she were in her early twenties, she was, at least theoretically, young enough to be his daughter. For a moment, Rob thought of bolting. He was a cop and could make some excuse to leave, then avoid her attempts to reestablish contact, but that would be cowardly. Likely, it was some kind of misunderstanding, and they would laugh about it over a plate of pasta, make promises to stay in touch that neither intended to keep, and go their separate ways. The whole incident would be reduced to an amusing anecdote at dinner one night with friends. But that was the practical side, the intelligent, analytical side. The other side, the male side, who had been lonely for more than a year now was hoping that it was not a mistake and that this beautiful young woman could be interested in a middle-aged cop who had busted the two most important romantic relationships in his life.

***

You’re not thirty-seven, Rob said. Tracie Webster smiled, lowering her head and then looking up at Rob. It was supposed to be an embarrassed smile, one that says Okay, you got me, but when she smiled, all Rob could think of was springtime, flowers, and cinnamon-flavored chewing gum.

Okay, I’m twenty-seven.

Rob cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

Tracie’s eyes rolled, and she began to plunge her straw into her Diet Coke. Twenty-five, but the rest of my profile is true.

So you work at a bank and you’re going to school part time to finish your business degree, Rob said.

Right. Tracie stopped jackhammering her ice cubes and leaned back. What about you? Are you really a cop?

Rob nodded. Detective.

Oooh! Detective, do you solve murders? Tracie’s smile opened wider, revealing glistening teeth.

I try, Rob said.

Oh, please, no false modesty, I’ll bet you’re the best. Is that right?

I do okay, Rob said.

Did you solve any cases I would know about? She began pummeling her drink with her straw again. Rob thought that if she continued, it would turn into a slushie.

You ever hear of Eddie Morton?

Tracie’s eyebrows raised, crinkling her forehead. The serial killer? That was yours?

Rob nodded. Well, I had a partner.

But you were the lead. Is that what you call it, the lead detective?

Rob chuckled. Her youthful enthusiasm was almost irresistibly cute. You can call it that. What about you? Tell me about yourself. What’s someone like you doing on the Internet looking for a date?

Someone like me? Tracie asked, cocking her head.

Rob felt suddenly uncomfortable. Yeah, you know.

Do you mean someone hot like me?

Rob sighed. I would’ve gone with beautiful, but hot will do.

Tracie’s grin was satisfied. You see, that wasn’t hard, was it?

Rob’s face heated up, and if he had been white, he would have looked like a stop light. You still haven’t answered my question.

Let me tell you something about young African American women, Robert. This is Sister 101, okay?

Call me, Rob.

Everybody thinks when you got a little somethin’ somethin’ that all these men are lined up at your door.

Rob spread his hands as if to say Well, aren’t they?

Let me ask you, Rob, if you saw me on the street or at the mall and didn’t know me, would you stop to talk to me? Be honest.

Rob thought for a minute. No.

Why not? Remember, you have to be honest.

Well, first, I would assume that you were involved, and second … Rob paused.

Just be honest. Don’t think of a nice way to put it, Tracie said, waving her hand reproachfully.

I would think that a beautiful young woman would have nothing to do with an old broken-down cop like me.

Tracie gave Rob a long appraising look. Okay, you’re hardly broken down, brother, but that’s exactly right.

Hold on, Rob said. You can’t tell me that no one approaches you.

Oh yeah, I get approached, all right? Tracie said. By the gold-toothed thug with his pants hanging halfway down his ass. I ain’t got time for that shit. The good guys, the nice guys never say anything to you. It’s hard out there for a sister, and don’t say that’s what we want.

Rob shrugged. I was about to say something like that.

I can’t believe you.

"You have to admit that it happens a lot. How many times have you looked at a beautiful sister and said, ‘How did she end up with that?’"

Tracie sipped the remainder of her Coke. Okay, some of us are attracted to the bad boy, but a whole lot of sisters are just looking for a regular brother.

Am I a regular brother?

The smile lit up the room again. You could be.

***

As Rob climbed the back stairs to the apartment, he squeezed past two patrolmen. One said something about the guy losing his head, which brought the other to hysterical laughter. When Rob walked into the Spartan but neat efficiency, he saw why. On the bed, a naked man lay face down a pool of darkening blood where his head should have been. Next to the bed, his partner, Lauren Reynolds, stood tapping a pencil on her .007 notebook, her right eyebrow arched in a Spockian expression.

Wow! Rob said.

Yeah, Lauren snorted sarcastically. You’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have. You ever seen anything like this?

Rob circled the bed. No. I saw a shotgun suicide once that blew the top of a guy’s head off, but nothing like this.

Rob leaned close, tilting his head. Very clean cut, had to be a sharp instrument. I suppose we didn’t get any prints?

Lauren sighed. Clean.

No sign of struggle. How do you cut a guy’s head off without him putting up a fight?

Maybe he was already dead.

Too much blood, his arteries were squirting all over the place.

Lauren ran a gloved hand over the victim’s back. He’s not a weak guy, should have been able to put up a fight. Maybe incapacitated in some way?

Rob nodded and walked to the other side of the bed to examine the computer. You know this took a lot of time.

The decapitation thing?

The whole thing. The killer had to be covered with blood, but no bloody footprints, no trail. It’s a good clean-up job, requiring planning and preparation.

We can rule out robbery. No valuables taken.

Rob peeled a finger up to look at the nails. Drug hit. Sending a message?

Lauren lifted her notebook. Harold Morgan, his friends called him Fritz, fifty-seven years old, never married, works at an accounting firm. If we ever find his head, it will be mostly bald.

Any romantic relationships?

No. Lauren looked up, her blue/gray eyes sparkling with interest. Speaking of relationships, how was your date?

Short. Fontenot moved next to the bed.

You’re not getting away with that, Lauren said. You haven’t had a date in how long? I want details.

No, I meant she’s short, maybe five feet.

Is she hot?

Fontenot nodded, moving toward the end of the bed. Something about the body was nagging him. Look at the position of the body with his hands up by his shoulders. Almost like he’s about to do a push-up.

I don’t care how tall she is. What’s she like? Lauren said.

Hello, decapitated body in the room, a little focus, please.

Lauren pouted and sighed heavily. All right, maybe that’s the last thing he was trying to do, get off the bed as his neck is being sawed off.

I don’t think so. If he was mobile, he would have put up a fight.

You think he was posed?

Lauren stepped closer. It looks like …

Rob’s head bobbed. Like he’s mounting a woman.

Either that or we’re just a couple of sick puppies.

Rob rubbed his chin. You’re right, maybe we’re reading too much into it. Maybe the Eddie Morton case twisted our brains.

Lauren smiled. Did you get a little kiss?

Excuse me?

On your date, did you get a kiss?

You’re incorrigible!

Well?

Rob looked up. Did I kiss you on the first date?

Lauren smirked. We didn’t exactly have a first date.

Good point. No, I didn’t get a kiss. My date was cut short because some maniac cut this poor joker’s head off!

***

Outside of the accounting firm of Storch & Rangel, the man Rob had dubbed Peter the Chain-Smoker lit yet another Camel, his hands shaking as he did so. He was sitting on a low wall on the side of the building, his legs crossed in front of him and, if he hadn’t been holding the cigarette, would have looked like a small child playing jacks, if children still did that sort of thing. More likely, they would be playing with some app on an electronic device. He expressed to the detectives his appreciation for being interviewed outside, expounding his theory that the world had unfairly turned on smokers. With all the factories billowing clouds of poison every day, they had to pick on a few people enjoying one of the last truly simple pleasures of life. Examining his bloodshot eyes, paunch belly, and blotchy skin, Rob