Twenty-Two Shells

By Tom Schulte

Detective Marvin Sludge, a former Special Services operative, lives a simple life. But he’s the best detective in his department, the one always assigned to impossible cases and interrogations. With virtually no family left alive, he feels religion is for the weak and the soon-to-be-purged by natural selection—the ones who can’t take the rigors of life.

Sludge, who suffers from PTSD, catches a curious case. A young man, a senator’s son, has been shot, and experts find twenty-two shell casings at the scene. That evidence points toward the makings of a serial killer intent on murdering one person a week for the next twenty-one weeks. As the bodies continue to pile up, Sludge and his partner search for a pattern and the killer.

Soon the case requires him to attend a victim’s church, starting him on his path to faith. Along the way, he addresses greater issues such as the meaning of life and who is really in charge of events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664238183

Tom Schulte

Tom Schulte first experienced Jesus on June 24, 1975. Like so many of that time, he became angry at the church for their spiritual failures, prior to his conversion. Tom worked as an engineer for over forty years before retiring. During that time, he held numerous roles, includig project development, environmental, research, and supervision. Tese experiences gave him insight into many human dynamics. He has also volunteered in jail and prison roles, worked with addicts, and nearly every aspect in his church. He is married without children bur with numerous pets. Tom feels compelled to write, discussing subjects ranging from the purpose of life to Christian devotionals. One of his major life objectives is to help as many people gain as much fruit in eternity as possible.

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Copyright © 2021 Tom Schulte.

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-3817-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-3819-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-3818-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021912736

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/19/2021

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1     The First Victim

Chapter 2     The Senator

Chapter 3     School Bomb

Chapter 4     256 Elm

Chapter 5     Rules Of Life

Chapter 6     Vellen

Chapter 7     Sunday School

Chapter 8     Victim 21

Chapter 9     Revealed

Chapter 10   Aftermath

Chapter 11   The Ridge

Chapter 12   Dr. Proct

Chapter 13   Elder Charles

Chapter 14   Church

Chapter 15   Love

Chapter 16   Cleopat

Chapter 17   Recovery

Chapter 18   Limited Duty

Chapter 19   Breakdown

Chapter 20   Cheryl

Chapter 21   Inmate 27

Chapter 22   Compassion

Chapter 23   Mackinac

Chapter 24   Brian

Epilogue

Prologue

T HE TEMPEST OUTSIDE WAS minor compared to my internal storm. The receptionist handed me a clipboard and said, Good afternoon, Mr. Sludge. You have an appointment for your annual psych exam as part of the force’s fit-for-duty program. If you will complete these forms, we will be with you shortly.

I chose one of the overstuffed chairs lining the small waiting room to complete the paperwork. Always paperwork. Everything you do involves endless paperwork. I dread desk work, especially since the force automated our work. They require scanning everything, making it available on fancy-dancy laptops connected to wireless networks. I glanced at a frosted glass partition that separated the receptionist from my view. Barriers everywhere I looked—all I see are barriers. Big and small barriers, physical and procedural, real and imagined, their sole purpose is to keep me in or out. They herd me like slaughterhouse gates herd cattle.

I returned to my form and printed my name, Marvin Sludge, on the first line. Lines for my address were below it. What’s my address? I’ve lived there since I joined the force, so many years ago. I know … It’s on my driver’s license. I dug the license from my wallet and copied the address. My thoughts drifted to my apartment. I keep my apartment minimalistic for a reason. I don’t like the hold stuff has on you. I only have a single lawn chair and a card table holding a very small television and a laptop. The apartment came with a multibulb chandelier and now has a very worn and tattered green shag carpet. A faded brown beanbag chair is my only living room furniture. My bedroom is also sparse, with a thin mattress on the floor. Only suits line the walk-in closet, most worn long past their expiration dates. A spare change of shoes, two laundry baskets, one containing to-be-laundered clothes and one containing clean clothes, grace the floor. I keep my phone charger next to a small lamp, both on the floor next to the thin mattress.

I shook my head to clear thoughts of my apartment and tried finishing the form. It never ends. Every form asks for ever-increasingly intimate details. We no longer have privacy, yet, as public as they force our lives to be, we must work harder to keep our thoughts to ourselves. The form’s next line demanded my date of birth. There are always demands. That’s all there ever are—demands for my time, my money, my emotions, and even the facts of my life. I must answer to so many demands, and now I must answer my birthdate. I’m fifty-five. I must make it to full retirement at sixty-seven, which isn’t looking likely now. I filled in the date.

Check one, ordered the next box. More orders. Ever since before my Special Forces’ days, there has been an endless stream of orders. I always must obey but could never give orders. A pawn, that is all I am—a pawn in a macabre chess game with rules I don’t know or understand. My form’s options were male, female, or other. I checked male and shook my head. What would my life have been like if I were born a girl? It doesn’t matter. I might as well wonder about being born wealthy, a penguin, or a rock. Maybe this is how rocks are born, in the fires of life? Thunder from an unusually close lightning strike punctuated my thoughts.

The rest of the page was very routine. Where I work, my doctor, an emergency contact, and so on. I always thought that if I could rise to the top, I’d have it made. How wrong I was. I am the best detective in my department—the one always assigned to impossible cases and interrogations. I’d had to get unbelievable amounts of useless training in advanced psychology, and for what? Those courses didn’t have any answers I needed. It seems like all I do is complete forms like this one. Life at the top isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I completed the top form on autopilot, leaving the emergency contact blank. There isn’t anyone and never will be.

The next five pages contained a series of questions, several standing out.

Do you hear voices? Only when someone speaks. My hearing is fading, so sometimes I don’t hear people speak. I marked no.

Do you see things no one else sees? That’s my job, to observe crime scenes and look for things no one else notices. I maintain total awareness of everyone and everything around me. I must be ready at all times. I never know who is gunning for me. Many times, I sense peoples’ emotions, particularly in charged environments. This unique skill helps in interrogations but hurts in so many other situations. I marked no.

Do you ever consider hurting others? Tough question. Three months ago, they convicted a creep I had arrested. His crime was especially evil. Yes, I wanted to hurt him. Since he only got five years, I wanted to put him away forever. I marked no.

Do you ever consider hurting yourself? Who writes these things? Every day I put my physical well-being in danger. People shoot at me, jump me, break ribs, and once they tried running over me with a stolen Buick. Every day I go to work, I consider that I will get hurt. I marked no.

And the questions went on and on. They wanted to know about my family, spouse, and friends. They asked about my religious affiliation and any social organizations I belonged to. I don’t have time or energy to socialize. I work long hours. Besides, I must always watch my back. Too many bad guys are looking for me. I laughed at the religious affiliation question. Religion is for the weak and the soon-to-be-purged by natural selection—the ones who can’t take the rigors of life, unlike me. No, no, and more no.

Eventually, I completed the form. I stared at it for a short while before going back to the first page. I missed one question: Reason for visit. Ever since they instituted this fit-for-duty program, we were required to have an annual psych exam. It didn’t matter for Schnikel. He passed with flying colors, then three months later, lost it and nearly killed his suspect. The guy probably deserved to die, but we cops can’t make that decision. I remember investigating the event. Schnikel was a good cop until that day but will now spend forty-two months wearing white and eating loaf. Wonder what made him crack. Anyone can crack. It’s getting harder not to let myself crack. I need to get this exam over with.

I checked routine and got up to give the receptionist my form. The little sign ordered, Ring bell when finished. I looked around; no one else had entered. I can still escape—stupid job requirements. As I rang the bell, a tremendous peal of thunder echoed. That lightning bolt struck close, I commented to someone not there.

The receptionist took the clipboard and then removed and replaced my sheet in a model of efficiency. I wish I could get my paperwork done so well. It takes me a long time to do even the simplest of things. I must learn to do better, or they’ll force me out.

She put my sheets into a folder thick from previous years. With the resigned sigh of a condemned man, I turned to sit when she told me to follow her. More orders. Will they ever stop?

Dr. Proct is our newest partner. He has excellent credentials and a good reputation. Do you mind seeing him? she asked.

No, he’s OK.

We too quickly reached a small office on the end of a long hallway where the receptionist knocked on a partially open door. Dr. Proct, your two o’clock is here.

A weak, ghostly voice answered. Good. Good. Come in. My name is Dr. Proct. Please have a seat.

I entered a small office a little larger than a solitary cell. A fish tank full of colorful fish graced one wall opposite his desk. A bookcase overflowing with ancient, dusty-looking textbooks sat to his right, while a comfy couch and chair sat next to the fourth wall. The dim lighting revealed a coffee pot sharing desk space with a lamp. The carpet was the same not-noticeable type as in the waiting room. The muted earth tones suggested the same designer. Dr. Proct’s handshake was the handshake of someone who wrote rather than worked physically.

Dr. Proct was young and starting his practice. He was a smaller, clean-shaven man, with a full head of neatly combed dark hair. His glasses were neither trendy nor stodgy. His polo shirt had no logo, and his orthopedic shoes suggested he was never in the military. No one could accuse him of being athletic, and belt buckle marks announced he had let it out several times.

Please sit down, Mr.— He glanced at the folder. Mr. Sludge. I see you’re here for your annual psych evaluation as part of the police force’s fit-for-duty program.

Yes, sir. My captain told me to report here today. I sat carefully on the couch, using years of interrogation experience and specialized training to hide my emotions.

Dr. Proct flipped through the folder. It looks like you said the same things as in your previous visit. He set the folder aside and picked up his steno pad. How’re you doing?

Fine. Nothing to report. I must be fine. I need both a pension and full Social Security. Disability isn’t enough. My thoughts and my words came from two different minds.

I see. How are you handling the stress of your job?

Most of the time, OK. A couple of times I had trouble. About a month ago I responded to a murder-suicide. The young couple had a baby. The evidence indicated he killed her and then shot into the crib before doing himself in. Fortunately, he missed the child. I never understood why, except for his farewell note. It rambled on about how aliens had captured the space station and were controlling his mind. He wasn’t letting them use his family to colonize Saturn. We discovered he was under medical care.

What about it bothered you?

It wasn’t gory. And it didn’t bother me that the husband tried to kill his family, which I’ve seen many times. The part about mental illness bothered me. I hope this isn’t too close to home.

The doctor thought for a minute, giving me every chance to say more. I know silence is a powerful weapon, and I know how to use it as well as anyone. Tell me, Lieutenant, how did you deal with it? The doctor spoke first.

I won that volley.

"When I got off that night, I ate at a small diner near my apartment. It was late, but the place was full. Often informants see me there and let me know the latest. This night, everyone looked like that couple. The seeds on my hamburger bun seemed to form a picture of the child.

I went home after I finished supper. I wanted to buy a bottle of whiskey but know the bottle only makes bad situations worse. I watched the news and went to bed. Gradually, over the next several days, I realized that it is part of my job. I think they call it dissociation. Nothing I can do about that crime, and it’s not my fault.

Good. Your response is very good. How often does this occur?

Hard to say. Sometimes they’re frequent and other times not so much. What’s he driving at?

Your file says you have completed many extra courses in both interrogation techniques and psychology with outstanding grades. Both are, I assume, critical skills for your profession. These are both advanced topics, at least at the upper levels. Your captain said you were an expert in both. I’m curious about one thing. Did you find them difficult to complete?

They were extremely hard for me to complete, but my kind don’t give up. Wait a minute. That scoundrel used a question that fed my ego to pull information about my emotional hang-ups. Now he will drill down to see how I handle stress.

I found the psychology interesting but also had to take a negotiation class, I continued. "That was difficult for me. It was hard for me to see how to apply it. Now, in hindsight, I wish I had taken more interest in that subject. Maybe I should audit a few classes on the subject.

Your captain mentioned you always volunteer for dangerous actions, like being the first into a dark building or confronting a murderer. Any thoughts on why you keep looking for dangerous or risky situations?

That was close. He is moving on. I’m single. No one else suffers if something bad happens to me.

Hmm. I see. Could there be another reason?

No, sir. I hate going to a cop’s funeral.

Mr. Sludge, do you consider yourself honest? he asked.

Huh? I’m an honest cop. I don’t take bribes. I don’t misrepresent any evidence. I don’t look the other way. I try as hard as I can to find the guilty person in an investigation. It doesn’t matter whether someone is rich or poor or what race or gender. What the courts decide is their problem, not mine.

I’m sure you are an honest policeman, and I’m sorry if you thought I was challenging your reputation. Your supervisor’s file comments strongly support your professional integrity. But I’m talking about a different type of integrity—your personal integrity.

I don’t understand.

You are a forthright person, so I’ll ask you straight. Do you lie to yourself?

What do you mean? I could feel a slight hint of sweat on my forehead and heard a tiny tremor in my voice. These classic signs always told me I was on to something in an interrogation. All those extra courses in interrogation psychology and my experience in difficult interrogations shouted warnings in the back of my mind. Right now, I wasn’t so sure I liked being the force’s expert in these matters. My knowledge and experience magnified my symptoms in my mind, making me feel even more like the proverbial fish in the barrel. I stared him down, hoping he didn’t share my expertise.

Forgive my manners. Would you like a cup of coffee? I made it fresh before you came in—a nasty habit, but one I picked up in college. You have habits like that?

This guy is good. I need to send my suspects here. Every cop drinks coffee. It’s the first thing the academy teaches. I have bad habits. Black coffee is one. Hope that was noncommittal enough.

Dr. Proct chuckled and handed me a Styrofoam cup and settled back into his chair while proclaiming the advantages of a nearby tourist trap. We chatted for several more minutes about different cases. He offhandedly asked about my most frustrating case and my most fulfilling case. He pulled out my opinion on the local sports teams.

This guy must bill the force by the hour and is using the time to plump his bill.

Back to the point, he continued. I briefly compared today’s form to last year’s. The words are the same, but the handwriting is different—to the point that it looks like it’s from a different person. Today, your writing has a lot of sharp edges, and you pushed on the pen much harder. Want to tell me why?

I have a lot of work. My desk has more than twenty-five cases.

Your supervisor reported you’re a man acting like something is on his mind. You want to let me in on your secret?

I don’t have many years left before retirement.

The doctor smiled. And any minute of every day something might happen to change that.

Yes. Like this examination. I