I Answer When Blood Calls

By Garland B. Johnson

I Answer When Blood Calls is a gripping novel set in the sleepy Southern backdrop of Alabama. A maniacal serial killer dubbed by the media the “Zigzag Slasher” initiates his murderous spree beginning in 1957. When the bloody campaign suddenly stops in the early sixties, eight women are left dead in his wake, and the only common denominator is, they are all white females. Two decades pass when Sergeant Blaine Dukes, a young, black, and confident sheriff’s detective is put in charge of a newly formed cold-case squad in the town the killings began.

Once the carnage starts again in the early eighties, Dukes must put all his efforts into finding the Zigzag Slasher while dealing with bigotry and an anxious public questioning his abilities while the nation becomes captivated by the savagery. With only scant clues left at the crime scenes, the desperate investigator must learn if this is the same killer from earlier or a deadly copycat predator. As more victims fall prey, it becomes a race against time. I Answer When Blood Calls is a mind-twisting roller-coaster ride whodunit that will have the reader guessing until the last pages are turned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684568000

Book preview

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I Answer When Blood Calls

A Novel

Garland B. Johnson

Copyright © 2020 Garland B. Johnson

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

The events and places you are about to read are a work of fiction. The names of people and cities have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

ISBN 978-1-68456-799-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-68456-800-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Also on your skirts is found the blood of the lives of the poor innocents. I have not found it by secret search but plainly on all these things.

—Jeremiah 2:34

Table of 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 1

He parked his gray El Camino five blocks away at a dead-end street with no night-lights. He locked the doors, donned his leather gloves, and retrieved the Free Spirit bicycle off the back of his vehicle.

He’d stolen the bike two nights prior from his neighbor’s kid, disappointed in the fact it wasn’t a Schwinn. He could demand top dollar for a Schwinn once he’d repainted and resold it. Tonight was the culmination of over two months of planning. He’d watched, followed, and observed his prey until he had every tidbit of her habits seared into his memory.

She worked the second shift, 3:00 to 11:00 p.m. at Diversified Products. What was it they did there? Oh yeah, they manufactured and assembled exercising equipment. DP Fitness was their trademark. He mounted the two-wheeler and began his trek down the dark street rehearsing what he needed to do. He’d been methodical and meticulous up to this point.

The stalker had seen her earlier in the DP parking lot when she took her thirty-minute lunch break to go cash her check at the local convenience store. What a rip-off, he thought, her paying two percent in fees. He was waiting across the street at Story’s Sport Shop when she finished her shift, stopping at Tyler’s for a drive-thru order of small fries, medium Dr. Pepper, and a Tyler’s king cheeseburger, fully loaded. He left to get in front of her before she collected her food. Everything had to be timed perfectly before she placed her nightly phone call to her drug dealer.

It was a quiet night. Perfect. It’d rained the day before, but now the sky was starry and clear. Nobody was out this time of night except those with bad intentions. He did pass a shiny, new black Jeep parked along the curb as he peddled with urgency. There was no one inside the vehicle, so he figured he would check the door locks on his return trip to see if the doors were unlocked.

He pulled to the south end of the development, a ragtag huddle of mobile homes and single family preconstructed houses. He found a cluster of evergreens and ditched the bicycle. He slid the wooden club he carried down the backside of his dark trousers. He fingered the front pocket of his pants for the switchblade in case the bitch got testy.

Catlike, he shinnied up the chain-link fence, effortlessly dropping to the other side. He had his mask tucked snuggly in his waistband but wouldn’t need it until the precise moment. The fucking thing made him sweat. He quick timed it to the western edge of the park, then darted north, using the trees planted twenty feet apart for cover. He passed old lady Hatcher’s single wide with the weather-beaten picnic table. He knew she’d put her yelping little mutt away at nine o’clock sharp.

Glancing at his watch, he knew he would have to hurry; it was almost eleven thirty. She should be home now, he reckoned, rushing past the Carr couple with the 1974 Oldsmobile missing all its hubcaps. He forged onward past the Miller’s double wide with the television blasting so loudly they wouldn’t hear a freight train rumbling near. He skinned past several more homes until he reached his destination.

It was a two-bedroom prefab Jim Walter’s, painted a horrible light green with yellow siding. Her home sat at the front entrance on the right just off Jeter Street.

He was excited with adrenaline now, breathing with delighted anticipation. He needed to hurry he kept thinking; it was the beginning of a fun-filled night. Good, he could see her red 1977 Monte Carlo in the driveway. Perfect. He crept up to her master bedroom window, and like always, her screened window was unlocked. Perfect. He removed the screen and hoisted himself up on the ledge and silently slithered inside. He tiptoed to the door and peeped around the house and could tell all the lights were off except in the kitchen area. He could hear movement, so he guessed she was devouring her late night meal. He had the element of surprise now, and all had gone as planned without a hitch. He pulled the club from his backside and charged out of the bedroom. He hastily shuffled toward the kitchen but forgot to put on his mask. If not for that gaffe, his rascality might have been perfect.

You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife: and you shall not desire your neighbor’s house, his field, his male servant, his female servant, his ox, his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s.

—Deuteronomy 5:21

1957

Wham-O released the first Frisbee. Invented by Walter F. Morrison. It was originally called the Pluto Platter because he wanted to cash in on the flying saucer craze of the day.

The final episode of I Love Lucy aired on CBS after 181 episodes.

Governor Orval Faubus ordered the National Guard to prevent nine black children from attending Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. The Little Rock Nine would eventually be escorted by armed federal troops with bayonets attached to their weapons to ward off angry protestors.

Oak Leaf, Alabama, was your quintessential quiet little southern town ill-equipped to handle the realm of the devil in which the damned suffer everlasting punishment. What was in store for its citizenry was unlike anything you could conjure in folklore or verify in actualities. The Bible belt, they call it, and for good reasons. Within two miles of traveling the dirt roads, worn highways and swamp paths was a church whose pastor, minister, or reverend was trying to convince you that his preaching ways would better prepare his congregation for the Second Coming.

They cried, sweated, and chastised to the half-filled pews, knowing all too well that someday the dark of their days would come to light. And once it did, the purveyors of the gospel would simply say pray for them and let God enlighten you to the error of their ways. And don’t forget to fill the tray with your earthly donations so that they can continue driving their Cadillacs, eat fried chicken, and their continue down the road to perdition.

Tonight the white men of Oak Leaf wanted retribution, and someone shouted to hell with the law, civil obedience, and normal behavior. The angry swarm had been wronged, disrespected, and someone had to pay for this unforgivable intrusion. The eye of every soul was filled with the heated passion of vengeance. Deservedly so, after all, an insulting occurrence was upon them, and if this was forgiven without a violent response, there could no worthy punishment inflicted in retaliation for an injury or offense.

They had gathered at the moss pit where so many times before it was done. The hoods were on, and the flames were lit. It was a dark road in the woods where no screams or howls could be heard. A black man, alone, beaten to a pulp and even if he had the chance of survival would have preferred to be left for dead after the night of what he was about to bear.

His back was opened with lacerations from the whip. His breath was weak from the unimaginable pain he’d endured. And yet he still believed this was not emblematic of the people he knew. They were all there. The assistant police chief was in attendance as well his associates and all the prominent townspeople. They lit the cross, and the Grand Dragon of the KKK gave the enforcer the okay to begin the mutilation. When he was done the naked black man could have been mistaken for a woman.

Dolores Mitchell lived alone on the peaceful street of Lucerne Avenue. It sat in the middle of a row of homes lined with a mixture of oaks, maples, and dogwoods. She was a petite brunette who opened the local library every morning at 9:00 a.m. sharp without fail the last eight years. She taught Bible class every Wednesday and was the go-to for arranging everything from community picnics to raffle sales events. She was content in her lifestyle, having no children or husband. Some gossiped about her single status, especially female members of her church. How could a beautiful woman, age thirty-five, seemingly with so much to offer not have a family to raise and take care of? It certainly wasn’t proper in a town populated with two thousand Christians.

She’d moved to Clarett, Alabama, fifteen years ago from Texas where she graduated from Texas Christian University with a degree in nursing. She rarely spoke of her past, not even to her closest friend, Matilda, the organist in the church choir. She was a creature of habit, and most could set their clocks with the daily movements of Dolores Mitchell.

For instance, every Thursday, she would leave work, stop at Clarett’s pharmacy on the trolley, and pick up her weekly supply of Noxzema. Afterward she stopped at the Piggly Wiggly to do her grocery shopping. Home by six thirty, she would sit on the front porch and watch the children frolic up and down her street as she sipped iced tea, keeping cool with a hand fan she swiped from Bible study. Going inside the house intermittingly to check on the drumstick and thigh, she had deep frying in a cast iron skillet of sizzling Crisco. Some would call it a mundane existence, but Dolores wouldn’t have it any other way.

She ate her chicken dinner with green peas and mashed potatoes, homemade of course, at the prompt time of a quarter past seven. By eight thirty, the dishes were done, and she ran a hot bath while reading from the book of Kings where Solomon requests wisdom. She hadn’t the inclination or money for a television, so after a soothing bath, she put on a cotton nightgown, curled her hair with rollers, and got between the cool sheets of her queen-size bed and fell asleep with the company of Robert Frost’s poetry.

At thirty minutes past midnight, there was a tap on her front door startling Dolores from a deep dream where she was floating on clouds. Staring at her clock on the nightstand, she recollected never having a visitor at this godforsaken hour. She slid into a robe and slippers, peeped out the window, then politely opened the door, and invited the killer in.

They sat down at the kitchen table conjuring small talk when the killer asked for a glass of water. Dolores made it to the sink when she felt an unusual sting to her throat. She slapped at it first thinking a mosquito had infiltrated the dwelling. She looked at her hand after the swat, and her fingers and palm were bloodred. In horror, she turned to see the killer with excitement in his eyes and a custom handmade bowie fighting knife in his right hand. Her own eyes filled with absolute terrified fright. Damn, the killer thought. He didn’t slice deep enough. He raised the knife, and with all his force, he plunged the weapon deep into her chest. She wanted to scream, but the blood squirted from her mouth choking her. She fell to her knees, and the killer stabbed her three more times while holding her up by her hair and rollers.

After making sure she was dead, he undressed her and stretched the body face up on the kitchen floor with her arms crossed on her carved up chest. He pulled out a metal flask of nitric acid and poured it on her stomach and both of her thighs. He retrieved a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water and diluted it with a foreign mixture. He tilted her head to one side and placed the glass by her mouth. The killer cleaned his weapon in the sink, and before exiting, he took one last look at his victim. It was his first kill, and his summation was how sloppy the act had been. He knew he would have to hone his skills to become more proficient.

1958

Hula-Hoop and the skateboard were introduced to the public and the microchip was first developed by Intel.

The United States launched the Explorer. Explorer 1 was the first satellite to be sent into orbit by America. It orbited the earth over fifty-eight thousand times before reentering the atmosphere in 1970.

Ernest Green graduated from Little Rock’s Central High School with six hundred white classmates.

The killer patiently drove down County Highway 82, a long desolate two-lane stretch of gray asphalt. Seven months had passed since the kill, and only the local nimrods had covered the story. The windows were rolled down on his 1957 Chevy big block. This would be his thirtieth and final visit to Leestown, Alabama.

Hank Williams was blasting over the radio as he admired the erect long leaf pines stacked upon rolling hills of red clay on each sides of the road. He finished off the morsels of sliced watermelon, letting the sweet juice purposely drip down the front of his shirt. It gave him a sense of realism of what his victims may sustain. He tossed the rind out the window and sucked in nature’s aroma on an azure day.

The killer reached over and strummed the smooth edge of his killing tool resting on the passenger seat. It was sharp as a single edge razor, and the feel of it gave him immeasurable pleasure. He checked his timepiece. Uh-oh, better step on it, can’t be late for the show. He pressed the pedal, and the eight cylinders roared faster down the lonely road. Ahh, he mused, spring is in the air.

*****

Beth Harris was a rotund woman, standing five feet and six inches, weighing a formidable one hundred and ninety pounds. She was born and raised in Leestown, never leaving the home of her parents. She was an only child and spoiled rotten. Leestown was an old railroad town that prided itself in producing upstanding citizens. They claimed to be the mightiest industrial city south of Atlanta, Georgia. One of its favorite sons sat in the governors’ seat a decade ago, and Beth’s own father was a World War II hero and prominent surgeon in the emergency room hospital.

Her mother was a stay-at-home mom who loved her gin rummy and her gin. Beth was the office manager at the local chamber of commerce that provided her inside scoops of the wheelers and dealers doing business in the bustling town of four thousand.

They lived on Auburn Road in the well-heeled east section of town. It was a neighborhood compiled of medium to large sized homes with manicured lawns and pristine landscapes. During his reconnaissance, the killer gathered that Beth’s parents stole away to their cottage retreat every third weekend on the Gulf near Mobile. Beth never accompanied them, and the rumor was the parents were actually using the trip to get away from the overindulged thirty-one-year-old daughter. The killer’s true motive in choosing the blond with short cropped hair was her huge size. After the last botched killing, he needed to make sure that if one of