Night and Evil

By Betty L. Alt

With his partner Richard Samms, shot and facing a lengthy period of recuperation, Detective Levi Taylor and the other men in the Paramont Police Department are kept busy with the usual number of major crimes. Then, they are plagued for two years with numerous calls from citizens about a Peeping Tom. Considered simply a nuisance problem at first, this changes when a woman is severely beaten and raped. Can Hunter and Samms, now back on the job, find "The Peeper" before someone is killed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669846536

Betty L. Alt

Betty Alt is the author or co-author of numerous books, both fiction and nonfiction. She has an M.A. from Northeast Missouri State University and has taught at several colleges and universities in the U.S. and overseas. Alt is now retired and living in Tennessee.

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Copyright © 2022 by Betty L. Alt.

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 Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/07/2022

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Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark.

-Tennyson, Crossing the Bar (1889)

S oon to be the new Deputy Chief of Police in Paramont, Amos Taylor poured a second cup of coffee from a large urn and returned to his office. It was a small room, just large enough for a desk, two chairs and one file cabinet, all made from the standard gray steel being used in public offices. A tall, narrow window gave him a view of the parking lot, a newly planted elm, and Clemson Furniture a block away. Taylor smiled. The office was small, but it was all his. After today, he would not have to share space with the department’s three other detectives.

Of course, the new title did not mean he would be tied solely to a desk job. Until there were funds to hire and train another detective to replace him, he would still be required to take on cases. At the present time, it had been made that he would remain a full-time detective and be only a part-time deputy chief.

Ugh! he exclaimed as he sipped the coffee. It was bitter, and he had no one to blame but himself. Usually, one of two female clerks made endless pots of coffee for the staff; however, it was much too early for them to be at their desks.

Guess bad coffee is better than no coffee at all, he thought, moving the mug several inches away from a stack of papers. Wish I had some cream.

Now edging into his late forties, Taylor’s hair was beginning to show more gray than dark brown, and there were deep creases near the corners of his eyes. Still, most days he felt like a young man, and he worked to maintain a trim body. That had become more difficult, however, as his mother now was living with him, daily prepared large meals, and expected him to eat them.

With great reluctance, he finally had persuaded his sixty-eight-year-old mother to sell their home in Wallton and move fifty miles north to Paramont. Nell Taylor had become a bit feeble, and as his work load would increase with the upcoming promotion, Amos no longer would be able to get the time to drive frequently to and from the other town to check on her. In addition, all but three of her many long-time friends had died, leaving her pretty much isolated except for Wednesday and Sunday services at the Wallton Methodist Church.

Hope you’re not expecting the rest of us to start coming in at the crack of dawn, Detective Richard Samms stood in the doorway.

Startled at hearing a voice, Taylor looked toward the doorway and beckoned Samms into the room. I’d have to telephone you every morning, if that were the case.

Samms merely nodded. He knew it was a true comment as he liked to sleep late. The two men had worked numerous cases together, and many times Taylor had called the younger man out of bed in the middle of the night or early morning hours. Now he was a bit more hesitant to roust the man early since Samms had become wedded, as Taylor and some of the other men referred to the detective’s marriage a few years earlier.

Wow! This coffee is terrible! Samms exclaimed. You made this?

Do not disparage the cook, Taylor responded, but you’re right, it is terrible. Wanda should be here shortly, and she’ll make a fresh pot.

See you have your uniform. Samms changed the subject.

Yes, Chief Ames wanted us both in uniform for photos. Guess the local newspaper is sending someone to cover the story . . . maybe even TV.

Samms nodded. He was aware that television was now the latest craze. While he hadn’t felt that he could afford a set, he was aware of a growing number of television antennae peeking over Paramont roofs. Your mother coming for the ceremony?

She wouldn’t miss it if we had to carry her on a stretcher. Ames is having a police car pick her up, so everyone in the neighborhood will know. She can gossip about it for days. Taylor shook his head.

Proud of you, Samms replied as he headed out the door. You’re all she’s got left.

He’s so right, Taylor thought. All the rest of her kin buried on the ranch. Going to have to do something about that place. Can’t sell it while she’s still alive . . . maybe not sell it at all. I might go live there when I retire . . . can’t retire until I’m at least sixty but could begin to make plans . . .

He shook his head, but thoughts of his life wouldn’t go away. Lived with my mother almost all my life . . . still am . . . and have no idea what goes on in her mind. She is right now like I remember her when I was a child . . . always busy, always cooking . . . always just my mom, directing me or encouraging me. I guess I don’t ever remember us just taking time to talk about what we want or wanted our life to be, and she’d be uncomfortable if I asked.

A close relationship with his father had never existed for Levi Taylor, always busy with ranch problems, had little time to spend with his only child and then was killed in an accident when Amos was twelve. His closest male relative, and good friend, had been his grandfather, Lem. The two spent endless summer hours on horseback with Lem telling of his early years on the frontier and providing advice and encouragement to his young grandson.

The old man had countless stories to relate about his life ranching and working on the railroad in the 1880s and 1890s. Occasionally he would burst into song, and Taylor could remember the deep voice bellowing across the prairie, Two little Indians and one old squaw, sitting on the banks of the Apishipa.

I still miss him, Amos thought. He’s been dead over thirty years, and I still miss him.

Well, enough of that, Taylor exclaimed loudly as he got up from his desk. Better get out of these duds and into my uniform. It would soon be time for his rite of passage to begin."

*     *     *

Taylor’s promotion ceremony was well attended. On the recently-constructed platform in front of the station, Taylor sat in the sun with Chief Armin Ames, City Councilman Ronald Abbott, and Mayor Joe Hudson who told the assembled audience of officers and newsmen how lucky the town was to have Taylor in its police ranks. Mayor Hudson also emphasized how he had been able to find funds that would be adding officers to the police department for the town’s safety. Taylor nearly laughed as he realized Hudson would be up for re-election in a few months and was getting in some good publicity to help increase his vote count.

Gazing at him from the front row of a fair-sized audience, Nell Taylor beamed with pride. For the occasion, she had worn a navy dress with a collar of white lace. Her church hat of beige straw with small pink and white flowers attached to a navy grosgrain ribbon was perched on her head, and Taylor had ordered for her a small corsage of pink roses.

He noticed a photographer from the local newspaper taking a shot of the assembled people, and he hoped that the photo would be published in the evening edition as his mother was sitting front and center. It would be the highlight of her day as she could show a clipping to her Paramont neighbors and her few remaining friends in Wallton. He almost could hear her protesting, I just don’t know why they’d put me in the newspaper. For heavens’ sake! I wasn’t the important one. The day was for Amos.

Nell Taylor had always encouraged her son to do his best and praised him for any achievements. However, the praise was usually tempered with advice to do better. He could hear her saying, "Well, Levi, that’s a very good report card, but you could do better in math, or English, or history. He had wondered if that reaction was due to her life as a young girl. Perhaps she had never received praise from her parents without admonitions to achieve more.

When the promotion ceremony ended, a reception was held in a large room at the back of the police station. His mother stood by his side as Taylor cut the first slice of a cake which had blue Congratulations on its thick white frosting. There were several varieties of triangular-shaped sandwiches with the crusts cut off of the bread, and Taylor wondered who had taken the time to make them. Coffee, much better than what Taylor had made earlier that morning, was quickly consumed. Within a short time, the room emptied of the celebrants as everyone drifted slowly away toward home or to the routine of their normal work day. Nell Taylor was driven home in a police car and took her time getting out of it. She wanted to make certain that neighbors were aware of her return.

*     *     *

Taylor got out of his uniform and back into his usual garb -- sport coat, trousers, white shirt, and tie. Then he spent most of the afternoon settling into in his new office, and it was shortly after six o’clock when Samms stuck his head in the door.

Just got a call that a guy’s been stabbed. Everyone else is gone so need you to go with me?

Sure thing, Taylor said as he grabbed his gun and followed the other detective out of the station. Know how bad it is?

Just that the guy’s dead, Samms replied. Elmer Wilkins is one of the cops on the scene. He called for help keeping neighbors out of the house.

As they arrived on the street of the shooting, Taylor noted that it was an older neighborhood with small frame homes probably constructed in the late 1890s and up to the First World War. Most of the yards were fenced and had a bit of lawn, a few with borders of flowers near front steps or small porches. Almost none had a garage so automobiles parked on both sides of the narrow street made it difficult to navigate. Two police cars, an ambulance with lights still flashing as it sat waiting for a live or dead body, and scores of people lining both sides of the street added to the congestion.

Damn circus! Samms exclaimed.

Yeh. Maybe we’d better stop here and walk. It’s only a couple of houses away, might save a dent on the car.

Right, Samms replied, parking the police auto in the middle