Blood Oath Page 3

  “If I was ten or fifteen years younger, I’d like to work with her,” the ME chuckled. “That’s a hell of a lot of woman, Joe. She could wrap those long legs around a man and put that moss up close ... my God, that’d be pure heaven.”

  Joe laughed at him. “You’re a dirty old man, Doc.” He winked at Erica, who could only guess at what the ME/coroner had said. She guessed very accurately, but took no offense. Doc Williams had patted her on the derrière on more than one occasion, but he was harmless. She did not know a soul who did not like the profane old man, who was a pioneer of modern forensic medicine in Missouri. She had been told Doc Williams had loudly proclaimed its greatness when others in the field of police medicine were calling him a nut. Over the years he had steadfastly refused to leave Morrison County, declining much more lucrative offers of work in the city. Doc Williams was in his late seventies.

  “I’ll smooth this over, Joe,” Williams said, “but so many years have gone by.”

  “I know. But I’ve always had a hunch about the Evans case. I’ve discussed it with you many times.”

  “Luck to you, boy.” He chuckled. “With the case and with that fine-looking woman. Hot damn!”

  Joe laughed. “I heard that. See ya.”

  Joe looked at his watch, then at Erica. Hot damn was right. “It’s quitting time. I’ll pick you up at your house at seven.”

  “For what?” She blurted, startled.

  “To take you to dinner,” he said, smiling.

  “Well, of all the nerve! Have you ever thought of asking a lady for permission?”

  “No,” he replied, then stood up and walked past her, out of his office.

  JUDY

  It hurt so bad, Paul, she said as he sat in his study. And they did horrible things to me. Ugly things. Things you never knew about.

  Tell me.

  They did filthy things to me, brother. But that was long ago. Now, you must be careful in what you’re doing.

  I know. Do you disapprove of what I’m doing?

  No. Those responsible must be punished. The law can’t, or won’t, punish them. So you must.

  I will, Judy. I will. For you and for Mother and Father.

  And for yourself, Paul. For what they did to you.

  Yes. Yes, I will. I promise you.

  You’re such a good brother, Paul. And I love you.

  The man put his face on his desktop and wept.

  * * *

  After her bath, Erica stood naked in front of a full-length mirror and inspected her body. Twenty-nine, and she looked ten years younger. She grinned. Well, five years, at least. Her breasts were full, but youthful in appearance, her stomach firm, legs long and sleek. She was a beautiful woman, and she knew it, but was not vain with the knowledge, just sure of herself.

  She glanced at the clock. Six-fifteen. She reached for her gown just as the doorbell rang.

  “Oh, damn!” she muttered. “And I’m running late as it is.”

  “Come on, Erica!” Joe’s voice reverberated through the door. “Open up, shake it!”

  She threw open the door, anger evident on her face. Her gown, not tightly belted, displayed a large portion of breast.

  “Jesus,” Joe said, taking a long look.

  She flushed, then tightened the belt of her gown. “Now, look, I’ve had just about enough of your pushy attitude and your bossing me around. You’re early, and we’ve got lots of time-”

  Joe cut her off mid-sentence. “Barbara Hartman just ran all out of time.” His voice was harsh. “Some kids found her body about ten minutes ago. In a ditch outside of town, on Highway Twenty-two.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Can the dramatics, honey. Get dressed in working clothes. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Two

  “I like you in western clothes,” Joe said as they sped to the crime scene, five miles north of Denton. “But I wish you had put on a bra. You’re gonna turn on half the sheriff’s department with your nipples stickin’ out like that. If Carter from MHP is there, he’ll be pawin’ the ground and snorting like a bull.”

  She felt a flush creep upward, reddening her face. She was thankful for the darkness of the car. “Are you usually this blunt, Joe?”

  “Almost always.”

  “Well, maybe I dressed like this for your benefit. Ever think of that?”

  “If so, thanks.” Great looking tits, he thought.

  “Do you ever get turned on, Joe?” she smiled.

  He looked at her for just a moment. “Yeah, Erica, I get turned on.”

  The police radio squawked its barely intelligible message. Joe acknowledged the call. “On my way.”

  “Was she... ?” Erica asked.

  “Beaten and raped.”

  “Two in less than seventy-two hours.”

  “There’s gonna be a lot more unless we catch this psycho,” Joe said. “And catch him fast.”

  “You seem so certain.”

  “If this one has the same signs, I will be certain. But, oh Lord, I hope I’m wrong.”

  “What do you mean, Joe?”

  “I’ll tell you about it—my theory—later. By the way, you like grilled steak?”

  His question and shift of subject caught her off guard. “Why ... certainly.”

  “Then I’ll buy the steaks and salad fixings. We’ll fix them at your house. That okay with you?”

  “Sure. I’m not afraid to go to your house.” She would have liked to see how he lived; a home told a lot about a man.

  He smiled, a quick movement of the lips, almost Brando-like.

  “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you.”

  “I’m pretty good at judo.”

  “Ah, trying to intimidate me?”

  She put a hand on his thick forearm. “I only went out with Bates Pike a few times. I quickly discovered I didn’t like him or his way of life.” She felt the muscles in his arm stiffen at the mention of Bates Pike.

  “For a fact, Erica, I don’t like that bunch.” Then he laughed in the dim light from the dashboard. “I guess it was silly of me, wasn’t it? Avoiding you, I mean.”

  “You’re not angry with me for asking questions about you behind your back?”

  “No.” He grinned boyishly. “Just proves what I’ve thought all along.”

  Puzzled, she asked, “And what is that, pray tell?”

  “You’re lusting after my body.”

  She punched him on the arm and laughed with him.

  * * *

  Barbara Hartman lay covered with a plastic bag, spotlighted on the cooling earth. A dozen sheriff’s department and highway patrol cars were parked close, headlights on, illuminating the ugly and harsh death scene. Erica had slipped a light jacket over her western shirt, smiling at Joe’s chuckle as she did so.

  “It’s cool out,” she said.

  “I heard that,” he replied, using his favorite catchall reply.

  Walking to the scene, Joe asked a deputy, “What d’you got?”

  “Positive ID on Barbara Hartman. Age seventeen. Looks like she’s been dead ’bout twelve hours, give or take a couple.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Can’t be sure. No signs of a struggle here, though.”

  “Body weight against the ground?”

  “Waitin’ on you to do that.”

  “Thanks a lot. Pictures been taken?”

  “Just got through.”

  Joe knelt down and rolled the naked body over to one side. Grass pressings and twig marks on her flesh showed she had been in this spot for some time. The deputy was right, as Joe had suspected he would be: no sign of any struggle at this location.

  Without looking up, Joe said, “Cordon off this area—all those woods over there. I don’t want anybody in here ’til we can work it clean in the morning.”

  “Right, Joe.”

  Erica knelt down beside him and looked at the battered body. “Such a pretty child.”

  “Was,” Joe corrected. “Daughter of one of the Hill Section bunch.”

  “Like Ruth?”

  “Yeah.”

  Barbara had been severely beaten; she was a mirror image of Ruth Jordan: welts on her back and buttocks, hair matted as if she had been in the water and then allowed her hair to dry without benefit of comb or brush.

  “Drowned?” Erica asked.

  “I’d bet on it.” In the distance, a wail of a siren announced the approach of the ambulance. Joe stood up. “I want this area just as it is in the morning. I don’t give a good goddamn how many men it takes, but I don’t want anybody stompin’ around in here ’til we can work it. Understood?” He spoke to the entire contingent of police officers.

  They nodded in unison.

  Joe took Erica’s arm. “Come on. We’ll follow the ambulance in.”

  * * *

  “Cause of death?” Joe asked Doc Williams.

  “Drowning,” the old man replied curtly, as was his fashion. No one who knew him got their feelings hurt. “Just like Ruth Jordan. Everything about them identical.”

  “Raped?”

  “Brutally. We’ll have the report on stomach contents in an hour.”

  “We’ll wait,” Joe said.

  “I never would have guessed,” the ME said dryly, then walked down the corridor.

  * * *

  Driving away from the hospital, Erica said, “Everything fits the other, right down to the vodka and grape juice. That’s the part I don’t understand.”

  Joe’s smile was grim. “I do. And the others will be just the same.”

  “Others?”

  “Oh, there’ll be more. Bet on it. What I’ve feared would happen-has.”

  She looked at him as he pulled into an all-night supermarket to get the steaks and salad fixings. “And that is?”

  His words chilled her, spoken as if they came from a cold grave—which, in effect, they did. “Judy Evans’s brother came back.”

  PAUL

  When the boy regained consciousness he was on a slow-moving freight train, in an empty boxcar. He was cold, hurt, and had no recollection of where he was, or who he was. He did not know why he hurt so. It was light out, and the countryside did not look familiar. Pulling some brown paper wrappings from a previous cargo over him, he closed his eyes and slept.

  He got off the train in the railroad yard in Joplin. All he wore was his underwear shorts. Animal cunning took over when human intellect left him. Survival was uppermost in his mind.

  Clothes and food, he thought. Then I must go west.

  Why west, he did not know.

  In a caboose he found some overalls, shoes, shirt, and a jacket—all too big, but they covered his body and would have to do. He looked in a small mirror. The image looking back at him was unrecognizable: the left side of the face staring at him from the reflecting glass was swollen and bloody. One eye was swelled closed. The head seemed misshapen, ugly, grotesque, something out of a horror story. His upper torso was covered with bruises and cuts, as were his thin arms. He stared at the awful image as long as he dared. Then, when the reflection produced no viable memory, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away, heading out the caboose door.

  He ran into a policeman who was searching the empty cars for a jail escapee, violently startling the man. The mangled and bloody boy stunned the cop. The boy ran, and the cop gave chase, but the boy was too swift and the older man gave up after a few hundred yards. He returned to the station house and filed a report on his sighting.

  West of Joplin, the boy checked the sun, making certain of his direction, and began trudging west. He walked until noon of that day, until Joplin was far behind him. Then he hopped on a train—heading, he hoped, west.

  He was off and on more than a dozen dif ferent trains, having been chased by cops and railroad bulls and deputies in a dozen towns and cities along the way. Finally, just east of Denver, he was captured by a brakeman and held until the police arrived. The police took him first to the station house. There, the boy answered all their questions as best he could, while waiting for a doctor to check him.

  “But I don’t know my name.”

  “Are you sure, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

  “Did you run away from home?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where is your home?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I have one.”

  “Why did you run away from home?”

  “I told you, sir—I don’t have a home, and I don’t believe I ran away.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “On a train.”

  “It’s not nice to tell lies, son.”

  “I’m not lying, sir.”

  Then he was taken to a large hospital. The doctors and the nurses and the staff were kind to him, sympathetic to the young boy with the terrible head wound and no memory. No past. No name.

  The doctors agreed on one point: the boy was lucky to be alive.

  * * *

  “You grill a good steak,” Erica said. “It was just perfect.”

  Joe’s mind was on the murders and rapes—and something else. “I’ve never understood why the parents of Paul and Judy Evans didn’t follow up on their murders.”

  Erica sighed.

  “I know they were religious to the point of being fanatic, but I don’t understand why they, or how they, could just say it was the Lord’s will and then drop it. And I don’t understand why the sheriff’s department just took it as fact the boy was drowned in Bell Lake. I wonder what deputy worked the case?”

  “Did they drag the lake?” Erica had accepted the fact they were going to talk about murders until she could tactfully change the subject—if that were possible, which she doubted.

  “Yeah, and all the little creeks that ran in and out of it—so I’m told. But some of those creeks are swollen in the spring, and more than one flows into the maze of lakes around here.”

  “And your conclusion is ... ?”

  “Paul’s alive. And he’s here in this area, killing the kids of the people who raped and killed his sister.”

  “Then let’s prove it,” Erica said.

  “It’s not gonna be easy, and until we produce some hard evidence we’re gonna have to keep our mouths shut about what we’re doing.”

  “I think that would be best.”

  “It’s gonna be a seven day a weekjob,” he warned her.

  “All right.”

  “I’m a slave driver.”

  She laughed. “Other words for male chauvinist pig, you mean.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been called worse.” He grinned, then leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Before she could respond to his kiss—which she desperately longed to do—he was on his feet and moving toward the door. “I’ll be honking for you at eight o’clock in the morning.”

  “But tomorrow’s Saturday! Can’t we make it ten o’clock?”

  “Just think of all the overtime you’re going to collect.” Then he was gone, the door slammed closed behind him.

  Erica stamped her foot. “Damn!” she said. Then she looked around, a smile forming on her lips. “Well, he’s no fool. He got out before I could ask him to help with the dishes.”

  * * *

  “If I do this . . . thing,”Barbara Hartman had asked, a whining tone to her voice. “Will you let me go?”

  “Yes.” The man smiled at her. “Of course. You have my word.” He cupped her young breasts, squeezing. He squeezed harder, and she cried out in pain.

  “I thought you were a nice man!” she wailed.

  “I am.” He laughed insanely. “And I’m going to be nice to you.” He held his hardness close to her face as he pushed her to her knees. “And if you bite me, I promise you this—I’ll torture you for days, until you beg me to let you die.”

  “I’ll be good to you!” she cried. “Just don’t hurt me any more.” And she leaned forward and took him.

  * * *

  “Nothing!” Joe said disgustedly. He wiped sweat from his face. “Not one damn shred of evidence we could use.”

  Erica sat down on a log near the edge of the woods where Barbara’s body was found. “This guy knows what he’s doing. He’s nobody’s fool.”

  “He’s smart. I’ll give him that much. Smart, but warped.”

  “Why don’t we go to Sheriff Roberts and put all the cards on the table about your theory? Tell him what you suspect.”

  “It’s too soon. He knows I hate those people. He wouldn’t believe me. Remember this: those are money-people—powerful people in this state. We’re going to have to have some hard evidence to show him, and that we don’t have. Not yet.”

  “Reading between the lines, what you’re saying is someone else has to die?”

  He sighed heavily and nodded his head. “That’s it, I’m afraid.”

  That’s a rocky road to travel.” She looked up at him.

  “I know, but I don’t think the road is very long. He’s going to strike again, very soon. When we get back to headquarters, we’ll start a file of the Eleven and their kids, make it as comprehensive as possible. I want to talk with some retired cops around here again, and firm up my files as to just who was in that old club they had. I think I know most of them, but I want to be sure.

  “Howard Jordan has a twisted streak in him, Erica. I know that for a hard fact. He was cruel as a boy, liked to hurt things, living things. You won’t find any official record of this, but Howard was hauled in several times for roughing up dates. If his old man hadn’t had money, lots of money, Howard would have been sent to the bucket as a young man-for rape. I know of at least three times his father had to buy Howard out of charges. At the very least, he would have been sent to the state hospital for psychiatric treatment.

  “I know Judy and Paul Evans were asked to join that kids’ club Howard formed. And I can prove that. The cops questioned all members after Judy’s death. But the families who make up the old Elite Eleven had too much money and too much power for the cops to push their investigation. It’s sad, but that’s the way things were back then, and still are, to some degree. Howard Jordan, Junior, killed Judy Evans. I know it, and I’ve known it for years. But I just can’t prove it. Not yet.”