Jesus Saves

By Jaysen True Blood

New Orleans during Mardi Gras always presents a challenge for the seasoned homicide team under Michael Sherman's command but when a local mental hospital releases a nameless woman who suffers from amnesia and men begin to disappear, his team is put on a collsion course with a serial killer and the woman he left for dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaysen True Blood
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223777205

Jaysen True Blood

Jaysen True Blood was born and raised in the Midwest where he currently resides. His first taste of writing came early in grade school with a class assignment. a few years later, his love for writing would return as he found himself with another class assignment, this time a poetry unit. through junior high, he would write a series of novels, many poems, and begin his long interest in writing song lyrics as well. In high school, he would learn the value of tall tales, myths and other kinds of stories as he continued to build his store of stories. upon graduation, he went for a semester at a university, where he would write two stories, one of which would become a serial online for about six months. Returning home, he worked at just about anything he could find, but never strayed far from his love of the story. After his first marriage, he signed on with Keep It Coming, an e-zine, where he wrote two serials, "Tales From The Renge" and "Breed's Command" (the same characters appear with Fancy Marsh in several subsequent westerns. The serial was taken from a manuscript written for a class assignment while in high school). H also wrote writing and music related articles for the print version of KIC that came out for just three issues. When KIC went under, Jay was once again forced to work at different jobs just to make ends meet. between 2007 and 2010, Jay would release "Seven By Jay: Seven Short Stories", "The Price Of Lust: Book One Of Faces In The Crowd" and "So Here's To Twilight And Other Poems".

Book preview

1.

I t is safe to say that many people do not remember the case I am about to cite, Michael Sherman, the retired detective, stated, "but it happened. No one knows her name, but she has been called the Jesus Saves killer. And she earned this name from a singular feature. A tattoo on her shoulder, just high enough that it showed above where the strap of a spaghetti-strap blouse meets the back."

He peered at the journalist sitting across from him in the privacy of his New Orleans home. The young lady, a hungry blonde who was definitely on a race to be top journalists, had requested an interview. In his reticent manner, he agreed. Under one condition. He got to pick the subject.

And he picked this one for a reason. It had been his last case. The one that had caused him to retire from the force. It had also cost him two friends. And about two years of his sanity. Not to mention his family.

What was the significance of the tattoo? His guest asked.

I can assure you, He replied softly, "That it had nothing to do with faith, belief, or God. I can honestly say that, had her victims knew what their nights would end up like, they would not have chosen her. The tattoo was the one thing that drew her victims to her. As well as her unusual charisma. Some called it an aura.

"She just had the touch. But the tattoo had everything to do with another case as well. One that involved the very same woman. There had been a rape case four years prior. It had been a case of robbery, rape and murder. A young couple had come to New Orleans for their wedding. Since there were several weddings planned that week, it was hard to tell which couple had been attacked. Or if the names on the registers were the actual names.

"All we knew was that whoever had raped her, had not intended for her to survive. But she did. But not intact. The attack had destroyed her mind.

The state mental hospital had taken her in and attempted to help her heal, but a stay there is mostly temporary nowadays and she was released when she was somewhat better. She was given meds to take to keep her problems under control, but as with any transient, she soon ran out or stopped taking them. With no job, no identity, and no real community connections, she was cast adrift to fend for herself.

What of the rapist? The reporter asked, Did you ever catch them?

We had nothing to go on, He ceded, "She remembered nothing of the attack. She barely remembered her fiancé. And the DNA samples were inconclusive. We had no suspect. No evidence other than the rape kit and pictures of the crime scene. No weapon had been found, nothing more could be done. The case was relegated to the cold case bureau.

I had completely forgotten about the case until the calls began coming in. Of course, by that time, she had vanished from the streets...but would turn up in the company of a wealthy real estate developer name Morgan Le Grue. I would not grow concerned until his disappearance.

Why would this concern you? The question seemed out of place. Had she not been listening?

He shook off the urge to ask. "Because of the fact that Mr. Le Grue never once just up and disappeared. And, besides. It wasn’t actually a disappearance, per se. It was that he, and several of his colleagues were blown up on a jobsite by quite another killer. But his neighbors all vanished while he was on business trips. As did her rapist.

But I place him last. I should have put him first. Before the death of Le Grue. He was the very first to disappear. And the first to resurface. But the saddest story is that of a dear friend of mine who was also involved in the case. But we-I am still baffled with the finding of her first victim. The man who had started her rampage to begin with.

Was he the first body you found? the reporter sure knew how to ask all the wrong questions.

No, He said nonchalantly, The fact that he had been her first victim is ironic. But he was not the first, nor the last body we would find.

I see, she replied, writing his answer down, Then how do you know he was her first victim?

"How do police officers usually know such things? He answered in question. You can’t be that out of touch with police procedures and how dates of crimes are estimated. I mean, time does have a hand in determination of conditions and states of things. Bodies are no different."

He stifled a laugh as she turned green and held a hand to her mouth. Apparently, she had not taken that into account. She had expected him to be talking about the victim as bones, yet she had caught his meaning in his way of saying state. He had meant that the victim had been in a state of rot, not simply a pile of bones.

Let’s not discuss that, she said, her temporary indigestion passing, please.

I wasn’t about to, he smiled, I hadn’t wanted to even infer such things, but you asked. I would much rather go into more detail with the case, but in other ways. The victims. Their connections. How we caught her. Why I ended up quitting. Why I lost everything, including my sanity.

OK, she replied, trying to banish the image of the decaying body out of her mind, But no more about–that.

Agreed, He nodded, at least, until we reach the end.

So, she stated, begin at the very beginning.

As I stated, he responded, "it all started with the rape case that was relegated to cold case. All leads had gone cold, so we set it aside to pursue cases we had ample evidence for. We would later regret this decision, but at the time, it was all we could do. As I said, we lacked evidence. We had some, but none was truly conclusive..."

2.

Detective Sherman, Captain Marcel and Officers Reilly and Danforth stood in the mouth of the alley. The site that greeted them was horrible. A man, no ID, lay dead. A woman, badly beaten-possibly raped-also lay, her clothes in shreds, clinging to life. Her purse, including ID, was also missing. Blood had already begun clotting, making her hair stick badly to her face. The rest of the crew were rushing around searching for clues. Anything that would give them an idea who had done such a horrible deed.

Detective Michael Sherman watched as the EMTs carefully loaded the broken woman onto the stretcher and rolled her to the ambulance. He shook his head. This was the worst attack he’d seen so far. Three such scenes. Two women dead. The first two had not been accompanied. Both had been raped.

Michael was sure this one had too. But she was different. The first two had been local women. Hookers. This woman wasn’t local and had been with someone. If she had been raped, it was probably while her companion was still alive, but had already been shot and disabled.

Do a rape kit on her, he requested, walking up to the ambulance driver, When you get her to the hospital. I think this is connected to the other two. Not sure, though.

The ambulance driver nodded, then got into the ambulance. Michael whacked the back of the ambulance as it began to drive off. Damn! He thought. Last thing we need. Another rape. This time, an out-of-towner. I hope she pulls through and can give us a description.

The place is clean, Reilly stated, disgusted, whoever this perp is, he sure knows how to keep a clean house. No condoms, no nothin’. As if he doesn’t exist.

There’s got to be something, Michael found himself replying, Something he missed.

Well, Marcel smiled grimly, we have one piece of evidence. At least he didn’t kill this last victim.

I know, Michael acquiesced, but will she remember?

Danforth nodded. That is a good question. As is who is she? And who was her companion?

Good question, Marcel replied, guess we’ll have to wait ’till she wakes up, non?

Yep, Michael chuckled, in spite of himself, I supposed you’re right.

He had known Justin Marcel since the young Captain had graduated, head of his class, from the academy. The young Cajun was the first of his family to ever venture out of the bayou and into the big city. He’d taken a deep disliking to gator hunting and most other Cajun traditions except music. And Justin was one hell of a fiddle player.

He was easily accessible to the younger men and women on the force, making him one of the most liked. His promotion had not spoiled him at all. Nor had Michael’s. Both Michael and Justin had earned their promotions, though Michael had been on the force a little longer.

Danforth and Reilly fell into their circle rather quickly. Danforth had risen from the projects to become an officer. He had determined, early in life, that his family would do better than he had. Reilly had moved to New Orleans from New York to go to Tulane University. He, too, was from the poor side of the tracks, but had made good with academic scholarships. Choosing law enforcement, he made straight A’s.

From day one, all three would gather, at one another’s homes and play poker. Their wives had formed a support group for each other and would sit and work through their anxieties and fears. The women were always invited to the poker table, should they feel lucky at cards, but rarely did. They preferred that their men have fun without them.

Of course, each had a special night for family, and one for just husband and wife. This kept them strong as couples, as families. But the meetings were for the whole group. While the men played poker and the women discussed their worries, the children played with each other, and the whole group became like one big happy family.

Now, all three men faced the most confusing case in their entire, short, careers. This was the type of case that could make or break a career. If they solved it, Michael would become chief detective, Marcel would make Sergeant, and Reilly and Danforth would make Captain. And this was their case.

But they had been thwarted, so far, by the attacker. No bullet shells. No living witnesses. No real evidence. Well, until this night. Now, they had a living witness. But would she remember anything? That was the question.

AT THE HOSPITAL, THE doctors rushed to save the victim’s life. She was in terrible shape. How she had survived such a mauling was beyond the head surgeon. But, she was determined to save this young lady.

Perhaps she held clues, memories, of who did this to her. The surgeon only hoped. The rape kit had been done, it had been determined that the victim had-indeed-been raped, and that this was definitely similar to the two previous cases. All except that the victim now lay in their hospital, fighting for her life.

When the officers got there, the surgeon would have to confer with them. The victim would still be in no shape to give any information, but the surgeon would do her best to give what she could.

Though not particularly religious, she sent a prayer to whatever power might be that her patient survived and helped get the rapist off the streets. With that, she went on about her duties, awaiting the arrival of the police. She was going to have a long night of it. And she knew that this was only the beginning.

In the ICU, the victim lay–locked away inside her own mind. She struggled to make sense of the darkness, but could not. She couldn’t remember anything. Who was she? Where was she? Why was she here?

She would stay in the coma for three days. No signs of improvement would be seen until the third day. But that was still three days away. Until then, it would be a roller coaster of highs and lows. But mostly lows.

3.

Detective Sherman sat at his desk, looking through the file on the victim. No ID. No clues as to why she and her companion were even down here. Sure, hundreds of couples chose New Orleans, especially around Mardi Gras, to marry. But it would take weeks to sort out all the possible couples, and even then that was no assurance. What if they had all made it to their appointed marriage dates? What if they had been on their honeymoon instead? Which hotel could he possibly start at? And would they even know whether these two had been the ones who had picked up the key-cards?

What if they never made it? There were more questions than answers. Too many places to go to, too little time. Too much inconclusive evidence. Too much circumstantial evidence. Not enough hard. And the hard evidence was what they needed.

He looked down at the victim description. White Female. Age: 25-35. Distinguishing marks: tattoo on right shoulder, mid-shoulder, Jesus Saves. Belongings: none. Name: Jane Doe. Hair: blonde. Eyes: blue. Body: petite. Height: 5’5″. Weight: 75-100 lbs.

The pictures would haunt him. But not now. He had seen a number of these types of cases. Many were hookers, but some were house wives or domestic servants. Many were afraid to press charges. Mostly because it had been someone they knew or worked for. Or, in the case of a hooker, a john that had wanted more than he had paid for. Or a pimp breaking his new whore in. Either way, they never pressed charges.

It was sad, really. All those women. Hurt. And not a single one ever did the right thing. Not one. They never helped get their attackers off the streets. Perhaps their noncompliance had been forced through threats of death. Who knew?

But this victim was different. She had not known her attacker. He was sure. No way she could have. She was not from here.

Whoever had done this had known police procedure. He had known that they would look for clues. Spent condoms. Bullet casings. Weapons of any kind.

He looked down at the file again and began reading again. Source of injury: bludgeoning, beating, rape. Most likely weapon: lead pipe. Attacker: male, unknown race. Height: unknown.

Damn! This lady was lucky to be alive! He shook his head. How did she manage to survive such a savage attack? But would she be able to name her attacker?

He hoped she would. He looked up to see Captain Marcel headed for his desk. Behind him was Officer Reilly. Danforth had been left to guard the victim’s room. Detective Sherman rose.

She has awakened, came Marcel’s thick Cajun accent, we should go talk to her, non?

Yes, Michael stifled a snicker, let’s go.

He grabbed his badge and gun, then joined them as they headed out of the precinct. He couldn’t decide whether to ride with, or drive his own. He looked at Marcel.

Shotgun? He smiled.

Don’ see why not, Came the reply.

He climbed into the passenger seat of Marcel’s little Palomino. He smirked for a bit, then turned to his friend. Are you ever going to get a new car?

Why, mon ami? Marcel looked over at him. Dis car, she is a classic. Don’ find many like ‘er.

No, Michael snickered, I suppose not.

They rode quietly, the rest of the way to the hospital. Michael decided not to tell Marcel that he preferred to ride with him than in the squad cars. It would have ruined his reputation as a squad-man. Besides. If he did, he could no longer tease his friend about his car.

IN THE ICU, THEY MADE their way to the victim’s room. One question weighed heavy on their minds. Would she be able to tell them anything? Or were they just wasting their time?

Their question was answered with a single look at her. Her stare was vacant. She had no attention span. She was mentally gone.

Their hearts dropped. They would get no answers from her. They would be surprised if she even knew where she was. She definitely had no clue who she was. Any questions would be pointless.

The doctor entered the room. Marcel looked around, as did Reilly.

Doc, Reilly began, where does she go from here?

We have to do a lot of therapy first, came the answer, then, she will have to go to the state hospital for long term psychiatric help.

Detective Sherman shook his head. What a shame.

Oui, Marcel agreed, sadly, You c’n say dat again.

HOURS LATER, AS THEY were leaving precinct to go home, Marcel looked at Sherman. Why is it always de pretty ones who end up gettin’ hurt?

I don’t know, Justin, Michael answered, I just don’t know.

We gon’ play cards tonight? The Cajun was unstoppable.

Why not, Justin? Michael smiled. Might get our minds off the case for a while.

Know what I t’ink? the captain looked over at the detective.

What? Michael was now interested in Justin’s thoughts.

I t’ink we dealin’ with a policeman, Captain Marcel began, how else would dey know to clean up de scene?

Michael looked over at Justin. You know, I think you’re right. But who?

Oui, the Cajun remarked, "dat is de question."

AN HOUR LATER, THEY were all gathered around the card table. Beers had been issued, the meal served, and now they were hard at work gambling away their card money. Sherman and Marcel were dominating the table early, then Reilly hit a wild streak. Danforth remained quiet the whole evening. The case had really begun to affect him.

What is it, Danforth? Michael inquired.

I can’t help thinking, their friend began, how that woman could have been my daughter. Or yours. Or Justin’s. Or even Reilly’s. Or our wives.

Oui, Justin agreed, Sombitch gon get caught one deez days. I gar-on-tee.

Michael smiled sadly. I hope so. But with nothing to go on, how are we going to catch ‘im?

Good God damn question, Reilly remarked, especially since his only surviving vic has no mind left.

4.

She still had no name . She could not remember anything. She had no past, at least not one she could remember. And she tended to forget each day after it was through. It was as if she had a hole in her mind that swallowed everything. Her day. Her evening. Her night. Everything that should mean something.

All she knew was that she was in a hospital. Something had happened. But what? Who else had been involved? And how had she gotten here? Who brought her?

The questions swirled around in her head like tormentors trying to goad her into anger. But she would not. The meds helped, but didn’t stop the noise. And the therapy helped too, but didn’t bring anything back. Nothing did.

She felt stuck in this world of not knowing. Sure, she was healthy in every other way. But something had shattered her memory like a mirror. At the moment, she felt there was no way of getting it back.

The doctors called her Jane Doe, but the name didn’t sound right. What had her mother called her? Had she actually had a mother? She didn’t know. Perhaps she really didn’t want to know.

As she stood, looking in the mirror in her room, she pondered the tattoo on her back. She had just noticed it. What did it mean? Where did she get it? Or had she been forced to get it? Jesus Saves.

Such strange words to have on one’s back. She shrugged. Well, since she had it, she might as well accept its presence. Then forget all about it. She forgot about everything anyway.

She looked up to see a man in a suit. Can I help you?

I am Detective Sherman, he replied, I was wondering how you are feeling. And also...if you can remember anything from before you were brought here.

I am confused, Mr. Sherman, she replied softly, I can’t remember anything from day to day. I don’t remember anything. I do not know why I am even here. Or where I belong. Or who I am. But I know that Jane Doe is not my name. It doesn’t sound right.

Sorry, he responded, sincerely apologetically, "they-we-tend to call all female unknowns Jane Doe until we find out what their names are. I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable."

No, She smiled sadly, no. I suppose it is good enough until I can remember who I am. Or someone can tell me what my name is.

I am truly sorry to have bothered you, Miss, he smiled back, I will go now.

Sorry I can’t be any help to you, she turned away, I wish I could.

That is OK, he returned, We might get lucky and find the perp anyway. He highly doubted it, but he wanted to reassure her. Even if she really did not know or remember. But he still had to presume that she did, but was still playing the part of an amnesiac. Bye, now.

She waved and watched him walk away. She returned to her ponderings. She only hoped that one day, she would finally remember everything. No matter how painful.

MICHAEL SHERMAN SAT in his car making a note on his visit. No change. At least memory-wise. No real chance of one either, from what the docs had told him. She was permanently locked in this cycle of memory loss.