Die, Mother Goose, Die

By Jim Malloy

When Misty rammed the ice pick in his head, she felt alive, free, and wonderful. And the best part was she had six more to do. With a sigh, her mind went to an earlier time as she squatted in the corner and sucked her thumb. Childlike tears rolled down her cheeks as she
hugged her Raggedy Ann doll and recited a Mother Goose nursery rhyme.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary.
How. . . . . .

Police Sergeant Jack Delaney and the Doom squad were stumped. The murders had no common link. He knew if they could find the motive, they would solve the case. The problem was the motive was created fifty years ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669835486

Jim Malloy

Jim Malloy lived and sailed for fifteen years on the H.M.S. Dolphin, a 76- foot square rigged barquentine. She flew eleven sails on three masts and bore four deck cannons, two stern swivel guns and a bow chaser. She is a scaled replica of the original Dolphin under the command of Captain Wallice who discovered Tahiti before Captain Cook. He owned a private island in the Bahamas and a private museum dedicated to the history of privateers. Jim sailed throughout the Bahamas, Indies, and Jamaica. It was during this time, his novel, Raptor’s Revenge, was imagined.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

To my friend, Edward Trudel, whom I love and

curse for starting me on this journey.

Although the actions of law enforcement in this book

are fiction, at some level those not in law enforcement,

I’m sure, believe that is the way it is and to those in law

enforcement, at some level, I’m sure, wish that it was.

This book would not be readable without the technical and content

editing by my aunt and uncle, Paul and Martha Strifer. Thank you.

BOOKS BY JIM MALLOY

Historical Adventure

Raptor’s Revenge

Hard-boiled Detective

Lollipop Murders

Death Whispers

Die, Mother Goose, Die

The Twister

Snake Bite

Jimmalloy-author.com

For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none. If there be one, seek till you find it. If there be none, never mind it.

Mother Goose

Chapter 1

A S MISTY LAY on her back in the soft king-size bed, she absently noticed the zigzag crack in the ceiling and thought it was unforgivable in such an expensive hotel. She hardly felt the weight of the man on top panting and grunting with his sex smell pumping in and out of her. With a small smile, she casually let her hand roam to the side of the mattress, listening to his building orgasm, and when he was about to come, she jammed the ice pick into the side of his skull and brain.

She listened to his last grunt as his sightless eyes, inches away, stared back with his dead weight pressing heavy on top of her. With disgust, she shoved, rolling his hulk aside, and climbed out of the bed, feeling the male sweat coating her skin like melted cheese. She choked back a gag as his sour odor seeped, filling her nose. Chilling to a quick shudder, she stood there, naked, looking at the fat glob of man in the rumpled sheets. Then, childlike, she cocked her head, curious, and studied his naked form now looking at the ceiling crack, thinking the wood handle of the ice pick sticking out the side of his head looked like a blunt horn. She again smiled, considering sticking one in on the other side so he would look like the devil he was.

No matter, she thought, taking a huffy breath, reaching in her overnight bag for another ice pick. She kneeled back on the mattress and gently, with her left hand, lifted his limp penis. With her right, she put the tip of the ice pick in the small opening and jammed it home to the hilt of the wood handle.

Standing back for a final look, she admired her work with a thin snicker of satisfaction before slipping into a modest cotton nightie. She rooted deeper into her bag for her favorite Raggedy Ann doll and went to the corner of the room and sat cross-legged on the floor. There, with her back to the wall, eyes far away, she began rocking back and forth, hugging her red-haired doll tight as she recited her favorite nursery rhyme.

"Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,

and how do you think they got there?

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.

They all jumped out of a rotten potato.

‘Twas enough to make a man stare."

Her childlike voice echoed softly, sing-songing the verse over and over, sucking her thumb as any young child, paying no mind to the tears running down her cheeks.

A while later, she stood with a huff, suddenly perturbed, and packed the Raggedy Ann away, ignoring the dead man still studying the ceiling crack.

She went into the bathroom and turned the shower hot and steamy before stepping in, relishing the burning water washing him off her. She scrubbed herself red, making sure the bathroom walls and fixtures steamed wet to eliminate any fingerprints.

Finally, feeling clean, she stepped out of the shower and rubbed her skin with the huge Turkish towel. Returning to the bedroom, she strolled over and stood in front of the vanity mirror, letting the towel fall to the floor. Cocking her head, she looked curiously at her reflection, studying the strange person looking back at her. The image of the beautiful woman looked like her, but she knew it was false because inside the covering of her skin were crawly ugly things.

She shrugged, found her cosmetic bag, and took her time carefully applying her makeup. After brushing her shoulder length hair to a flowing shine, she dressed slowly and stood back, facing the long mirror to make sure her appearance was perfect.

Then, taking a washcloth, she wiped her fingerprints from the three places she touched, the doorknob to the hall, the doorknob on the bathroom, and the cocktail glass. Finished, she glanced around for a last check, placed the enveloped card gently on the dead man’s chest, grabbed her purse and overnight bag, and stepped into the hallway, remembering to hook the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, and left.

Walking through the hotel lobby of the Liberty Hotel, every head turned to the stunning blonde passing by.

Chapter 2

J ULIE WAS BUSY filling coffee cups for the night shift getting off and the morning shift just starting. As she waited for the magic hour of 8:00 a.m., she reminded herself she’d been waitressing at Greasy’s for four years, putting up with this police macho bullshit. Smart-ass tough guys working hard on their image of being as sensitive as a rock.

Smiling to herself, she was one who knew their secret. Under that cold copper shield was a softie ready to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves. While others ran from danger, they charged forward, the thin blue line fighting the predators scratching at the door, day and night, seven-twenty-four. Smart-ass tough guys. She loved ‘em all.

Julie was fighting the leash on forty. Twice divorced with a fifteen-year-old son, she still had a good body that turned male heads. Anyone looking would notice her tits first. Just the right size, a guy could tell they were still firm as cold Jell-O even through her waitress uniform. She knew it and, quite frankly, didn’t have a problem with the stares and the occasional remark. It was, after all, a form of flattery. But now, she was dating one of the smart-ass macho cops, and he was quick to take exception.

The tinkle of the bell on the front door broke her thoughts and she looked up to see the Doom squad, trouping in, led by their leader, Sergeant Jack Delaney. They entered single file with a certain swagger that spelled cop. Their skinny brimmed hats, well worn, were tipped back just right with a couple sporting cigarettes hanging from the side of the mouth, looking cocky.

The chatter in the crowded room rose as they primed themselves for the morning busting of the balls.

Delaney started the routine.

Jezus, Stretch, maybe you outta join the circus.

Officer Theodore (Stretch) Jones, standing six-five, was chasing a short-shit burglar through a backyard and was clotheslined. His partner, running behind, said he almost made a complete loop before falling on his ass.

Yeah, Pop added, I hear they’re a couple clowns short.

Stretch’s too tall to be a short clown, Breed added.

Stretch turned with a bandaged throat, giving them the finger.

Dago, behind Pop, pushed a wheelchair through the door and the joint cracked up.

Hey, Taylor, we got this for you to even the odds.

Officer Taylor, a tad overweight, chased a petty thief known to all as Spokes in a wheelchair.

He got away.

Hey, Julie, give Taylor another platter of flapjacks, lotsa butter.

Taylor turned, with mouth full, and also gave them the finger.

And, so it went until they slid into their usual booths in the back listening to the jabbering insults. Julie walked over with two carafes of coffee looking at their satisfied smiles of another performance well done.

Maybe you clowns oughta sell tickets, she said, pouring with both hands.

Not a bad idea, Julie. I always thought you were more than a pretty face and big boo...,

Dago held up, glancing at Pop.

Pop gave him a dirty look. Pop and Julie were an item for the last eight months.

It’s a joke, Pop. Fer Chris sake, Dago added.

Is the cook sober today, Julie? Cheeks asked.

Barely.

Ah hell, just bring us eight Monday morning specials, OK guys? Kraut said, as the rest nodded.

Have that drunk glaze ‘em in Crisco.

Do you guys ever eat vegetables or fruit?

Vegetables? Fruit? What’s that?

She turned to the kitchen with a groan, knowing they were staring at her ass.

She loved those guys.

With full bellies, they grabbed a seat in the squad room, balancing a cup of Mabel’s famous brew, careful not to drip any on their clothes or the deck. It was a well- known fact her coffee ate holes in floor tile and burned holes in clothes as sure as a hot ash from a cigarette.

It’s your turn, Cheeks.

Cheeks winced, holding his breath, and took the first sip of the black mixture. He swallowed carefully with a worried look as the rest watched to see if he would topple over dead.

With a sigh of relief, he said, It’s okay.

Spook, go tell Mabel she failed again. We’re still alive.

Mabel was the squad’s secretary. A classy-looking gal with a sailor’s mouth in her early fifties that retired as a captain in the Marine Corps serving in World War II. Her job now, according to her, was to keep their sorry asses out of the frying pan until she had a chance to poison them with her special concoction.

Oh no, not me. I did it last time. You should see the welts on my back.

Sergeant Delaney, known by those on the squad as Micky, a carryover from walking a beat in the old Irish neighborhood, tapped on the side of the lectern.

Okay, nuff bullshit. Grezer, give us a rundown on the jewel heist.

We got the fences covered, Sarge. It was amateur night. I’m sure the stuff’ll show up in the slock shops. I contacted your friend, Slick, like you said. He said he ain’t heard anything.

Bullshit. Where’s he workin’?

Tenth and Gabriel.

Okay, Kraut, where’s sex crimes on the rape series?

Just then the phone rang and Spook picked up. Two minutes later he hung up.

Cap’n Barns wants us to respond to a one eighty-seven at the Liberty Hotel on tenth. The blues got it frozen.

Let’s hit it, Micky said.

The team hustled out the door, ready for some action. It had been slow for a time. The last big case was the Ghost series where some crazy Cajun was killing people with a bow and arrow.

The team, with eight cops counting Micky, included the top investigators on the St. Louis Police Department and handled the tough cases, especially the ones causing political heat.

Christened the Doom Squad, they were formed three years ago as an experiment and quickly gained the reputation as the best of the best, and every cop wanted in.

Micky, (37) about six-one, one ninety, looked ordinary except for the eyes. His wolfish stare, Siberian blue, warned of a cold meanness if stirred. He could smell evil in a man and reveled in punishing those that preyed on the weak with a finely tuned sense of justice, be it legal or whatever. His reputation with the trash walking the streets was one of Solomon, swift and sure.

As he wound through traffic to the murder scene with Cheeks sitting shotgun, his mind drifted to a different time when his best friend, Shamy, was by his side. His mood mellowed, remembering how they grew up together through school, the war, the job, and divorces.

It was still hard to believe he was dead. His guilt still hung heavy knowing Shamy gave his life to save his sorry ass.

He glanced over at Cheeks, looking forward, anxious to get to the crime scene. Sharp cop, newly married, his wife promised not to bitch too much about the assholes he worked with. His real name, Lief Swenson, from Norway, was damn near an albino with pink cheeks, hence the nickname Cheeks.

He stood about six-three with seafaring muscles from his Viking ancestors. A hard charger, he got his wish to join the Doom squad as a reward for winning a gunfight with a rapist.

Micky turned his thoughts back to the road, feeling good about the copper sitting next to him.

Chapter 3

H EADING TOWARD HER office, Misty greeted her co-workers as usual. She was smartly dressed in a conservative Janiard business suit, light tweed to match the fall season, with leather briefcase, matching purse, and low-heeled shoes. Her hair, slick blonde, was swept back to a tight bun hiding its true length. As usual, she worked hard on her makeup to subdue her beauty.

The events of the weekend were pushed aside as she settled behind her desk and took a sip of coffee, glancing, as she religiously did, at the picture on the corner of her desk.

Her office, sterile neat, reflected her phobia for cleanliness. The slight odor of disinfectant filtered like a whiff as she looked around to ensure everything was in place, neat and straight.

Again, per habit, she opened the lower drawer on the right side of her desk and pulled out the small photo album buried under a stack of files. With another sip of coffee, she paged through slowly, looking with love at each picture as her emotions flew like a roller coaster. Each snapshot conjured up a special memory of sadness, love, and rage.

Reaching the end, she sighed, closed it slow, and tucked it deep in the drawer, repeating her promise.

They will all pay, Grandma, everyone.

Chapter 4

M ICKY MET HIS seven-man team in the lobby. The Liberty Hotel was upscale St. Louis with a reputation for hosting famous stars such as Humphrey Bogart and John Wayne. Micky was impressed. You could tell by his cop snicker.

He told the guys to cool their heels while he went to the front desk to get briefed by the field lieutenant.

Hey, Delaney, I figured they’d send your team.

Why’s that?

I don’t wanta spoil it for ya. I got two uniforms guardin’ the door. The stiff’s in room ten twenty-one. I got the lab and coroner rollin’.

Is the guy registered here?

Yeah, name’s Fred Lorring, white male, thirty-six. Lives in the city, married, two kids. Don’t know why he’s checked in here besides wanting to get a little strange stuff.

Is everybody corralled that was workin’ since he checked in?

We got most of them sitting in the lounge over there.

He pointed at the far end of the lobby.

A few already split. Here’s a list. His car’s on the first level, a sixty gray Cadillac. I got a blue on it.

Micky took the list thinking the copper was sharp.

Thanks, Lieutenant . . ., Micky glanced at his nametag, Peterson, and strolled back to his guys to make the assignments.

"Spook, the stiff’s a Fred Lorring. Here’s his address. Get me a complete rundown. Break the news to his wife and follow up.

"Kraut, Pop, you cover the lounge. The lieutenant has the staff parked that were workin’.

Cheeks, take the guy’s car on the first level. Cadillac, a blue’s on it.

Micky walked over to the elevators with Dago, Breed, and Grezer a step behind, and pushed the tenth-floor button. As the elevator rose, the four stood, back against the four corners, staring at the floor, wondering what awaited. Homicide was dumping it for some reason. No one spoke as Micky glanced at the three and measured them. He had an irreverent moniker for everyone on the squad used only among themselves. It built a special bond bringing them closer together and more of a team.

Breed’s real name was Joseph O’Brien. He was half and half, Irish and Apache, hence a half breed, hence the nickname Breed. Copper-colored, looked like an Injun. One thing’s sure: He probably never saw a four-leaf clover.

Grezer’s real name was Raul Rodrigues, the only legal wetback on the department. His handle was obvious. Barely department height, skinny and squirrelly, his eyes were always skitting around, afraid they might miss something. He and Cheeks were the only ones on the squad still married. He looked like a dirt bag but was a solid family man with a wife and five sons he adored. When talking about his family, he whipped out the family pictures and made a sign of the cross.

Dago, or Anthony (Tony) Angelo, of course, was a wop. Good-looking with ink black hair and matching eyes, but kinda hairy. A typical rake with a Valentino stare, Women couldn’t wait to drop their skivvies. Lots of relatives in the mob gave him buckets of shit, but a damn good cop with the best street contacts.

The two uniforms guarding the room heard the elevator ding and watched the Doom team of four walk toward them thinking the same thing. They’d give their left nut to get assigned to the Doom squad.

Thanks, guys, Micky greeted. Why don’t you alternate and get some coffee.

He turned to Grezer and Breed.

You two in first.

Micky liked to send them first because they had Kodak eyes.

If they saw it, they remembered it.

Grezer, pushing the door open with his knuckles high on the wood, carefully stepped inside with Breed a step behind.

A half minute later, Micky heard Grezer say, Oh shit, look at that, man.

He heard Breed groan and then a couple minutes later.

Okay, sarge.

Micky crossed the threshold with Dago behind, tasting death in the air. It was a special tang, like no other, and Micky swished his tongue, trying to wash it away.

It never worked.

Walking over to the body on the bed, he winced seeing the ice pick stuck in the guy’s dick.

Damn, that hadda hurt.

It gives me the heebie-jeebies.

A quick look around yielded nothing unusual except the party-size invitation envelope on the chest of the corpse.

Dago, send the lab guys up. Stick around until they pick up the note. I want to know what it says ASAP. Everybody do their usual. Dago, follow up with the wife. Maybe she caught him and wanted to make a point.

Somebody sure gave him a point.

Sarge, remember the Cruz case a while back. The girlfriend lopped it off.

Everybody winced again at the thought.

As Micky walked in the lobby, he noticed the lab crew stepping into the elevator with a blonde female in a lab coat.

Nice legs, he thought.

*        *        *

By 9:00 p.m., night filled the fall day. The days were crisper now and the sky stirred and churned, trying to decide what to do. A ripe moon waited for October witches as leaves whispered and danced in night breezes. Half-naked trees missed summer’s birds and regretted winter’s sleep.

Pulling in his parking spot, Micky glanced at the crystal sky knowing overcoat time was close.

Wrapping up the preliminary at the hotel, the team grabbed a chair in the briefing room to coordinate the day’s info. Each held a soda, thankful there wasn’t any of Mabel’s coffee leftovers to tempt them.

The squad room was the same as it was twenty years ago…. dreary. Somebody finally oiled the sick ceiling fan with an annoying click every third revolution. Micky kinda missed it.

It was 1961 and fashion dictated cops wear their Dragnet hats inside to look cool.

Mike Hammer was their hero.

Micky suspected it was also because of the tobacco